This is history! [part three] - Duncan Jones

ego trip, worked in guile and crystals           knitted gristle fuzzing
       the act is born symbols, the weight of what                         to find hidden patterns, the more the object glisters      He won't be touched.         and so, new life myths      long strings of friendship bracelet                              The numbers are lawful and growing                
We need a machine that can smile                        clinging onto each other at the roller disco, more of them symbols blister popping fast                               the doeeyed kid, making tears, says "I have needs".                                     Leaning over the barrier, Napoleon makes his Masonic signs and then laughs in his sleeve              

raise the watchword, a glass in a shaky hand             a liberty whisper from the office floor     carried to no uses on the disinfected air      the devil, whose “works” or “pomps” they were called to renounce (and the rest): who wants him gone?        No spirits left that we may be led       astray    a stray god   a stranger G space D                words could be made with strewed paper petals    discarded ends           Is it really like starting over?

    She rubbed another match against the wall.

The Little Wooden Boy 

This is history! [part two] - Duncan Jones

Wouldn’t you let me in where the coat gapes

to the clay pit where I found the snapped owl spine, scuppering gentil casuistry

        We're doing magic and scraping away with the teaspoon

until the writing happens to be pristine. Glamour, spittle shined and scattered willfully

                                           the steady head imperfected

                   I don’t want this any more: folded arms a shield; feathery blue veins at the foot.
              I keep writing anyway

                        There is a singing like fly shit spread across the roof of the mouth    gathering at the fingers, tipped

The clay pit gives way to luscious prejudice here.                                 How many historians coughed up the blond hairballs how many ached after knocking one too many off

Let down your hair your hair so that we may tell like wet eyed boys with our treachery wrapped up and bowed: our way through.

 

 

the wooden boy is a curious fellow, do dig in.

This is history! (part one) - Duncan Jones

She is / I am the most beautiful girl in the world. Sink into her dream a lesson for every one. A sleek new team mate becomes more than the brain to do this. Hone your personality for a year or more.                      Stop, she says. Think, she says. Win. 
              We are learning to banish our regrets. When I put my hand in your hand I know I'm safe. As flakes fall like snowing, see her cope with the trials, the increased need of sleep, as they absorb noise of growing up. Clarifying our intentions: my plan for the weekend, hooking up with her arch enemy.                                     Napoleon believed in a system of merit, faking drinks, building your own systems and workstations                              a day patient threw all their weapons into the lake.     atheists everywhere: white finger; a circumflex; exaptation.                 There is nothing to see.           The object just got bigger and bigger and I thought "bloody hell", it isn't in the shape of a wheel or either memory                an occasional cold shower                                         bumps and taps were coming from the other side. Although squirrels can cause fire, this is a cigarette. 
In the name of comfort, I salute the mythic west.





the little wooden boy