Issue 31: Oli Hazzard





Now shall I continue telling about the growth of finger memory as is my preference

or be live-dated by a recent day of memory placement that this person

(meaning “individual head blockage”) moved from such a conversation (which I,

a person, spend fearing) to finding why finding the term “memorable” was the joke


as with the interior, the social time indicator, the face like good parents I knew

daydreaming for us constantly an employer, a substance somewhere

goodnight nature world, the existence hymn of enough watching machinery

its language will part purposefully, gently part or even end up partly hoping


for visible place spots, blotting as cloud-cover the encounter which eases

public re-enactment and is still towing about for a punch in the middle-soul

or even panic in pleasure, even if what pleasures anyone is to be an absolute

face which inward-turned calls forth, mother-more-unique, such a face


who expressionless to this maquette is drawn, then, as location, as place-

name, since each object kind object has purposelessness, an air of only on-air

impossible wildlife, since it could pencil whole an installation of the time

before this moment and I still wouldn’t know how to find you





To advance this letter then I developed a fear of even qualifying for morning

and outside temporary opposition everywhere is peak actual just songs I quote

another dream world, but hand I’m censure, the football-haunted pronoun

and it is our feet, our burrowing scepticism, pulsing in the speaking


room with like people and group consequence, hallucinating why the work

in failure would never continue to would, since opinions, but with whips

the even matter was parted, taken down, on and on, the checking course

on which we have gone, the distance, their holding—what—and its story


like external footage blended, exaggerated and one, preferably mother

feels around the interior, our actions as turns, things, and even conditions

does my object blue his fingers, that disappointment, fine long like suddenly yourself

brushed you, and through the unhappy compromise if u text me


winning moments of art, the white responding it could make me itself

caught an itch which, one awful, struggling episode, stretched beyond 5pm

very what’s accepted, very safely braided ago, the dusty hope when equivocating

is to feel something to a present not at extent, where the world shelves the tiny you





Nature is my office, then, fill the blush in, see how Rousseau punches

a nation-state sculpture sense of reading this about the punch coming more

sweetly in time, teach it, mother, turn it through some whoever velvet,

that moment (which, from central expertise, a window “supposedly immediately


opens on”), remembering the July anecdote as the tough bit now of nearby sadness

that spikes an experience into you, and might even make a serious friend of it—

a light mood yet hardly lavish—so to have contrived something

I was certain I found up to confirm the embarrassment of an injury painted on


borrowed panic which was darkness registered or simply made giant by drinking

the openness of which, against woods and sense-period placed,

permits no pics but of clauses spreading, a fictive grey,

a severity I didn’t know as my own, poor reflective thing


and yet sitting double leader of my incapable section, forensically mounting

the hidden sky, become from the forty-minute mark standard disclosure

to finally giving in at a story of unusual being which so repels, even I,

considering the mood of it, struggled then to get up and say





For there were lived minutes and apparent rooms, existed out genuinely

at which my decision or that as a child, a holding to account, or film of how life is

a memory when it’s asleep, images I lens detectably confirming perhaps

the struggle of reading when cut thinking it, terminology rendered as if of work


one feels the pain, since really largely necessary like the utopian Lord airport

whose misfortune I feel answers roots somewhere many assemblies down

this being, not the small pain of it, just up and evaporated on the basic air

as if wonder is by environment, thorn and sleeve, its book sense extended


the particular Henry ribbon corner song of wandering away

that’s really about the leave feeling, such as yes you may dress the absolute worst

but nor could our technological couple who hum the centre to keep

intimacy placidly smiling as the thing, the little strangeness


replacing the wince explanation like the actual maybe of couple think

as explanation about keeping the sentence meat clear

while our son levels

us with the new-found thirty thinking (while you cry)





And after actually recalling when desire had left a suspect vent

such powerless accuracy, feel, suppose, what the love idea is sometimes

the exhaustive insurance with phantom leads, as of wonder, of which

the discomfort, unexpectedly—and I among material over-appeared,


a slowly perceived outfit trying the best copy-and-paste general joy

which powers pragmatically past to an original felt in ourselves, a reproduction,

dark retrieval, someone to explain living never gone though, secretly or felt

in summer, cumulatively, your presence, stranger sequence, actual present night


holding referendum time, still when substantially, remember, elaborating

hard memories of shopping, completely, for a single-syllable atmosphere

and all it ended up was being of dreams, the picture becomes a boring time thing

an overly eccentric evening, with night incrementally perceptible


around the sky’s heels, says key feeling of luminous melting

because my touching there’s meaning I gratefully experience life,

phenomenon of a guess portal as deep surface only with whispering—

minor day crimes, yes, but friends, Tuesday has a time foothold





So since I text Caboto and pretend you’d rate me as a sensual world

he dropped a pin on Neptune, the centre cell

upskilling the interior into obtrusively confessing to having prepped a cool soliloquy

an eleventh free fiction of an animating European hesitation among pyramids


first introduction to deterioration modulated to taking Amanda’s memory

of a retreat from an OK job in a hard-feeling way (it’s been such a Monday

that the footage, the lives, during which the clearly different on camera

are at eye-level aware of being conscious of having felt violated, have been coming to


