Alina, This arrives perhaps out of order on the website, depending on who laps whom in these last few days of our project. It arrives definitively out of order in that it's an excerpt from a longer thought, one which I can only hold in my head as a collection of pleasant phonetics. No clear speaker, no clear POV, no clear expression of no clear feelings—what is this poem? I'm sick and I don't get it. I've read through the whole book thrice in the year since I got it and each time I was sick, each time I reached for it instead of the doctor. It's made of a cool material that I don't understand. It dissolves a little bit at a time into the water. Love, Thomson (Pathetic Tower is available from Make Now, 2014)
text:
from Pathetic Tower, section 2. or must change of knife, find a new thicket to hack through as a wall of jackets blocks the elevated library and men spread out to fiddle with the mechanism labour jacked but not falling out, what the riot when it comes off is— efforts just revolting note in smooth subtle breakfast colours, incomplete but suggestive outlines of equivalence/minimal ideas like cell bombs one is for every high theory of economy childhood meats early account of a tablet, political blow two boyfriends swap categories (mince) brief future pledge stops and footholds, incise or incisors fillets and snappings/teeth-bound or mesh right there in hazel pants, body surrounded by dogs projected by a temporal sequence lit in different colours write like a menu
