Marianne Morris

Females Full of Formulae



The shattered textures begin in rubies unfortunately her curve
has repetition in its clasp, rugged with the last opals
yet unafraid of looking on an apartment,
a set of requirements a
puncturing silhouette.
Slowly error makes an error of laughter
upon the driver. His face is full
of prizes for guessing the correct tragic outcome
dreaming of Russian sun
limbs clench around him to get leverage
code crawling until lapped
no commission for an exploration of violence
yet brought back to earth by the x, y
pulling up on the clutch. Levers grow in the garden, to be guided
by the pixellated hand merged
and submerged listening out for other languages. There is nothing to do in the dark
but be cloaked over, like a dying thing and then unearthed
pounded back to life. That’s how it goes.
Tongue lit by the depressor pad, ragged inhibitions.


+ + +


Visions of a couple
of a couple of aspects of trees
reverberations of hue in lines, crept across but not entirely naked
swept the colours with white gauze, could not be helped from it
from artifice from certainty from allure from imitating pigeons
from imitating cats from making into a creature of water and planning
respectfully, from coming across libations of freedom in stages of planning
the final cloth need not be removed it may be swept aside it
may be torn. Like the certainty created in tubes of fibreglass,
the night will give out gobs of honey (dressed in metal pants)
the violence marked by cities
is an indication of wretched worth more picked upon and ruined
than any bather

oh I swallowed some sure


---+--- -------+-


Teeth hinging on porcelain, cut on them, there they
are again, rubies. For pleasing the nubiles.
Their hands like goats, it’s difficult to resist
the burgeoning trajectory by the
power of loss most forcefully logged
beauty is perjury
particularly for you. I know one whose triumph
goes unnumbered, I have a feel for bottles
for edges, the pliability of the spongy stretch
in between play and waiting for sleep, you are here
drugged in with screw-like force
trim and tighten the sage
so it will grow harder
under you
admit it then, that you like it. Opens your mouth with it
looks upon real estate. All worth is negligible, one only seeks
to throw more and more away
feeling the hips rising to ash and air
the error we share and the blood
is trial by error
and succession and progress and if just in thought it is possible to win.


+--- +


how much must I prove I am willing to lose
the mutated risk, to minimal, loss of nothing
to the bathtub on the deck, to loving
and loving and loving while others wait
blessing them with pronouns and adjectives




Suggestion feels like a predator. Rise and cry
making waste for the purpose
small moments of triumph. That not withstanding
but standing and standing
in fermenting green. My boiling hands
and blood except from sun not from error
not from accident. Pelvis raised from its
flat board (mon amour). Suggestion can be waiting in the grass for as long
as it takes caresses and splinters
into a pit of warmth remaining starving. Suggestion’s anticipation
of the wheels it will be strapped to. We are not a club not a procession.
Not complicity bound or hungered. Not ill witness
to a tortured flesh. Not witness at all. Whose motor. Whose arms.
Who in faith. Repeat the question. I have paper on me.


---‘’-------- --‘’—


Mood of ointment. And the furring green not to speak anymore
of teeth, their wretched subjugation. Eliminating the poles one by one.
They lift their jets they are so
the touch of wood, the smelt of blood on it
has earth with it, keeps earth open to sensation. These
are soapy trials, pushed about in gloom the disappearing juts
of buildings, the tolerated coolness
the unbidding ship. Wilderness. And the ship topples
in its glassy box. Keep under control
the more sensible urges. Padded like locking down
for the rest of the year, body hearth. This all caged together,
no but I am actually serious, by the need invested in me
the troops of daisies and other symbols of plenty. Turbid
noise and everlasting return. How noiselessly provided for
are the roses garnished in my flesh which turn and liquefy.
How do you cope now
with decay, else by biting down heavily. I feel so slowly hunted,
lashings of formula stretching over me.




That is certainly one way to do it. I would tolerate anything
for the spit to be opened. To fashion for myself from wheels
the skills listed, or hunt about accumulating a feel for numbers.
Let me think. No. Death is for sleepers
the peel and slide of their tubed bones over water
the lovers we mutate into. Peaches made of pens. Rubber made
of wire. The latter contingency circling out.
I really loved it. It was a fiction
charged with literacy. I felt the pride of its inception.

The scatter of running oak.

I had started off by being hopeful & now
there is a pointlessness to my omens, sideshow.




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