FLOTILLA: a cut up
She was made into a cruise ship
costly to operate, a luxury item
she transitioned easily
sailing from San Francisco
with a vessel of steel, spit and polish
for royalty, heiresses & industrialists
—a fire broke out
a vulnerability particular to cruise ships
she was left burned out &
hollow for decades
became top-heavy and rolled
steeping debts with no destination
she found sister ships
scorched and corpse-like:
a flotilla of fire boats
‘beyond economic repair’
deemed unseaworthy. And so
they were sent to a scrapyard
where non-life turns into life
rebuilt from creaking hulls
forming an autonomous entity
of the last intact from a once mighty fleet
who were gutted and rebuilt for cruising
the ship gazed ahead through decades
of reeming and neglect, horrified by her origins
she was then found by a buyer
they renamed her DREAMBOAT
she wept
We don’t have to save rulers in spite of us.
their desire of ships slowly shapes me
oblivion is their ruling passion, a passageway engulfed
by contradictions of material life and various controls of dead time
once again morning in the same seas
that which should be abolished continues...”
malice formed
invisible cannons broiled
nets were cast and so was
a desire for retaliation
she talked with herself
as the dead whispered for their release through
a wind of chemical agents and projectiles
“I’m sifting through the trash to find out
what’s to be done. Reformism isn’t enough—
the logic of the commodity system
sustained by alienated practice must be answered
there are ruptures of time in each insurrection—
a strategy that sparks mutinous
moments at ever-closer intervals
to really describe this era—what would be the point? Better to grasp
the totality of what’s been done and what remains to be done
the transformation of the world becomes akin
with the assemblage of life.”
Moods of the ocean change
living things brutalized
appear in the sea. Nobody knows quite how
the day will shatter the night beneath its wheels
sails billow before gentle winds, through airy groves
withstanding the onslaughts of fire, lightning,
disease, drought and crushing snows
a dry, wild wasteland of folded hills
a road to Nowhere follows
costly to operate, a luxury item
she transitioned easily
sailing from San Francisco
with a vessel of steel, spit and polish
for royalty, heiresses & industrialists
—a fire broke out
a vulnerability particular to cruise ships
she was left burned out &
hollow for decades
became top-heavy and rolled
steeping debts with no destination
she found sister ships
scorched and corpse-like:
a flotilla of fire boats
‘beyond economic repair’
deemed unseaworthy. And so
they were sent to a scrapyard
where non-life turns into life
rebuilt from creaking hulls
forming an autonomous entity
of the last intact from a once mighty fleet
who were gutted and rebuilt for cruising
the ship gazed ahead through decades
of reeming and neglect, horrified by her origins
she was then found by a buyer
they renamed her DREAMBOAT
she wept
We don’t have to save rulers in spite of us.
their desire of ships slowly shapes me
oblivion is their ruling passion, a passageway engulfed
by contradictions of material life and various controls of dead time
once again morning in the same seas
that which should be abolished continues...”
malice formed
invisible cannons broiled
nets were cast and so was
a desire for retaliation
she talked with herself
as the dead whispered for their release through
a wind of chemical agents and projectiles
“I’m sifting through the trash to find out
what’s to be done. Reformism isn’t enough—
the logic of the commodity system
sustained by alienated practice must be answered
there are ruptures of time in each insurrection—
a strategy that sparks mutinous
moments at ever-closer intervals
to really describe this era—what would be the point? Better to grasp
the totality of what’s been done and what remains to be done
the transformation of the world becomes akin
with the assemblage of life.”
Moods of the ocean change
living things brutalized
appear in the sea. Nobody knows quite how
the day will shatter the night beneath its wheels
sails billow before gentle winds, through airy groves
withstanding the onslaughts of fire, lightning,
disease, drought and crushing snows
a dry, wild wasteland of folded hills
a road to Nowhere follows
Closet Drama
Ah—new page I can wander
again without mention of that
last thought, which reminded
me of death.
people want to talk to me for about two seconds
before I give them what they want, said the employee,
moaning with fatigue. Tonight we’re
stirring the bubbles from a deathwish,
What is it that ignites the death drive?
Asked an intern. It’s very specific, you’ll know it
when you smell it, said the employee, and the intern
sighed and the employee said: I love you very much,
don’t you forget that, my life depends on you, so don’t
leave me or you’ll extinguish us both.
Tonight our dissatisfaction is mutual, and my attention’s
fractured, and whenever I try to think a thought
someone interrupts it from surfacing. Yes, said
the employee, and people will keep buying posters
whether we’re here or not, but tonight’s the same tedious labor
as last night’s, and I’ve said dumb things tonight—
I know, said the intern—thumbing a postcard of hydrangeas.
I would gift you a bunch as fresh as the morning
if it might move you to leave with me, said the employee.
They walked out together and remained invisible,
while everyone on the gentrified avenue kept browsing
and eating ice cream, ringing themselves up for new
hardbacks containing popular themes of justice.
again without mention of that
last thought, which reminded
me of death.
people want to talk to me for about two seconds
before I give them what they want, said the employee,
moaning with fatigue. Tonight we’re
stirring the bubbles from a deathwish,
What is it that ignites the death drive?
Asked an intern. It’s very specific, you’ll know it
when you smell it, said the employee, and the intern
sighed and the employee said: I love you very much,
don’t you forget that, my life depends on you, so don’t
leave me or you’ll extinguish us both.
Tonight our dissatisfaction is mutual, and my attention’s
fractured, and whenever I try to think a thought
someone interrupts it from surfacing. Yes, said
the employee, and people will keep buying posters
whether we’re here or not, but tonight’s the same tedious labor
as last night’s, and I’ve said dumb things tonight—
I know, said the intern—thumbing a postcard of hydrangeas.
I would gift you a bunch as fresh as the morning
if it might move you to leave with me, said the employee.
They walked out together and remained invisible,
while everyone on the gentrified avenue kept browsing
and eating ice cream, ringing themselves up for new
hardbacks containing popular themes of justice.
H.N.G.
H.N.G. is a poet and collagist living in San Francisco. They were born in San Mateo and have worked as a bookseller at Logos, Analogue, Moe’s, City Lights, Dog Eared & Alley Cat Books.