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Keith Jebb











gradual change of love back to hole to entrap me
cover 900,000 claimants and my sense of balance
refusing crackdown auditory strengths and tactile
awareness is virtually zero. “love to the economist”
you say and i spin screen out genetic disorders
root causes of speech abnormalities sew lips and
tongue at the skin of you breath clouding a lens
space sneaks through the body like a doughnut
the economic cycle is no sine curve melting
siberian perma-frost releases 70 billion tons of
methane. i have a slave in a far eastern country
and another on the subcontinent but it’s some
one to speak for keep two utterances at feeler
gauge distance some rate of interest rubber
soul of my generation. plant leans into the room
drops leaves the light like arcing out of it towards
the bookshelf and once i saw her so overweight i
didn’t for a second recognise but realised and one
year on as if it never she was back into her own
space. d was able to remember up to 3 digits
forwards catch with his right hand kick with his
right foot shouts from the street then silence as
night draws in the cartoon rigour of. write your
own clichés striped curtain drawn in like a kite’s
tail they are betrayed by the national trust stone
sets ironed into the landscape. what we can’t
accept the tribal inference definitions of freedom
narrowing a halting speech dry mouth taste of
copper and vomit back of the throat pulse hot
a dermal horizon the mind sinks below slick to
slant to. on the whitewashed roughstone wall
two flatirons mincer toy pram-frame one trap
maybe pincers some metal plates horseshoe
shattered metal bowl wrench 5 hinges scales
candleholder and some items unidentifiable
from here. some words undentifiable from here.
what occurs to the littoral-minded drift and ten
sion of drift tide and turn sea sucked out of
the estuary rain sheets across mud-flats and
muscle cells growing on huge sheets regularly
stretched to exercise the cells as they grow.
proofread the subject’s dna at birth and it’s the
old line-through/lung-through paradigm every
where people had chairs and chairs had won
prizes the little bucket seat frog smug amongst
them. the child decided the letter s was racy &
i sat on it and & was a fat teacher hated i and
the place stank of dettol there’s a video game
of the somerset levels you have to find where
frances presley buried her brother elvis before
the flood defences fail. with odds of 20-1 against
on god attending robin cook’s funeral no matter
whose colours he (god) was running in a cream
smear of cloud behind a window on the village
street the face flat back at you the as if of what
you’re not sure you do like the wall opposite
kindof just grew there. imperfect. i am drink. i
&. water slakes through the system cistern and
the head bobs on top like a buoy anchored to
the next moment next acceptable movement
balanced on the shouts of drunks from the street
the click of the landing light foot steps on the
bare stair. and hearing the most privileged smell
coming a poor third man slips into the room his
shadow running back through the door jamb
gilly-hooter sounding the hour not in the garden
and ‘Whad bin yo’ ’ātin’, Jack?’ ‘On’y a bit o’ glue
off the Lammas-plum tree.’ digital tippex whites
burroughs off the net the freedom rebrand is 5
points up on the dow jones the poem slips out
of my office into crush & stampede on a bridge
the new orleans landless spaces net reflect
ing oiled facets of us so kill the reflection kill
the image and anything most decent people
wouldn’t want their fingerprints on. ‘instead of
water flooding in, we’ve got people flooding in.
the people levee has broken.’ doing it realtime
cut-and-splice history poem won’t see the ink
dry on louisiana in a bush charm offensive
dog the necessary is fouling the pavement &
fat maybe a whole cholesterol mountain and
enough stored blood pressure to fuel a small
city. but tonight. moon full 240,000 miles on
altocumulus like the end of the street and out
the outer spiral arm a part of. no thing centres
here this language gone in a blink of. although
we read the ones that might be an adolescent
scrawl on a lover’s body calling her back an un
known constellation all through her thought of
sort of fuck it. she’s in a can’t write/won’t write
paradigm and i’m in mid-this so guess who’s
going to be understanding. this place no more
than a pod. unsorted books bowing the mdf
shelves. language tacky from ceiling edge
to keyboard. dust. compromise. the obvious
approach of the end of the page. stationery.
pretty much all there is. makes you think.

aug-nov 2005


Kater Murr's Press, Piraeus Series, 2006. 
Copyright - Keith Jebb, 2005
Cover art by David Miller; copyright - David Miller, 2005