Greg Nissan
The economic cartage of night-soil
Blinking cursor where the river
Enters our city disguised in
No, it's original. Researchers place
Oat flakes on a map
To watch slime mold reconstruct
The railways. What doesn't match
They suggest we amend. Blinking
Cursor where the river ends
returns again
*
Then a most unusual thing
Commissioned as a tampered acanthus.
I did not make it
New. I didn't make it
At all. We find a
Bench near the falls to
Watch the falls. Must I
Fill in the river's blank?
Bang bang bang. That's the
thanks talking
*
After you're dead it pays
For itself. Mulch, be mouth.
Mouth, be be. Ciao, baby.
I signal a left turn
On the television, history is
Turn on the television. Laddered
Flesh I mean sitting watching
The day go day. It
Pays to collectivise frustration, tart
the lemons
*
Should I rewrite them in
A lyric mode i.e. deteriorating
Ratio of acacia to K-hole?
JK. I'm aching to invade
Night one must imagine the
Streetlights saying. It's an impossible
Game. It's over. The hills.
No justice. NO FILTER. To
Get us all in, turnstiles
demand embrace
*
Lake lake lake lake lake
The shorn ablution. Disfrutar its
Proof-sick city its capsuled
Axiality, a red sign that
Reads WATER it's a mixed
Aquifer but what sieves in
Leaves juridical patinas. Let's meet
In another life, I'm busy
Finding an apartment. Green gate,
draped charnel
*
A horrible ending I continue
Drizzling kill-counts along the canal
In theory the lamplight distends
No, it's original. Dappled in
Juridical moonlight, a stone admits
NO FILTER. It's that simple.
Terraces full of alluring air
Rights. It's my life: it's
Never. Chafed bricks made accusative
thanks, weather