Issue 30: Dom Hale

Purgatory for Angels


for J.G.



I woke up and the earth was still there.

by the tollhouse, robinslang


           out the half-shut mouth

of a little kid, that doesn’t make sense to me, click-a-clay


leathered in kerosene. all these unfinished pieces.


                           they crashlanded in a plane with their dad.


the poem says to be counterintuitive, the dinted willows show


millworker who abandoned the mill.


                                                                        how the atoms

                                                                        wend, partly, hyperhale to you


sprawl to a keystep, over on my head, trainers

like two questions to the abyssal



cos every day it accrues,                                        the

cash pressurelure, to make pigs out of pennedness

ourselves in drill-delving

                           a set of explosions christened dominations 


I didn’t fancy summarising whatever some rep

thinks our ‘problems’ should be


                                     that’s just journalism, its social work

one day the shaving mirror’s got to be kicked in.



description, critique even

                            don’t always scoot us away from the teachout


shits clear and no garlanding. else dug, king

saves a god, blanks me, streams



winsome bubble, metamorphic beat


and in the same second ticked clarity bombs…

body armour, cams, faultline walk

I’m not trying to cope or

                                   console. I won’t care about the handsome.


now ‘saviourism is kerb-ditching’

now ‘the angle of inclination of his creatureliness’


english is horrible. but we can raze

heads w/ it, contort it using inlet farrago 

jink on jink


contested air. tapehiss. your moves

                                     respire in spiral fastness


teaching as a way to tread & wander

as a way to learn (sheerly) like a dead lang rings for you


so screw duty.

                           it’s the pourboire


                           gunmetal crossing, TV telos,            leave

                                                    triumph to the conquerors.


am no miner, I piss about in frosty grass

cold quarry lakes

               indivisibly, off-root


that dizziness sends me

windchime back to others


                                      it’s the impasse hurls us

                                                                                       but we vamp



                                     ‘Well how can that be fair at all’

                                                                   TALK TALK



Circling the square                    it flick spoke like struck me

            you forge your own chatter

for gridiron surround soundings  

That’s our corn language

                                   omadawn       yap yaffle, it’s where

we feel brought, temp Stoke Newington sunspot

         Commodious scowl dusk squeaks

                                                                         in the deem drift

                           consuming scales of murder

where formula airs end w a gasp                           thorn northed

         in the footer, time to get off the internet you lot

Time was when stoked October

                             together piss wet that mad cow

sin in the vale                              freak’d

         tongue-and-eye trance like the only

                                                                          cosmic vision of a long past

                       oral tradition worth haggling with

hey presto

                                                 so Avril bee

                                                                                   combs May Day

The rolling fields grow dark as the grave

Prefer this shadiness

                                   yen to steep across decoration

             winged stylus you indicated crated   

                                                 behind winding copse

destroy the herder

                                 flame handle

         when I was sunk in soddening prosody

                                                                         or down yon dowie den

In those heaven eras out of the flat took starrish nerve

whacked from hollow sociality in

                            fantasy of the rightminded

                                                          bought wings                           got me back

Seek to do it all now weir ways

                                                                      necker guide

         dissolve us in usurpation fleshes, ouroboros

patience leads on to dandelion doolally

                             glanceturned into a sandstone pillar

                                                         Will singe whiteheads, singe the

rich crowd, ruthless unit seraphim

first hint of psychic

                             distress to be ditched, mockingbirdily

for the next rung                  A flower juts onto

I take no ownership of just methods                          is mask posy

undoing a talk as we grove go

                                     trio bluethroats unhanged in Angleterre

         innards doused to wreck & dust

and necropolis on ahead.

