Trash Score
            for Melly

garbage
you collage
I theory
the rot
ten years
love stitches
twang
you can see


it, love,
labour
patterns,
scraps
to keep


warm, pink touched
this morning
we’re the only
stillness
the wind
a harmonica
gone massive
an hour
of light
stolen
ultimately, I need


to know if I’m leaving


the door open
sideways
how birds see


in my wet
feet, a sun


sets cold
accidentally
we read
the entirety
of Bluets out
loud blue
dents circulating
attention
as medium
between us
volume see-saws
rare & specific
now I’m looking
for breakthroughs
in trashcans you
curate into night
clubs
more than
postmodern
your deleuzian
divebar
we do our daily
cunt-ups


& it shows
your prosody
flashes
institutionless
angelic
nonsense
thrifted
thump thump
this sonic
study of
their discarded
is our duet
sequences
your text
so vocal
there’s a jealous
Alannis Morrisette
& Greenday
begging
to be made
again
so I copy you


the pleasure
I get Wittigenstein
when your voice
carries him
your voice


forces a musical
sound, solar
plexus rumbling
when you
wrote me
the digital
popped
into what
can be
torn
there’s feeling


in the ripped
edge words
miss very
various
as quartz
coincidence
must apply
pressure


to tear
thank you
for teaching
me how to
use less


we scaffold
chaos


in waves
chaos
advances
our name
lights
the room
hard
oblique
we don’t
sweep
the decades


cut like snow
-flakes
our fixations
suggest
I like filming
your hands,
the tattoos,
made me
capable
of being
touched
the hard part


my room
is haunted
the good part:
this ghost
just wants
me


to sleep
in your bed
forgive me
for all


the times
I didn’t call


how to explain
the whole
time for me
we never
stopped


talking
morning
cigarettes
looping
your staccato
sounds
Alex G
magnesium
lolipops
big plans
swivel
october
a ritual
so messy
it’s not
possible to
rip this


off “I stumbled
at times
due to things”
Bernadette
Mayer is my
father’s mistress,
& your uncle
in both genders,
“these & those”
we sing her
“winners are


nothing at all”
flowers scream
back up “more
coming back &
more returning,”
to have a spiral
course, to proceed
indirectly, we pray
to Doctor Mayer,
the strat-o-sphere’s
poet at large, this


poem is going
squarefoot
across the ceiling
floor walls
if you’re going


that’s how
much a pack
of cigarettes
on this island
costs: bright grey
super wind
our thick
stillness
a complex form
a fantasy school
five days
ancient
remember: this
is not ocean


especially, last
night’s pink
cut pink sky
thaw & I
love this part,
an arch
way of twigs
sunflower
the size
of your palm
pointing toward
I am so
relieved


to have
aged


you are so
bored
of poets


calling
everything
a score


but what am I
hearing now
beside you
writing
percussion?
obsession?
now the wind
picks up,