from 'The Gates of Gaza'
 
 

"I believe that one could in principle create a normally experiencing
human being out of a piano. All one would have to do would be to
arrange a sufficient number of the piano's constituent electrons,
protons, and neutrons." Galen Strawson

 

                        i.

its liturgical flatbed scans for
purchase so slender soul is light
toast prepressed hence to flee as

dead right remains that there's an
enormous etiquette quantity, whole
stacks on entry-level ditties, apt

yet more apt in armoured personnel
cars rusting by a separately moving
pax-brede tree, the screen driven

to token-types by imps who burst
devices for fan quality, hot stuff,
affordably top notch and brimming
 
 

                        ii.

and in its trivial weapon comes to
hand the jaw of dead ass, sword of
bone, a thousand foreskins falling

as flowers of Philistia till brute
force breaks its bonds, bends the
gates of Gaza, post and massy bar

to shunted bits, up stream of that
forgotten bird embost in Arabian
woods who lay erewhile a holocaust

from out its ashy womb, as eagles
spread ecliptic over predation laid
under tribute to diet coke and rock
 
 

                        iv.

the cloth options out just to drop
and drag, processing straight on
back as if to a file shrunk fresco

of its miraculous trigonometry on
one stilling pleonasm, dark night
withstood, a lunch-break backslash

then simply beds down the paving
for domain values of the mandate
a wild fling through clogged rota

let fall the haughty moon to loaf
as each casual battle has a furry
idol bouncing off the windscreen
 
 

                        vi.

apotropaic toast then cable gives
out neckerchief to sew corporases
from released minions, dumbstruck

emanations off the Heraclean down-
load stone, clubbed together, each
to their own corona, as hot whiffs

boot gutted remains off its deadly
bede-roll, drugged by reprisals as
each menu line's gone into lattice

kernels left misleadingly abstract
to spark up stonking ass, a glitch
who zooms in on the cutting targe
 
 

                        x.

wresting off surds on fine liquids
lets each fleeting reaper void its
quibbles, flash floods round lips

deluded play blazing fast ones off
mounted security forces, crutches
aloft, not scared to fork out for

a duff paradox of two arms lending
legend's lowest bond to let a tad
more sweet trigger in the ear corn

supplementing Grundlagen doctrines
to a tune of $300m over four years
sabres all in for invisible minima
 
 

                        xi.

hot-swaps to worm then wing abroad
the hidden day from duels, locks in
accumulating platform-agnostic dots

of judgment, all hands to encrypted
spots, a prospect of full prisons
so satisfying to holism that ritzy

copping off takes virtual syllables,
the fancy if divisible Markov chain,
let alone justice, for smoothness of

a movie, sunk in recipes for lewd
viols or boned up flesh then waits
on the smashing party to boil over
 
 

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