Two poems by Fran Lock

poem for an ideal reader

“how to create through writing an enduring extinction”- Miyó Vestrini

reader, accomplice in a thought crime,  sway,
witless, to my severest music. i will go away.
i will go where the air is clean. for a long time:
a crisis that renders all our disappointments
fatal. the lipstick, fatally smudged, the dress shirt,
fatally creased, the electric fan, fatally misdirected.
reader, i desire you how the poem desires you:
erratically, and forever. with teeth. you, fleshscape,
me, david croneberg. to incite your extinction,
over and over, that mixtape mumble. confusion
reigns. this, capital’s ideal carnality, love in
the precinct of monster gods, of men with gills,
of women with webbed earlobes. whatever.
there are pigeons befouling the lcd signs.
to be written into oblivion against necessity
in an angry font, all caps. and all the lemon-
coloured birds our sky is starved of. country,
wild and imprecise. persistence? pah! mess
of soft bones vulnerable to vertigo.
an ambulance, moaning like a melancholy
organism. early morning hours make
priests of us all. don’t give me your lust,
your dishevelled clemency.  finger under
a collar. come convulsively to grief.
there are cliques whose kiss is after
all a mute defrauding. what i want
from you is no longer love. there is no daring
to your desire, dear. i want you ungainly,
diseased. i want you, self-important ugliness;
that heat, that saccharine hostility. i want
your trembly rage over petty things, all,
all of your kitschy syndromes and gestures.
a colossal mistaking, want. oh, to say
shit you rather than fuck you, is my highest
ideal. i thought about blinding myself,
to be released from this storm of seeing.
the eye as an attack surface, keeps
filling me up with you. i want the tundra,
to be becalmed in your tedious green.
unfold me for my fortunes along each
sweating crease.




citizen citizen

“The catastrophe is not coming, it is here.” – The Invisible Committee.

woke, exfoliated cold, sat and waxed
her professional body. today, no more
decrees. only eulogies and anecdotes,
anthologies and manuals. to menace
with a series of sexless grunts, the kitten
faces of her readers. a poem is an advert,
what it’s selling is the future. even our
ghosts are correcting their period
costumes. the traitors. but fucker,
the dead understand that there is
still an alchemy to error. in a muted
light a soft-core wrongness prevails.
the editor is a white rabbit with
a hypnotist’s watch.  she must not
remember: the years of infamous
hunger, a flickering city, an enlarged
liver dying on a trolley. why bother?
sit instead, premeditate a common-
place all afternoon. communicate,
they said. such useful art. a word
is abject chamomile. weak heat
for shallow wounds. fucker, she says,
you insomniac smut-peddler, pepsi-
cola spokesman, hawking your spiteful
pulp. king xerox, pharaoh eating honeyed
locusts from the pages of a fanzine.
before the awards are given, she fusses
her narrow skin, the mirror’s vigilante.
is neither one thing nor the other.
they said, for years. and now each
metaphor, a cherry-ripe obscenity.
they said, they said. from nights
of balmy adolescent privilege,
holding an iphone six like a frog
prince. snivelling collective we.
and they said, and they said.
the pretend contempt of judges;
the prim intemperance of post-
doctoral lushes. a laugh like heavy
furniture being dragged inexpert.
she says: fucker, all names are dead.
poetry is digging shit with a golden
shovel.  you falsifiers, patting
yourselves down for imperfections,
night after night. fucker, fuckers
of inflatable consciences, if your
eyeliner is inseparable from your
politics then you’re not a comrade:
you’re canned air sold for a buck
ninety-nine, you’re a hair clot cut
from drains, you’re banal and explicit
and anything scrawled on the night.
she says she remembers: a blatant
hell, priest with his seamless
conjugal philosophy, his weepy
scriptures about nothing; the nuns
as white as laboratory mice,
lifting their pink eyes to a trophy
ceiling. where pure and intact
mean precisely the same. fuck
you, she was multiply sullied here.
and a body isn’t optional. it’s gristle,

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