Revolution - Victory Degree Zero

Exhausted shoes, and simple recollection caught like milkweed santa-clauses,

in a hand to account for happinesses of home’s end.

A simple rock cracked, to point of nucleii.

A shot division in a homelife.

In a sleeping bag

a mouthful of milkweed santa-clauses

eddy with headwinds, and float on planes,

nebulous arrivals at airports

unbounded and rife with quarantine.


A happy life and the homilies of fireflies, the tranquil night

of rivergums and creeks,

Urban pipes smoke and steam with hot water,

there is fire in the night sky, a riff as simple as a bomb.

Complexity burnt the fuse. And sleep’s twin

goes mob-like

hurling stones at glass buildings.


A riot of milkweed santa-clauses are

kisses definite as concrete thrown together in a

bomb of salvaged ferocity, the propechies return to

routine anti-clockwise.

A headiness of bloodsong, of a love-wound watch

ticking to history, the memory of rosemary

laggards of care spin and land catching surprise

like the cold, hands of an open field,

the anemophily of what we want.



February 2011 while gazing at a crystal ball