Saw your friend on the hangout with friends,
lager cans in their hands, peering down into the fish pond.
In the main, they have their stratagems,
aren’t ready to go, still aren’t ready to be born.
But they’ve got their grouses, their modern ideas are in the science of destruction.
And hanging out in the alley there’s a 5% chance
of maybe just hypergamy.
Where they were standing there was a CIA man the week before.
Came in through Gatwick.
I saw him doing countersurveillance out of my window.
There’s a lot of insider outsider whether it’s the CIA
or you and your friends stuttering to shoot your loads.
The secret American government, their hideout in Warhol’s Factory,
their hideout in the pipes where they recycle homosexual blood,
where the managerialist elite of the Gigafactory Court slosh
over Europe yielding to her middleman unslaked Daddy,
Andromeda Chained to the Rocks,
chained to US Courts.
Only later I find out about that Family Jewels man’s
duplicitous undercover relationship with a Green Peace anarchist.
Fathered three children with her.
Go and scream about it into a megaphone in Hyde Park.
Shut down the Gatwick terminal gates,
stop the Stansted bailout.
Dig up the dead to start the revenant march.
Dig up Caine, Caine’s feet,
we need Caine to lead us far away and toll out
his sledgehammer on our brains.
Watching you on the hangout, I’ve got a very good moral fibre.
I’m not easily fooled.
So much of my time is spent looking out of my window,
watching the hangout not twig what’s going on.
Watching the kids piss on the Union Jack,
film their shoes swirling low-fi, self-indulged, on a
merry-go-round.
Fake meek, fake shy, already revenant.
Let me and my dog eat you.
70-80% of my time is spent indoors.
Reading these old Rupert Crash poems and academic articles.
He wrote endlessly about the dead, the dead not death.
The dead are the Supra Death.
Death with an infectious capacity.
The Dead cannot be left out, unburied,
they are the armament for the revenant world, cut to the bone.
He writes about the desire to touch the corpse.
The Sedgefield family who touch every dead family member and now
never flinch at anything.
80% of time indoors, drinking, drinking, because it’s a waste of time.
Can’t sleep, can’t see anything but the hangout.
All these women’s faces in the newspaper, page 28.
CIA man, the Family Jewels, Bay of Pigs, Kennedy, Watergate.
Rimbaud’s Dancing Hanging Men.
He would have dug them up,
all that retirement was surely a waste of time.
Seeing the world, such a middle class waste.
Drinking six hundred American flavours of sprites at Disneyland,
staying in a log house in Cairo.
It’s hideous educated lovemaking, no matter
if its West Virginian cheeseheads or not.
It’s plugging in to a filtration system, and getting out
the pure, the lack of street, the extinguished froth
that should glide off the end of the mouth,
the shot load that should glide off the mouth,
but instead is just you, spectral, on my street,
contemplating your jism too much, stuttering with it,
living indoors with it, your erotic innerness just needing you.
— Tempest Miller is a writer from the UK. His work has appeared in Bruiser, God’s Cruel Joke, JAKE, Revolution John and elsewhere. He releases a monthly chapbook. His instagram is @tempestm1ller, his Twitter is @Ectoplasmphanta.