TuesNothing-EscapeDay

here in this nothing-escape: all there is is size, area, a long rod of brass and that feeling you get before words come. no - forget it. here in the nothing escape is a hallway: not too long but long enough that you can't see the end, so you have to imagine the end. until you realize the end is something like an end, so imagining is replaced by memory. no - this won't do either. here, in the nothing-escape, are words: scraps of air and day. a bit of woman here; bit of regret there; a hope a vision a sound. all day's cuts molded to letters forming words begging all that happened to say Yes, the words are right, it actually happened as they say, just before what actually happened alights through what is happening now and then out into the what will happen, through yet another nothing-escape

MonPressDayUre

cut me a swastika hole she says. cut it like you was hungry she says. get on your knees and gouge! I held the cutter she'd bought me; I stared at her and her hole on the floor; stared at the cutter and felt her shouts expanding my ears. and then I looked over the edge - I saw myself there with the cutter and her on the floor. I could see I was a meter from her and the hole, and so I shouted to me to get on with it: do as she says, I shout to me, nauseated by the impending mess:- because I was curious what I might do under peer-pressure

Sunday Meat

and. there is no me. there is just the barest I: a glow held by a scatter of details. me is of the mirror. me is of the name-badge. me is of the family album. I? I is the turning of eyes in response to the visual. The moving of the head to follow an odor. The moving of the feet through attraction attuned by the earth. I is shaping need; I is need-moved meat; I is the momentary accumulation of a here and now becoming a there and then. I is here and now, there and then, a gone, a was, a coming site of bliss, perhaps

SatOhUrFriDay

eight more words until the end of this sentence. nine more 'til the end of this one as well. but only six to the end of this one. five to the end of this.... oh; song of the smart-arse, she says. numeric-pretension, she says. you just a typist, she says, no writer. but he is right he argues. and he's got a point too. and he's a right to type whatever he wants here. no he hasn't they shout. and he won't anymore - the punctuation company's moving in with their question mark: look?

Thurfakesday

some fake-bikies come over: they wear fake-boots and fake-patches; use fake-words to describe fake-harley davidson, fake-triumph, fake-bsa bikes. they bring with them fake-friends; proceed to talk loud about fake-plans and fake-intentions for all manner of fake-acts. all of them from the fake-badlands down-south, where fake-weather reeks fake-havoc on their fake-farms and fake-homes. but then things get heated - I speak out of turn. fake-punches are thrown; fake-blood spills across my carpet. fake-bottles smash as they fake-rage and fake-threaten me with all manner of fake-harm. then they fake-leave and set fire to my house. now I'm on the fucking street

Wed(Comes)Thursday

into these words comes a written; into these words comes a rhythm; into these words a moment's coming through. like heat through a flame rises; like heat through a burn sensations; like heat through sound of fire-cracks. like a dream of another coming; like a dream of the other coming; like a dream of a long dead naked other comes.... before fists into punching pushes on; and then a punch into fists of pushing on; into pushes of a punch afists another comer. then through this day a new day rises; into this rise of a day renews; into this page another-one comes coming

Ivory TueWednesday

Peter sat around it. there without delay. Peter sat around it. there was no delay, because there it was as Peter sat. It wasn’t what I expected. as he sat; as it happened. as the rearrangements fell and a split sounded. but still I sat. vertical rods here were all black, holding a silence-white that holds a fall and split. there seemed no end to it. but, Peter sat around it. It just doesn’t move, he’s saying. I see it but it doesn’t move. and as Peter sat round it, and as he said it, it moved. the air of the words his mouth transmits transmitted airs of movement. clouds of words round it, a hovering mist of them round it. a circling of words that circled now, a tiny movement round it. a tininess now, a lowering tiny, an all but was now. now just a place where words once were. a once was. a had been place. A Peter was around it.