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Merl Fluin


 from The Reality Binge Trick (2010)  




Larval and azure

larval and azure, the tracheal glister
conquers the breastbone in boreal daylight
grey as the cinnamon-traders’ horses
whose hooves spark milk from the flinty paths





I awoke in the night beside your doppelgänger.
His hands were a conspiracy of insects.
His heart was a murmuring speculum.
The bed was full of non-sequiturs.
I kissed him as if you were me.
His breath was wetter than muslin.
In the morning my bath water was streaming with your angels.




The Reality Binge Trick

The reality binge trick:
In the red Madam attic, the belted child looks like
A labyrinthodon stalks the male wetside.
Now repeat your lesson:
   snybbkäst, a word for a new type of hooligan.




Bee radiation

Birdsong and aspartame run like packs through arterial
With their mynah birds strung out like torch lights the
   henchmen are breaking every sumptuary law.
I could milk my fingers like udders.  Ladybirds creep through
   your moustache.
Your gorgeous Y-incision would pucker beneath me.
We would succumb to bee radiation and fall thickly back into
Our hearts would form an archipelago.  This planet has two




The Polymath of Perversity

Trickier than Odysseus with a greasy thumb
Never leaves the house without:  keys, mobile, mammal
   capsule, broken hand, two spare glass eyes, glandular hinge,
Tracked by tinnitus or hearing aids
Gets down and dirty with the lord of the flies
Non-stop fingering of a gardening attitude
Doubled up and saturnine, face smeared with chlorophyll,
   every pore a war zone for trickster gods

At this latitude the morphologies slip their constellations
Onanists look like ships on fire, hermits look like ambulances,
   duellists look like phosphenes, and superheroes look like
   prehensile scientists

Occipital crick-crack, the mammalian gamble
Shouts gangway, gangway for the stump of your human
Serves a term as supplicant to your armed proboscis

This declaration of love has been tampered with




Your swollen octopus is in my handbag.

It’s too big to bite and it’s too wet to suck.

When I stroke its head it cries like a dog.

When I push my fist into its mouth it chokes like a baby.




Where were you while I was tonguing the aphids
down by the place of fear where agate sparked on the slipway
and cannibals asked for parley from between my syncopated

In the house of wax I grooved on rill-bones,
gorged on crow-meat and blindsided the houyhnhnms.
Hounded by airborne alphabets I steered for the land of the

Sleep tight, necromancer, in this eyeless orbit.
Your rose-petalled lungs make colophonic war games.
Snuggled down in larval splendour, your synapse bone will tell
   you your desires.


The teething coral

Ribbonned babies keelhauled under the fleets of Actium
from copper to scree over a molten breastbone
over frozen wine
helpless as milk.
Sugared almonds dissolve just like mummy’s warhorse
blades are untongued, and everyone’s last breath is stolen.




polypentacular starflies are pupating between the exhibits
fireworking the orderlies with a golden chrysalis digging stick
rhythmic wasps taste the dark moon under glass on a map of
   the coastline
the opening is a ripped tin cobra
its hot syrupy drips
are still undreamt



Daydream addict

What’s it for, all this machinery?
The candied glass ridges blistered my tongue
while I chartered my last unbroken finger.

To perform keyhole surgery at that hour of the morning
I would have needed a popsicle, or one of your earrings.

Batcave or funhouse? Your breath clouds the engine.
Thoughts of you in an iron lung turn me wet and bristly,
like snowdrifts on the balcony, or nitrogen burns on the floor.





I think I left something behind:

a skein of silverfish, a living key to the ignition

of a scarlet-thighed wasp that smells of petrol in the hall.

Sirius flew down nightly to lick marzipan from our fingers

and for several hours afterwards we could understand the
   language of corvids,

while the Evening Star exerted its superpowers

and exploded into a fall of morning snow.






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