Marty Hiatt

Three Poems

who will open their sandwich for them

to make it to english.

, even tho completely normal.

also in a new mill pond under a green sun
where gravity is a warm intimate press
and possible and vulnerable
to just go along
sprawl within and beyond pinch
and not really having a permanent base,
and dawdle in it and wait and see
and open and lit up and ok then
(ive gotten used to my limbo)
(or just tiring)
(army apps triple, flag sales soar, etc.)
get up later and later,
and doodle
and loss
various little wig outs since getting here
, but they were kind of swallowed up,
and see
and see how
and inciter
and the worst is to bear false burdens
and i went one way
and i went one way and
and if nothing
and pick it all
and drop it
and still
and even
and try again
, you dont even need a beanie
im still processing a lot i guess
after a few hours work like remembering who i am,
in a place where you cruise around feeling lightweight, etc.
, sorta not even really trying to write but sorta,
pass two shot-up cafés by république
and learning again how small we are,
other workhorses frothing at the mouth in the shadows, in the usa
, but they were kind of swallowed up,
and still dont
and start over
we dont like to feel it coming out,
sand-blast it with already ruined personless words
and pick
and i guess
and the guy warmly smilingly shook my hand and said they were closed
and away
and why should saying something have to do with anything anyway
and pretending
all the colour
and dont feel
and layer and shade and dodge and burn
midst elevated rings and sausage and trade
and let
whatever it is
swimming over the everydismolday desert the dust and fumes
and gagging
this sort of default legitimacy to rolling around doing nothing,
and slumped and stuff pretty quickly.
sometimes your muscles and your voice strip through me. it just started snowing.
this time-lapse video has never been more relevant.


back to noise

the cutting

the being on air of all of it

by the end of the quarter

up in towers

the lot of it

cheek by jowl

alive in the wrong book

under contrails grid lit by moon

we would cater for ourselves

under contrails grid lit by moon

rubbish bin brazier

“seizure of blanks”

this really is what they were all made into

employed partly as experts on themselves

digitising bile

at the edge of

an oceanic perturbation

which doesnt concern us

they keep the wound open

& the trap, lodged in it

“there will be days”

      stay      “out

brains lurch over the land

we hang them like this

so the blood drains

at the right rate

& wot systems in place

we barely know what scabs are

& wot systems in place

& we all have to go

there are background processes running. terminate them?

id rather be burning my hands on your stove rack


elseo gut
go to the retconned world
like you can smell the hot tar from up here
dusted in methamphetamine
patiently painstakingly mortaring your own disaster
nah jus kiddin
thats between me & the mirror
& mayb it doesnt even matter our quarrels over toothpaste
institute reeks of persons
swaddled in wire rope
striators of the seen in which we sit & wait
& wot weve had tove been so long,
in the darks btw hearth & hearth
& wot tar-sands in the bg
the thing is,
heroic onion
& what did i do to my helmet
you respirator
“the most you can hope for”
is that we completely fix this fucking bullshit
& of the ways in which we
cordoned by a permanent swarm of engines
“just another slightly different version of the i”
thanks, ancestors. see you soon.
retinue down the strip
point blank stun grenade
i guess this is a way, bulkhead,
dynabolt nape batter
“dried stew paste on the brain”
drizzle to drizzle, bane to bane.

marty hiatt is from melbourne. he runs bulky news press.
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