cockle bone_ OLdeR View _____________[s]

He sets out to write in prose with regular ragged columns
but because of the limits of the medium it becomes
a straggled verse. Correct reader, read it as prose.
It becomes thee, becomes me.

____________________It becomes the other thing called autobiography fiction. The song in the sound, the read in glance. Grace as the pace of things. A twisted inward eye hovering near its shum./ Is that so? Well, we see its porcelain glance. A repetition of fair and wheat. What does the word signify its fair wind a cutting .... bark barque bark embark...

ragged textile edge
room the walk
not interested in the 'professional look'this Elizabethan __ crooked sign posts hanging boards
the washerwoman’s image sticks in the corner
other things every which way dont fit fickle 'somewhat' funky
the streets tackle wandering navigating eateries death
mud in the eyes of the scarves of the roadwayas they call it some
shit space of wayfarer
I am a painter so it's my studio
my studio not an exhibition.

but what of the characters in it? they are in the
other ones, the blogs of-fiction some other
place I could put 'myself' 'my self-rempli'is it the plague
sniffing over there? the hurricane,a bastinado for your death.
basta-basta sirrah there's hurriancoes
snow blowing wind whistle siren masts crackling
in the city walls the whoring lanes are plenty

something like this studio gripping its ages
crooked lanes, filthy pedlars, jewel cunning thieves

Writhing writhin’ moment. Not a breath to say. Always.
all the way to heaven and back the heave
knot of the sent. the pixel something sonnet of the Easter pate.
Knock your pate out lad! Lassie get thy hurly burlies over here,
thy buttocks for a lover's knock!Have with you!
Heave the say, a spent rabble roused night.
A heave night. It is I, Thomas Nashe spreading his dubious wings,
to spicken and span the sky.
An angel covets my wings a flower
to raise a gracious lady laden with
the bucket of her love for me.
A leman lady pucked to the fill to the Filling of her I

Some sent for me. A critter in the breeze,
a rumor of ships masting in the 'high' sky.
angels and dust Aye, and the seven behold
travelers of the sea.Come my capping eye
and see me. A traveler begrimes thee,
a squadron in the moor the field milled with its loving
and yeare the translated you of yore.
Berhymes thee.Come to my Dublin mask
and Paris in the blogridden avenues the
bedecked streets of my death, a funeral in
good Paris, of the kings and Lord hear my wish.
O this is the dog's life. No? is it not
the live dog bark of the hammer I hear?
what is it then? if not that?
in this hush-hush space of my
studio and the understudy of the perspective
I see hence in the crenelated towers,
beveled window of the outside volume.
Irish sun glitters in the jewel of its feat
Not the ordinary of language.
Its feast a tripping sun
as expected I go off in the tangent. a tempest.
Tangenitalman that I am betimes a courteous
sweet gallant goughing in the ring
---------------------------------

if that's the case then who are we? if the character's just handwriing what is the hunger

motivates rough bats, weak beat and sundered rhythm?

before each part, a wave pulling back whitecaps and the monsieur

appearing pairing his feet

in the rig high overhead is that the bearing coming right?

do you bear a dog's life Dublin?

are the ruelles your constant home? the dock offshores the beat the metal plate

fritter in the fin in the fold the man's seeking alliteration that bells the bottom ...

its rope carries winter's furthest body of its cold ricktus

love's not seen this name written on the necessity of moving

______________________________________You assume it was fiction but love's button

works by breaking sound barries movements, oracles, pedimented slum,

and rivered talks , breaking in the back, and the rough waves of pillow

breakage __ the rocks cut close, too close? maybe this way speaking's become dumb

and the hefted chair the black fright cant feel a willow to its knees

______________________________step to the side

_____________________________________A literal pause and hope

______________________________________________littoral to sun and weed

____________________________it comes falls by the side river bank and sided to the boat's lifting grifting |

All seamen wear buckets . In their pants. In their needs. Nervous as any friggin sun.