or *at* me when it’s dark, changed, as someone I know only by the flicker of exposure

of their intent to sense via annual semifrantic holiday hate agony escalations

—not that through which a still moral is streaked consistently—becomes

suddenly invested in growing my soul, lengthy excursions on the PlayStation,


why flaws in football’s self-consciousness—the authoritative “somehow” of it—

mapped itself pristinely as I would be, laying bare a system of reluctance

to the going harmony, the e-fitness, the contrafactum of the it

turning beautiful at last, the consequence of which is where we begin





Yet in the interest of performance April kept flouting scene convention

a distant tapping, the cancelled promontory seen moving content secretly back into space

like disgust banging out golden shapes just off page, yet smiling was still my thing,

the rhomboid strikes as exact as somedays someone says sure Catholicism


or I should’ve been a space achilles, and the solid earner is to want completely

my us, our me, all lives wanted alive for plants are merely for magic-eye

since won’t is now in my would skiff, then just suppose with yr million position hat on

the smaller me as a trope of detection, light crackling from the rhythm in misunderstanding


like, I note, when an hand seems to be saying something possibly most tainted

in unusual metres it becomes signatory of a permanent shape

surfaces present as internal owing to

their appearance as a series of lines we face patterned up the playground wall


like have fuck, can order, will nail walking my time backwards through the changed book

world, since you're duration, a stretch for the internet, unique false overgrowth

of the eye having brunch in the sketchiest west hand embarrassed wife creation

who cannot get this synonymous, cannot shake it: sexy plant consciousness





Thousands of slightly altered Williams whipped it like that

where writing sounds its distance, schools time

the general after-ache of etymology boomering down the mysteriously postponed

explanation of pleasure in polite recognition of my clearly actually changing


and you, across a vast room

seem like a fresh opportunity to fail to write,

to spill the song

embarrassingly, which with that much more and talking exactly he might


earn as pleasure, like learning in the direction of another speed to Latin

allowing through the redwood, touching an equilibrium of story dots

(it is partly my non-feeling for visible things controlling me, leaves me vaguely striving

in my bedroom, imagining how R’s trouble guides the darker passages


or getting pristine through self-obliviousness), further extracted couple ruptures

deflate the concrete and I racket I’d ribbon out through the work window

having no Spanish one night I put forward a motion to self to “get to Cairo”

so said alcove, so celestial suburb, so skin in which I’ve contrived to semi-live





Ten further uncertainties go ahead sighing at the infrastructure

turning meat into cloud so I had something to think this morning

still I weather the designed feeling, proceed to recommend my leg

extends North so that I may begin retracting it by Christmas—as our 2013 specialist


of the unable torso in middle-age I’m the first to feel intensely lucky

to touch Rousseau’s commercial person, yet my conversation

including the larger realm of daydream directly tells me of winning wires of guilt

taped alive throughout the memory card, forever—out of such shape-shifting


widened draining moments of intensest self-alarm is cleared a bunch of sockets

to seem annoyed we’re at the Olympics in, where my most hollow-seeming versions

seem suddenly very persuasive to one another, dramatised figments

of whatever knowledge remains happy-disastrously unavailable


on the subject of these meagre feelings, and as deferentially I’m then to mean anything to anyone

can that problem think me there, present on a criticism hill—

if all were peculiar, a promotional dream-world, and accurately

notional, yes, a pitching keyboard is exact work (which existing causes)





Crab lab hack, meet familiar world man

triggering objects, advertising a moon

erected as unhappy authority projected towards background night space

overtaken by the fictionalise department, a present frozen


by a crayon on the air, thank u, ash stub, surprising with some new expressive pattern

angling for response from your organ-tree, touched, only lightly, line-by-line,

with a set of striking passwords—input and unexpectedly forgot—lacing the hours

with potent feelings of self-worth about capacity to master the room tone syllabus


dropping a naturalness crisis surge, until I would find myself asking

would I be surprised to be too embedded in this documentary

state to recognise my own lie, to put that German suit on to bask

in the vivid logic of the solar block broken by the barn yarn


to conclude a thin childhood recalled on horseback

via a superimposed diagram—the folkloric

slow hallucination of the light, maybe my parents

specifically arming me to be at the enormously crucial detail suddenly quite alert





