Sam Langer

we’re the bunnies we’re the bunnies here on the ship of april                 there are cop cars on the ship                 & inaudible cabin-wallpaper talks as they drive up it take place within their cars, wheel-hands clutching each wheel’s whitish tube (i assume.) my mind leaves my cabin where it is and now the so-soft wallpaper seems to breathe – something happened to it, stuff rocks, we hope the bunnies wake up on the paths’ various darkness. spokescreatures over the intercom rant about the sides and that the slope down to the water is wet : how their balding chats cut over the deck like demented tires & there’s the animal tiredness-depression                 in the blinks of animals between what they say – words’re stretched and some times grin it gets slower and slower the walls breathe in some semifinal daze                 coming up the cabin stairs to meet its owner, encompasser (we hope for ourselves) who’s likewise on someone’s compass, bussole, (pointed ears, cleaning, cared for, bunny, cabin dweller, under those captains, heads of that kaputt space, looking out the window at those complex railings, keeping well, guided passenger, pushing the ship, pushing the ship...
poem I guess that we’ll meet We’ll meet in the end –OZZY OSBOURNE it’s not very green now that you know what’s missing you seem to know what you don’t say between syllables – we have crawled at sky speed , and have worked like dogs at room speed taking it to make the different times come out your life as we who i you slowly turn like unicron or the moon (1,022km/s) as we begin to reach middle then look to back working at room speed to push la misère’s wheel where can we resist? lifting makes me peaceful,                                smoke made me the mattress he doesn’t go away or he goes away and over my shoulder (less painful now) other neighbour completes cig sitting in box the metal hedge more ornate from glass’s ripples then goes back inside, overhead lights i am not really listening to your conversation and thinking about how many more we’ll organise online afterwards · in this one i have a bad attitudde unexhausted negativity never tires slacknessss the feeling of the weevil on the crumpled edge of tea packet (white within green) who knows, very slowly dancing, cupboardspeed objects stelled at random moths that fly out                                               ants abstracted by wallets who find new homes through the perfume sprayed on their black hard leaves beside other ants once again shadow flits through the room just before phone vibrates briefly once—°¿ i seem to remember lukács didn’t approve of joyce’s dizzying person-connected fragments. thought with a weevil moth is touching this conversation with the. i performs what it promises developing interior scope for collective experience – jumpings of roomboundness in waking sleep. like imagining p.j.r.e. will invite us lead us out of our rooms one day that radiant thickneck to grant us more and more testo evermore but also yes bat ad-itude attentionspan for the length of leg of attention – & luddism-sharpintakeofbreathism to which the random remarks add something, gunge kept as a pet. “I want my hand held by a cartoon cat thru this time of reticular personal fragmentation and nad resale” i promise at least myself to think about this differently – the play of the dance of its own ernst                 the chutney spicey the big chunks of weapon that they shouldn’t have had, they said THEY wish the moon were green they like everything to smell like its surface (the moon’s) then sweep through, always sweeping through, and we left, to whinge, stretched between the l.e.d. beads of our syllables – who evereven has the energy to find out what they want from us, anymore, when it’s so clear what is wanted from us, ever lie down on the couche, take a bite, touch the vampyr softly in middle of the chest

Sam Langer has published poems in various places, most recently nouvellepoesie.pdf. He wrote Splat (A Firm Nigh Holistic Press, 2016) and Exercise (forthcoming) with Jeroen Nieuwland.
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