Blackbox Manifold

Issue 11: Giles Goodland

Whirligig Beetle

We had been watching clouds

make copies of themselves,

a jet-trail like a flaw in an empty glass.

In his small craft sat Lewis, vortician

of the evereverberating rowback. He

shivered his uppermoist pondmotor

torrented those quasilly facetiae

while glossuaries of gigularity

palpitated the aeioulian metallurge

in circumcentric cascades: agoggle

in slapstic plastic spastic wrongoing.

The instantaneous then of the image

clocklocked the clauseway with

our angels, their structures

facefacetted with bifocal touchscreens

fictioning inbeside a leetlet’s

irreverberate waterial, the star

and-start-architecture combined

without pause, metallic fascia

on the pond that is made of eye

rowlocked a lifecycling rushstrokes

of a scribbled throbstance,

paraddling durabble dabbles while

the shade concerning my skin also

moved behind me, and it felt

waterthing is wavewoven wordfold

as, slowly, in the fulness of space

the words destroyed themselves.


Tics, commuters from the dead

clenched woodpiles of sense

extraneous as time is to the objects

on which they hang, rest

stimulessly in skincases with

no ideath but inthings. Stars prickled

with contempt, senses congregated on

the path submitting to night

when the velcrobat climblimbed the stalk

event-managing the fieldedge

under the velluminous evenstar

towards a metastable sepulcer of the umwelt.

Its 12-year moment beclipsed until

one butyric senseme and it skydived

to foothook a mammalian hahair.

Once on the embodily matterhorn

of a trunk it pinheadfed its thinthin

scarsac fulltilted its gramatom

jammed its joycetick in the slurface and

bloodlet a cuplet of globs to

oillwell its invisceral earnout.

Plumplump the doughdoughty roly-

polyp, queen of gloat, aslaked

oblivious bleeding as a corrective

to the bleedingly obvious.

Bladdered & quasilazy it eggdropped

embodily and teetered tickstock.

By the otherity infeasted in me (it spoke)

grotund dustrust of the foreheadow

I fuelfilled the clandestiny nonthing

for future acts of poetry

fullupped on bloodmeal, I

resisted language almost surceasefully.


Pigmyhop to the uninundated forestshore.

Seathedge the farthom that

holds the line against weed.

An infirmament of motile forkfolk

is heavening its leaflitteral tidalities

in weaved seasonglong: beach

flee, fission farthunder,

feast on edge of defalted bladders

& shredded casettetape

orasif to skipjack the unshore

in seaspraysprung piles. Dodgy pop

ups shore the undisonant

oozeless. There opined my

mouths and cry over spilt mind, in

the driftline of kneehigh scab,

timeuntidy eledgelies of feelbitten

foretime. All my jokes came true

the clouds out of breath

loose a trace against time.

O shards inside the dream awaken

complicate the language on

the brittle shore where text exceeds

meaning and sea is spokes

woman for the dead, cross

grain the seassaulted unboundaries

when I get to the borderline

fleckflock an antirational flapflup

saltate the surfface, the wrack

undersand we ununderstand

wereyou whitherwave the witherwells.


An elemeltary cryptengine trembules
in rappleture, sifting sunlight,

descensory, geostationary, throwinging

the howeaver thether hoverovering

wherover overflying the floweather,

a nerverse peroration windhoovering

distinguised in listiness of appleture

to airsupport the abacusbeadhead

as if my life depended

birds can’t catch the rhythm

intermindable in flexicolor

the motionblur in uprose.

To heal the sunset tilt the earth

share between daylights

a scrupulous clubtongue

as clouds climbdown ropes of water

to hustle shadows under the appletree

nerverending the mindsounds

in vespiform prevocative as

the sun crashes in flames

images leak from air as on a broken

laptopscreen a crack breathes sky

through many kinds of light

touchwhich the timerich

philophosphor deleuzes the errorplane

of interporetation, its accessorized

undercarriage, its farawry eyefilm.

Giles Goodland's latest book of poetry is Dumb Messengers from Salt, before that was Gloss from Knives Forks & Spoons Press.