The terrible thing is to have made of him a book—or to have pressed undeterred

though a room of non-knowledge always there yet mostly presumed to be “off”

towards an unhelpful clock directed at it, “the whole”—only to experience

stage two of this environment, environment Z, too abruptly, the insertion


of which phenomena in my daydream slog instantly normalises everything

and leaves only faintly especially ourselves, a “skim-read” sensation finding its antonym

as cast-iron daylight toggling its doubt finger, crowning art as the major hobby era

as though warmth for others were simply a doubling of obtuseness, a television


I attack with a fork (time to admit, Rousseau, the form my defence of Things

took: the redwood was about to mulligan it)

like a failed interviewee, meaning in the life hour I sit alone drawing

in the culture of morning light, my jacket releasing previously closed-off


art whispers and dimensions, here, mastering my experiencing style,

the clauses of feelings fresh and familiar, and what else is there to detect in regard to their source

but functional generosity, an in-house hygienic horror, publications like

“my reason for doing things,” 335 Modern proper thoughts





Inevitably I became extremely well-read in Renaissance screaming

and so translated: “Great path, I was recently promoted

to writing generation T, where Progress terminated Dance, and from my ledge looked back

at your staring wounds with the poise of a Sundial, taking in the old program


because my year timelines me into autofictional schedule 6 (fear of discrepancy)

with a shocked sense that my own, speak it, selfhood, had been solicited to tell

of some forty dreams of sick air responsible for a funded green fashion height feeling

of brittle happiness on a social hill which the flats around, displaying unflustered constituents


of resolution, of 10-minute truly meant ideas which imagine the heat of

a multimillenial infodump to hold, to be beheld, permitted me to be plugged into the someone

who, as all know, knows all about the importance of writing

at particular fortress locations, the general importance of safety writing


from the scene of the fact pipe on highways closing in on us,

as living blurs us, flimsier, makes us seem but that we live only careless lives

implied ever since by history, in so small a role the dots

used to denote them were as fanfic to the so-called longstanding theory of unassailability





The thousand-language chore of extracting stuff from forgetfulness

is my office, then, colour the essay in, let our head interiors

touch to position the spotlight on the increasingly fatalistic toddler

who argues powerfully through an off-key melody


for the jovial texture of batshit relations, for the pleasure

of live-drawing in sceptical company—sometimes I want to be overheard exhaustively

like a relaxed coward, cartoonish as a ribbon on a soliloquy wind, yet still well-thought-of

as though alert to the at-any-moment call for total interior re-enactment


as a series of disembodied caveats, loops of sunlight

doodled on the polished floor which moves everyone at the loop recall funeral

a response I like, but, mum, it seems time that thousands and a few things

Monday expressed by spilling such evidence of blackout non-seriousness


must follow me down the spilled seo architecture

towards the fat, bottle-green moment of medieval Tokyo, shone and buffeted

by large wings of anger and nervousness

the shook spot, chequered with hesitation, where I stay





The day knew the course, slightly angling towards the moment

when I lower my eyes, and the abrupt blankness of 1000 things

(these explanations of how I am what I am and why)

vibrates with a mischievous intensity, as if knowing it’s being looked at


untangles into a promise of simplicity

a tangle of simplicity which binds the environment you’ve built around you

averaging out the fabrications, the decent freedoms

the social concepts which harden like a diamond


when their permanence is questioned, a question formed under the massive pressures

of regrets shifting slightly violently over epochs

how I dream of you, anxious, in which your seemingly-infinite indifference

to my discomfort wounds like a live crime


delicately implied, a cryptic reference to this bearable skin, felt disaster

roaming in the hope of historical love on the good ship my face

literally a few lovely days, a consequence of murder,

where these people are quiet as they repeat their explanation





To advance then this perverse investment in the skies’ continuation

I fact-check the script, underline Irrawaddy for a leisure google

feel the jigsaw of the minute assemble itself

as a stomach panic complexes into a series of narrow moods


I will wave off laterally through the lukewarm night—vintage May

season of magnetic decision-making, of imagined holy fucking

as though desire were a spy fluid, an overly agreeable thing

badly translated from the unhappy, surging like a delayed joke


to electrify a pronoun and be immediately ostracised: something

the eyes cancel as bad font, recalled product of disorganised commercial thinking

that pulls you together into a direction, towards the hole where the mosaic turns,

homesick for loneliness—tossing parts in the tub


frightened to stay alive, the misdirections leave their own precipitate

a glittering campaign of counter-assumptions

surely a day for intimacy, for infraction

for hurt to feel common, unknown





But shall I continue telling about an actually inconsistent state

a “bubble” overrun with melochemical elaborations, not even a finger's depth

only baroque, childish balustrades, brusque examples of global pain

in memory uniform which become in delay combination a trick pleasure


a Germanic dream-world or provincial glass structure, lit from within

by the infinite ocean—a stage for innocuous, ethical days,

where happiness’s a soundless calendar by which to trace the jargon

incurred by fluency this morning—that’s the kink, decision’s shingle


that I mid basic, asleep in pieces, slurried in the technical morning

felt as do-able, where I do the loving at you

in briskly decorated open dream secret

and yet I’m still only capable of laughing nervously, C, what is it


to be following in spiral a precise point as the basin drains

towards a blanket powerout in the iris of the Earth

a memory of a nice feeling motioning my hand in disbelief

to a point, a precise point towards which these objects now stream

Oli Hazzard is the author of three collections of poetry, Between Two Windows (Carcanet, 2012), Blotter (Carcanet, 2018) and Sleepers Awake (Carcanet, 2024), and a novel, Lorem Ipsum (Prototype, 2021).  

Copyright © 2023 by Oli Hazzard, 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