Drew Milnefrom ILL AT THESE NUMBERS
But maths too can rot.
- John Wilkinson
The call is dirty news
so feathered barking
to curve from shaggy
then savagery bland
again sweet stricture
bold as bright rains
done for bludgeoning
and all is quite through
the fang still showing
how sliver-tip proofs
take each gut or lyre
on quatsch or starch
for a speeding rubble
come formalist loves
then rip from a heart
a frond and its spleen
Spent face and calamity
quite bit to sullen pence
ent price and vaunt dice
vowel to decree nought
what price obsolescence
who would but bone up
and deep soul soft soap
for concept provenance
were the the to actual
so sweeps the plastic
palm spar or rapt carpet
as a bark sped to bronze
So much of duration
to laugh answering
revolutions of spur
flame thrown once
on its tire the usual
periods thing or big
fruit so likewise by
single or slow tread
poring into the field
hardly lush to endure
but neat braced skein
for burning diagrams
elbow to finger grime
uh-huh my crunchers
wrinkling leather dash
under the masked raw
Hey fiddle the count
or the burnt creative
all the way to a rose
or budding metaphor
stripped of hedging
till the raw calculus
says hand over fist
in brief nasty brutish
and short arrays sing
dog the curt entrepôt
stay with me stay the
buttoned toothy bulk
Turbulent to pitched gloat
or half way to accounting
where rugs like diagrams
double in evening charms
the repeat take arabesque
at face value and argues
for the two state solution
each strip of taken earth
spelt out along trig points
while sorry opens more
square brackets than death
as though the sheer weight
makes a critique of resolve
and the state shadowed by
lost amends in the blaming
as though origins mattered
Territory fired
out of the hides
and parchment
still to scrolling
but even alight
is no single file
nor even temper
but a spending
and then a face
scarred in lines
saying nothing
nor even entreats
only a quick fix
the still in view
varnished and lit
by satellite states