You have memories

You have memories, sure, but then who doesn't 
know where you live these days? Camping out in
the wilderness until the controversy blew over
seemed like a good idea at the time, of course,
but that was before the anaesthetics kicked in
and you lay there, boiling, and unable to feel 
the sweat rolling down your leg. They hacked it 
off with a kind of efficiency that was easy to
mistake for care but who's complaining now? Not
you! Because you've still got your wits, and the
planes don't fly so low anymore, and you never 
were a big fan of running anyway. Yeah, memories,
how about them, now that you get to control when
they appear, for example, or when to delay them, 
send them bawling into your dreams with a swish, 
the warlords gesturing over 3-D maps of mosques,
glistening rivers barely visible between the cracks 
of competing glaciers sliding across dead moonscapes,
ordnance going off, adrenalin bangs in capsule
form, and still you bray 'Bring it on, Charlie!!', 
like you mean it, like you never had forgotten
where you hid them, typing in your new password 
without even looking, or deliberately keying in 
gibberish answers to standard security prompts. 
Name of first pet? Eklhferlhl. First girlfriend?
Gpwjfrqe;ngqgnntqgwgq Nhwereferhhpfqhppqqhpi. 
That should keep them busy for a day or two, at 
least, and in the interim you can retrace your 
final actual step, backwards into the gun nest,
the hot weapon slinging wetly into your palm, 
as laser-guided melodies peep-peep you to sleep,
deep in a dream world you created with a click. 

Go seek the internet of what they have looked at

We do not go on fishing expeditions. We do not obtain IP addresses and then go seek the internet of what they have looked at. That is web browsing.
Neil Gaughan, Australian Federal Police, 16 October 2012

Go seek the internet of what they have looked at:
check out the intranet of what they have cached.

Lock up their upskirts with interweb colophons;
jack off their search histories with hypertext jam.

Tag all the ones with their intertube braggings;
patch into interwebs of their grimy hackathons.

Phish for rhyme schemes inside HTML buttplugs;
WordPress simulacra of all the sad expeditions. 

Cut 'n' paste previews of lightbox pretensions;
authorise sonnet stealers, lurking, 'n' browsing.

Hose down the strict implications of OMGWTFBBQ;
deprecate cascading shit-storms of fecal policing.

LOL at open tabs, all their darkwebs & dreamings; 
then go seek the internet of what they have looked at.

포악: Atrocity

Imagine a city with no streets 
     but networks of amputated limbs. 

An officious city of criminal investigations 
     and inquests whose soul is a square of cheap, 
     grey carpet 
          and a water dispenser. 

The tinkle of pachinko, 
     the sudden sirens of attack. 

Those women with the hand bills, 
     so stubborn and intent upon their mission, 
     invading the bodyspace of the factory workers like an influenza. 

Sheets of steel carried by a dozen men at a time 
     towards the railhead. 

Rain in bursts of noise upon their heads. 

Somewhere there is a map of the city's improvements 
     but no one I speak with has seen it. 

Wheelchair-bound ladies protest at 
     the new constructions rising up around them 
          in terrifying spirals. 
     No-one is allowed to see them. 

Behind their riot shields, 
     the policemen are only boys. 

Some of them wear white sneakers, 
     as if they have been called in from basketball practice. 

Sleeping street people 
     curled up like scraps of paper 
          on the subway stairs, 
               trusting that the spirits will protect 
                    their small change, 
                         their street salaries. 

Mandarin peels in the gutters. 

Sewer smells that hit the face like a nervous pigeon, 
     the frightful proximity of disease. 

A hollow city, 
     stained with sad skirmishes 
     and pickled fistfights. 

Gouged-out eyes that speak. 

Tables hoarded under orange shelters. 

Old men dancing in parks for citizens, 
     while other citizens peer out at the sky 
     like lost kittens in bamboo. 



          Discarded cloths, 

News of another separatist attack filters through 
     stale cups of coffee, 
     cigarette butts neatly stacked like bullets. 

A simulated odyssey through virtual historical battles 
     gains popularity in the parlours. 

No one speaks of it; 
     these things require no advertisements. 

Beware the reconstituted cutlets of crumbed meat:
     that way annihilation lies. 

Pull back the tarpaulin to reveal today's wares— 
     a rack of twisted and burnt squid, 
     dried suckers and flattened jerky. 

Remove hospital identification barcode. 

Shoulder arms.

(On the tomb of) Cathy the Dolphin

i sing the dead body of a dolphin drift-netted, 
snatched from the envelope of the glinting sea

& i sing her name replaced (& i sing her gender 
inverted but that jingle? you'll never hear me

crooning no one you see is smarter than he  
coz he was a she & her real name was Cathy

i sing the remorse of her tanned TV trainer's 
tears—they struck a false note, as i recall, on 

the day he returned to visit long after the 
cameras had packed up & left her, forgotten 

her body, her brain captive on film stills in a
deep tank, discarded just like yesterday's meat

she swivelled & turned to sadly fix her one eye
on the old man's boat shoes, their salt-water 

stainings, sand engravings & mackerel scents,  
memories of bud & little sandy (wunderkind 

brothers, grown-up, with fame in their blood 
faster than lightning (or was it boned-up on speed 

could they give a rat's about Cathy the dolphin? 
did they ever come to visit? can you spare a light? 

sorry, no smoking in Sea World, but if i had a dollar 
for every youngster who knew her I'd pass my hat 

to her sobbing old trainer who'd punch it & shout: 
you killed her! all of you idiots killed her! gaaaaaaah!

(although apparently dolphins can commit suicide,
the tears in his glass eye never did seem to dry 

when he described her last moment in the tank
& the bubbles as she sank to its fake sandy floor

& just . . . stayed there, forever, or at least until
her breathing stopped (it, too, neglected, abandoned,  

no longer just living in that world full of wonder,
let alone flying there under (  . . .  ah, under the sea

a slave to its glinting theme-song death march: 

no-one you 

                    (no-one you see 

                                         (is smarter than 

                                                                  (smarter than she, 

                                                                                               she, she, she  

                                                                                                                   . . .