pls re-tweet & follow this if you can: CSI Fallujah trending,
mission accomplished & war on terror continues unabated

on the day obama died i was buying candles in abbottabad
inadvertantly i liveblogged the whole damn cash transaction

check your receipts, people - the asteroids have not landed 
she was a real mars crosser - & a sub-orbital patriot gamer

did you see how QILF was trending? copy that & re-tweet if 
you agree, let's make it happen people, dance in the streets

i count eight lines down already, six more & it's a sonnet - 
copy that if you agree, re-tweet &/or watch it start trending

oh i see jack bauer is trending, funny that - follow me if you 
agree with what i'm saying, or don't. smokin' hashtags here,

pplz, plz agree. did we mention instant fucking deathcamps? 
did i mention one million dead people trending? #justsayin'

København Trilogy


"Morten, who was not so good to English,
     wore oversized glasses that made his face
look crooked, as if he had been punched,
     on a train, by some thug from Århus. We
corresponded only very briefly, when we 
     were both in primary school, but yesterday
I felt his presence in the capital, København,
     like a scab slowly peeling itself off my face. 
The things he liked to do, his hobbies and 
     favourite sports, elude me, though football
must be in there somewhere. I am left with
     a simple image: a boy carrying a backpack
and wearing a black beanie, travelling alone
     on a train in the so-called happiest country 
in the world, watching as fields of grey metal
     glide by in complete silence. Maybe I should 
blame Peter Høeg for putting the image there.
     I mean, who else? I want to write him a letter,
ask him if Morten drew a slash through his Os,
     the way that I used to cross my Ts, dot my Is." 


"We'll imagine that for Morten, at his age anyway,
     the idea of a girlfriend was preposterous. School
being the great equaliser, we'll creepily approve of 
     the idea that he was bashed, daily. His parents,
having also been victims of working class hate,
     were powerless to stop it, despite their letters 
to the schools department, the weekly protests. 
     You can guess why Morten's on the train, then:
he's running away to København, or else further, 
     across the Øresund Bridge to Malmö. We'll allow
him to get that far, perhaps further still, before 
     the Polisen corner him in Lund, their windbreakers
catching him in a patriarchal embrace, knocking 
     his glasses from his face, spilling the contents 
of his backpack all over the icy platform for anyone 
     to see. No papers, barcode - no true identity
to speak of. It's a fair way from Århus to Lund
     but his father drives virtually non-stop through
a horizontal blizzard, pausing once to pay a toll 
     on the Øresund Bridge, and a second time to cry."


"I only ran away that one time, fleeing violence 
     the way refugees flee internment camps, or else
momentary ceasefires. They amount to the same
     thing: entering that gap in space between days,
running fast like my old football coach taught me,
     head down, fists like pistons. I thought my black
tracksuit would camouflage me against the night,
     the mean streets of Vesterbro. As it turned out,
in København I couldn't even leave the station,
     surrounded by Tivoli's dregs and angel's wings.
I rode black on a train bound for Malmö instead,
     got as far as Lund before the future caught up 
with me. I waited for my father in a juvenile cell
     crowded with boys who jeered, then broke my 
glasses. I managed to get one solid punch in 
     before being king-hit from behind but it was 
worth it. Then on the long drive back to Jutland 
     for some reason I recalled that Australian boy 
who pretended to be my penpal for a month or 
     two, back in primary school. Hvad var hans navn?"


The tower was locked (its future being chained to the mast
     like a breeze crossed with water from the past tense (that
immense wall of sound’s collage (its anagram eye, loveless
     wireless) abstract but intact. Your childhood lies like party 
lines populated by ghosts (some Fenian, others pulled from 
     the CSIRO telephone directory. The first email (never sent
cced Gaia but bounced. So it goes … (that manual exchange 
     inside a powerhouse (a museum exhibit etched in charcoal
rides the lightning (killing composers, developing in still-life.
     Meanwhile, father’s crystal set gathers dust in a council tip.
The volume & tuning knobs had fallen off anyway, replaced 
     by one cent coins (also obsolescent. A smell it gave off when
“live” could trigger memories you never knew you had back
     then, in the then when events unfolded in a logical fashion,
proceeding to their happy ending, or a lesson (the Masonic
     Temple’s front yard littered with broken glass, dead weeds
(ah that crazy guy who ran screaming down the street (that
     joke about Oddfellows isn’t so funny now, in his aftermath,
the grey dawn of dead things screwed into the sky (that line
     of furrows from the ground wavered across his forehead, an
object of ridicule allowed one last laugh (surprised to end up 
     on someone’s thrown-away camera (your soul locked inside
a mangled memory chip (just an SD card away from rapture
     (or was it repatriation? as shards of laughter escaped from 
the abandoned sun memorial (a sound came out of the blue
     sky like, as if from nowhere (a disembodied voice he thought
he’d heard on the antique television set describing Vietnam 
     was God (turned out it was the government 

                                        (calling him up. 

Baby monkey

The latest song of the week from Parry Gripp 
is a cheerful tribute to that baby monkey riding 
the mini pig ... Our facility is USDA and FWC 
licensed and has over 20 years of experience. 
We are a wonderful facility, torturing the baby 
monkey and baby pig and laughing about it. The 
monkey clings to the pig because it has been 
separated from its mother and ... the Internet. 
Visit for more on the Baby Monkey. 
Wikipedia  is a 2004 electronica music album by 
the musician Moby, released under his pseudonym 
"Voodoo Child." According to the album's liner 
notes ... Why have I made this record? Well, see, 
there was this night in Glasgow in December of 
2002 ... It was the last night of the European tour 
for Where is Baby Monkey? Where is Baby Monkey? 
Is he in the kitchen? (Is he in the kitchen?). Teach 
CD7's "Where is Baby Monkey?" song (and also make 
sure you've done CD2's 15 Adorable Baby Monkey 
Portraits. The monkey is the most loved animal in 
the world because they are hard to get 

                               and they act just like a baby. 

“he is survived by his wife (and children”

He is survived by his wife (and children
barely rate a mention. But they in turn
are survived & loved by other people

who do not die (but turn up, oddly, just
for a little while, at the end. Just as long
as you survive you can be sure that

His wife and children (survive him but he,
unfortunately, does not. In fact, he dies.
He does not survive his own life. Rather,

it survives him, in another form. A body?
Of sorts. Someone else’s body. Plurals.
His bodies survived by those of his wife …

And children (have heard that one before.
That’s right, just before they survived him.