by A. Pseudonym

Asphalt underfoot black mashed rock

and the flat of the shoe strikes it without

thought of forewarning there is no stream

of consciousness only the moment disconnected

from the next as I am writing each word without

linkage or pause for consideration of appropriateness

to see what comes of it but perhaps

that seeing is the linking, the afterthought that comes before?

we will see, I suppose, when the lines end and the thought decides


to be finished with itself

and is this poetry - an eruption of something once spilled called “self”

not craft or carving according to design but instead some primal object

that spins itself like a spider's web (there I did pause to collect an image)

and is moved string to string by the emergence of lengthening lines not content, only geometry, rules that come out to give order but have no purchase on the game that is played in their spite this is Wittgenstein

I am copying, the worst of fears, this is Bloom, the anxiety of influence

apparently inescapable as you as I can see from the production

emerging in this space and now is it coming to an end

the angles seem to be indicating as much, and

(that and, just to make things even) and

parentheses just for effect, and

I will now denote the finish

place the qualifying period

look at the shape here

is it not pleasing

to the eye