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Come here, Sameling. Even materialists dream
of threesomes. The light at the tip of Centrepoint
Tower tenders facial recognition. You an elegant
sufficiency, trim loopholes in the deep-sea
fiction. Wherever there’s a ripple there’s a fish.
The way to a poor man’s heart is through glittering
atrophy. There’s only nothing beneath the sea,
the seatbelts of infants and children, and you,
in flight mode, the safe-cracking inner hybrid craving
enjambment. The object of all criterion is hereby
emasculated. Though we don’t believe in triangles,
we construct them. How else will we know if we love
or if we hate? The Grandstand has eyes, inflated
by longing. Poems that begin as songs end.
What possession of tides is never flow?
The arch fathoms of impeccable fragrance compound
your secular. No sentiment, no hope, the cobalt fissures
of putrescence cling to sighs. Confining our love to revolution
defies New Order. If it were hatred I would not need
the vibe of the thing, ‘that’s true’. Hook me up to the Coach
and Horses: I can stay no more in lovely ______.
Roll me onto the hearth and into the fire.
We love the children because we love each other.