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The Interruptor by Iain Rowley

Guilt––iso-trans (upthroat) mute
the UGH: Buccal-latching louse
in deep slope catch,
fancied esemplastic vessels
of yore eaten bit by bit
to a stub-muscle.
To remember now is a struggle
through mush. SOZ,
olfactory bulb–– 
flush vain succour-fill
re. petrichor fizz cued
by Scarborough Mere doubloons
and the snip of a sabulous twig
in my velveteen box.
Mini-schooner salvaged
from dry-land storage
rerouted, adventureless.
Last birthday, I lolled in
a ditched Rocky Mountain raft,
knuckled the gelatin spheres
on pristine stickers
of “popcorn” and “motor oil”
bought on eBay.

Flapping amid the thin
sideways smoke
of prole-aspiration.
Prepon a yellow-labelled
K can of wormy poison
best enjoyed with
Poseidon’s kiss.
Coupla manky mattresses
bunged into bookies’
fire-exit doorway,
form like some daft
acro-yoga pose
beside a “Pound ‘em England”
pavement sign––cheapo pasties
for the manifestly tribal
cut with the dust
of deluxe second-homes.
Exec in flight,
jabbing at their phone,
guides a chimp
down a candy road.

Wageless freeze.
Make-up applied
on the train
to on-the-job train.
Got it made believe
fine porcelain flogging,
staturbating over
a row that records
revenue outstripping expenses.
business is holding up, like,
a boutique eggshell mirror
––pale nimbus aglow––
and seeing a vampire facelift.
You micro-needled me
without even touching me,
put super-platelet-rich plasma
with 8+ growth factors
in the deep dermis.
Sh ws msc
bt h h h rs ct ff.
This is not healing nicely.
Turn back to the books
with blank covers and colophons,
the asemic, amorphous marks
that address the immediate wound.

Mother, mind my
atrophied manners
as I swipe a nectar card
across normie eyeballs.
Prosthesis feels – pending
whether this is
captator, benefactor.
Seize a Tory for a tour
of Barrow Gurney,
seat them in
a piss-stained hoist chair,
smear duck butter
‘round their cakehole––
these imperatives must
not be fully under
my command.
Type to erase the traces
with skull-cap hair
and befloured face––
seriously points to nothing
but emergency.

Apparently, to have good politics now
you have to shout about it

Place a pen
in the bower
and sing with
display reflectance
enhanced by
intensity of infection.
Infection, degeneration
aren’t one and the same.
Windbag, caught in
circular transfer
from homo to sacculus,
to say your excrescent
metaphor sucks
would be charitable.
Idleness gainsaid
by intestinal helminths
signaling health-threats
through a comprehensive
consumer strategy:
heavy metal absorption
capacity beyond that
of free-living sentinels.
Keep calm, dose up on
gut mucosa resident
that changes GABA receptor
expression––while watching
lachrymose carrots
get left out of the party.

Gun low for infrasonic freq-
out insides under hypna
pop armour, rips apart
wistly, the wistful aura.
No way to cope with
the silencing of silence
and evade the spiraling
blah blah codes.
Baby, be my, be my little
serotonin antagonist.

Ghost Box pressing
another retrospection.
Grandma’s chimney ivy
deemed ectoplasmic.
Grain laid up
disappears into static,
then black fire molecules.
Apical ballooning
triggered by constant
call to catch-up.
Pull an Easter cracker;
discharge those negatons.

Apparently, to have good politics now
you have to shout about it

Can’t get over the scream
of Laura, sacred capacitor.
Who was not complicit
In the great disharmony?
Raindrops ascend,
film scarification.

Insecure splices,
high-resistance junctions,
thermal creep loosens
terminal screws.
Need a hell of a
fault interrupter.
This current
brings arcing across
contacts as they open.
Friends, that seething mass
of reactive impulses has
entered this house too.
Strive to keep them
at a distance
‘til they can’t be passed
on but die in me.

What’s your location
in the transmission chain?
In relation to relations.
A love of rage
and hate on the part of love
are so mixed up.
Come sound me out
to re-organise
beyond the creature comforts.
A love of rage
and hate on the part of love
are so mixed up.
Adjust your sets
for the unwanted guest
with its vital threat.
A love of rage
and hate on the part of love
are so mixed up.

Dear Nina,
I wept as I read
of your dream
of Mark dancing
for a second
along the edge
of the sea.