Stephen Emmerson


The archivist is the blue-nail-radio fading in. Taking readings with meters. Crackle of bioelectric dust in the synaesth-speakers. Cortex-nodes implanted by Happy Meal toys at 2am. The broadcast is undetectable. Information is king. I forget my childhood wallpaper. The colours and patterns of marbles. Hallucinations sweat bed levitating in silver light. Cycle through the names on your phone they are all your names all you. All compartmentalised and filed. Stored in processors external to body to skin to thought.

                                                                                                    Where is the scanner. Iris. Scan. Undo the 2nd coming with wordless example. Limit Time. Free Uncle Toby. None of these memories are real. Fail. Reload. Reboot system. Error. Send report.

How dare you imagine that! Come back to where you are John. John discover empathy. Be THAT man. You have responsibilities now and you..... Merge into next week through speaking.

                                                                                                                                                                     City/Wind /pour days into kettle and boil. I want to play with petrol. Sick this as it is it feels at least. Carbon settle particles of waste. Burn into the rest of it.

Feed that thought I says. Mystery parcel. Propped against door. It rattles. I forget how to connect. Rewire potential — uncertain. Coordinate a discharge of psychical energy. A perimeter. Only through desolate street. A 3 mile radius of life. Complete existence marked out in avenues. We long for the face-changers. When are they due? Pickle all dead skin.

Disintegrating sparrows flesh out the boarded-up shopfronts. People have stolen the letters from signs and arranged them outside the town hall 'STEALING YOUR PERFECT HOURS'. Follow a stray dog into the canal. Find a Roman coin. It is my totem now and will always pull me back.

Pork burgers hung out in the blindness we is. Its sympathy dried in earthbound genes. I get up I walk out. How many times do I have to say it. Goodbye. Idleness. Thats what you have. Honour us with cheeseburgers. With plastic forks. The prongs broken off. Honour us with anti-emetics. No more shoe-puke boy on the escalator. C oncourse. Violet rain. My chest hurts. Famous.

Stephen Emmerson lives in the North of England and his work has appeared in Jacket, Great Works, Cake, Poetry Salzburg Review, nthposition, FREAKLUNG, SPINE, Half Circle, and The Red Ceilings.

He is the author of X, The Arthur Shilling Press 2009, Chimera, Erbacce 2010, Attack of the gas powered Angels, KF&S 2010 and Poems found at the scene of a murder, ZimZalla 2010, No Ideas but in Things, by Chris Stephenson and Stephen Emmerson, is coming soon from The Arthur Shilling Press.
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