Issue 7: Duncan White

Pet Dog Dreams

Jack Goldstein died on 14 March 2003 in San Bernadino, California

no one has seen him since

Last weekend I went light-footed and irresponsible

Into the old survival shed and came back with

You can’t have it!  These

map prefigured existences and key in

to coordinates of great health and maturity.  Laika is there

drinking when he’s not there


over how much the valley has changed.   I’d cry too

but I’m not going anywhere

and no one likes a sissy

least of all fans of detailed chronology

of its oncology and cake.  Ever since

that day

I never went out

Without a bag o pins.  Where’d I put that bag o pins? 

Reflex Anamorphic and Other Adventures

The aim being to study responses

Setting out with a body leaning into

Invisible powers under which I  had lost the ease of my gestures

And other marketing tools. ‘I live where I grow’


On the gentle slopes of the

volcano.  Balanced on tiptoe

But much has moved away ‘since’ ‘before’

and suddenly


The only pleasures exist in pinning

What has gone to the feelings that remain.  wilful

as ever

in recording.  no more or less in it

only  a cracked chamber and a fragment

Of outsides


turned into icecream.  Progressing by means of rapid twitching

The great transformations

Of our age

Arrive (with us)

best seen in the trail of destruction

Imitated by each wilted figure

Me and you.  It would often happen

moving between rooms.  It happens when the pictures  

move more than we do

talk more than we do

love more than we do

it never happens

My Dubious Pictures in the Nutty Freedom

The decibels kick



into shape.  The massing

numbers returning

particles like “three hundred billion”

American Gods

setting you free to fall in love

with them.   Along other passages

outside love

 hermits count birds

embracing each impossible instant

for too many unknown



in the faster


fall away without

impression.  The lights go out

and fatter tunes up   

There were so many things

but the only message

out of the fields scraped from the human hillside

it said:

“you get here by stealing”

Processed Food in Realist Theatre

How can I go outside

When I don’t believe in it

Of course

Novels do not make sense it’s why

We make love to them

And ourselves the variants

Coming on like ants out of the distance where they look like ants

The perfect


Who wants to be close to you and far away

Right now!

Delivering carrot juice and salami whatever the cost

Or hour


We are not in this together

I don’t know who I am when I’m with you

You can see more recent work by Duncan White in Jacket 40. He's also published work in Staple, Tears in the Fence and Brittle Star