                                                          That the missiles fall nonspecifically

the slaughterhouse bil. songs most at home in

                             paveway to stormshadow  

to blessèd professional-

                                          ised iris                 ay gloats madcapstone

                                                         needs taunting

           amassing for institutional status

Lam that                                         noise us into the gutter loit

how not to shore up the catarrh, this

                              vent sanction

                                                       chimes hovelly                  Tom Mann

countersinging from

        his bare anthill, link lost, doled through doldrumfire 

Screen bills are great mimics

                                     have their xeriscape

in the well-copped ozone shield

I thanked everybody.                           I always made

an awful bowsprit, regiments of

                            slicks            delude them, deludding                           I am

                                                                        upup over the heath shear sailing


The century is after us. It might be

        you dont ever find the love you crave in the exterior world

                                     subsecrecy & last impressions

poem builds it out for                                  dipped night naysaying

The life of one of us alone can’t claim that

                             reverence    dignified drey vantage

Yeah, youll finish the espresso

        yeah art’s a setup

                                     but antelistening trills transformation

in the depths of forest

mumbling among ‘entities’  

                                                    Who was I speaking at? Or to, even


the foals of Agincourt. Moi. We solitary

                                       route. Continuing chestnut

        to daub & drool                                                   was touched

by presentmindedness

                                                                         chronicle after the mushroom bothy

or wreak in tongues

                              slash send a postcard

Now a world from our sponsors, your name for poison

        gift           presses for profit

flayed like a satyr

                                                  in the blanched corrie

Prussian blue sky thought

Starbank Park attracted via

                                        giving music back to bloodletters

careering for fame

                            while bird lips                   streak stark news

The click upturns

                                                      in top-down swipe architecture. Got it.

Machine learning sly out-

sourced to ghosts

                                      another term for live

I eat my offal

        composition on stolen time

                                                         vied offlane 

Cry servants who won’t transcend themselves

                                                                                       are setting awkward fires

escape in fabrication 

        which is the same utensil as staying here holding your mum’s head


                               The street whips into its promise

                                                           and I don’t only sketch, record it, exhibit

my ragged symptoms, but play a twin-wren part in the phenomena

        no less or more              reefed, measuring my

                                                                          splitness in how we steal away &

                             hide or cradle our own impasse

when it stings like fuck                                          stimrhythm for the unloved

        And soil latterly

                                     am I surviving a tortured lie

                                                                                      carbon clouds

sissonne in that unglamorousness

                                                                        old dependency, knead-high skip

        as the functions start to fail

                                                         but it isnt inevitable yet

and I don’t have to do that                                              ach for my twitch couriers

                            Spoon ran back with the dish

                                                                       killing competition in its fused heart

black hole flock

cos rhyme’s a cloak to wash ensign bitters

                                                       mountainous devildoubt

Will the aside float down

                             on the ley, this countrys too sucked for us

Cold, massacred horizon

                                        A poet’s technique

                                                                                   is glacé-voiding

                                sea ice note

                                                         in commonplaces             chirrup hunger

I love Hyatt for writing no        

                                                                         on the evenings I perceive it


A wicker cot missed by lightning

full of shit.

                          The angel’s role in enchainment

empyreal Pyrenees                                    burnt capped hearse 

        heard empires collapse

                                     like jambs to the laughter

Amazon warehouse raked in dead light.

Which lingua franca I’m voicing now. Vague wand

                            at the terminal moraine of Investopedia  

        riotfeeder                blackberry stains on a tomb

                                 get fucking yeeted beyond solace in the reprisals.

I only twinge for myself                     but am severe veering

                             for the turnkey

w what the abyss speaks

a fleck desecration over true melos

        quiver among oblong

                                     constructions & the buds’ brownfield.

At the antisolar point.

                              And hey, kingdom delight

                                                                         is sea-surrendered since

gone Naples

                                                         12hour monologue about your property

I wish it underwater

                             jack in the summit                             toll harlequin

                                     The future’s risoed & pairs well with our tartare

Snare. Shack fit. Tilt

                            zero consolation. No harmony of the provinces.

                                                        Swan life is ecstatic.

Just the spectral

         shattertruth of my attacked corpsing, wage reptilian sky

tinctures the insane boomerang

I embrace to the remnant

                                        like a partner in time

                                                                                      God bless thy lungs, goodnight

Dom Hale's work has appeared recently in Lana Turner, Protean, and Happy Birthday?, and his latest pamphlet of poetry is called Seizures (Gong Farm, 2022). He helps to edit the press Just Not and the magazine Ludd Gang, and co-organises a hardship fund for poets at

Copyright © 2023 by Dom Hale, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author