Edinburgh, September 2015 (26th)
I turned left towards a close-cobbled tangent
off George IV Bridge’s immaculate sentence.
In front were two boyfriends,
American accents lilting
like the afternoon sun,
beards a chocolate pattern
on coffee. The both-ness of them,
each looking in wonder upwards
at the Old Town, the curving possibilities
here. That’s why I love you, Right said
to a comment I and everyone else
was not part of, arm curving round Left’s
waist. Encompassment. Then Left said
(approximately, slurring as if drunk
on his own emotion)
I read there is four parts to the act of saying
I love you To feel To think To say To react
And during this short time the feeling of guilt
comes in and makes me feel bad for you
when you say I love you Because that guilt
underlines everything Do you understand
The boyfriend smiled. Benign navigator. No,
sorry. Left was left wide-eyed. Right took Left
in his arm and there was an understanding
even if it is never understood. I remember
my train back home was past the way, so
left these protagonists I wanted to follow
forever at a splitting road. Left.
Right. Church in the middle.
I can relate to Left, wondering what it means.
Musica Universalis in the Balance Hole
mass is composed of
yummy gingerbread s’mores.
Chunks of the dense weight within
evenly distributed, so the sphere
travels in a gentle curve.
Because they can use its movements,
adjust their form
or equipment choice,
tweak its performance
to read the oil pattern.
If they avoid
a low center of gravity,
the mass in
near the curve
rolls as well.
The Phaze III’s green core is
creating a hook,
allowing this sphere to
sharply swing from the edge.
The rotational forces
typically removes 3 or 4 ounces of
Roll with fewer,
firmly grip the lane.
with high density, and
with less spin.
Inside the intense
the red bulges
into the blob’s bumps,
without majorly changing.
The crimson disk called;
even for those who throw
revolutions per minute;
for a strike
that concentrates heft at the center.
For the competition
will more aggressively
help swing the globe.
Despite the weird shape,
divots in the
still ensures a nice
behavior generated by
The Sure Lock’s bright
on its bottom.
Drilling finger holes:
if they bore
toward the center,
weight block helps
add more curve
to their shots,
similar to the way
their finger holes
the orb’s trajectory.
The Optimus’ symmetrical core
increases friction once it hits
the model’s heavier versions.
On a lane during practice. and then
through its impact
with the pins,
the cover couldn’t
into the surface of this ball.
Thanks to that silver circle,
a weight block in this roller is
changing how the globe rolls.
begin whirling faster,
back to center in slippery
The extra rotations
Uneven rotational forces
making them more likely
to knock out others.
known as the slug
wouldn’t be able to influence
Taller than it is deep, and heavier,
will crash through
just after a bowler releases
Up to 16 pounds
pins with more force
when they tuck in their arms
leave room for digits.
Pros call this a
And just for fun,
Alpha Crux’s blue core
infuses some balls with a
heavy iron oxide.
Those design decisions create
the asymmetrical chunky green
material that can include
scent. This one smells like
Composed by re-ordering phrases found in ‘The insides of pro bowling balls will make your head spin’, by Stan Horaczek, Published Jul 27, 2020, on popsci.com.
The Celebrity–Industrial Complex
I have lived my entire life with fame
as its object. You only die when the last
person forgets you. My public appearances
are timed for maximum impact. When I travel,
I let the local police know that there
may be disturbances. That’s how much
chaos a great figure can introduce into
the world. I have a room for honours bestowed
by institutions and gifts sent by school classes,
a system of stackable bins for frenzy-thrown
underwear. It is important to self-conceive
as a phenomenon, otherwise you will be
setting yourself up for life as a runty little mortal,
like a panther accidentally born in a human hospital.
Beyoncé, the BTS lads, Neymar, Silvio Berlusconi,
those sorts of people get where I’m coming from.
Oliver Wendell Holmes said that fame
is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold.
He said this in a dismissive way, but he wrote
books you find in the third-best antique shop
in a holiday town and a poem about seafood,
so I’m going to ignore him. Ignore the haters
and everything left over is gravy, and if I have
more haters than there are teaspoons in Yorkshire,
well, I guess there’s only so much popular acclaim
you can expect as a dendrochronologist.
Everything I know about the economy
I learned from my study of
cinnamon challenge videos
where the only way to succeed
is to convince people that your performance
of an impossible task
is worthy of views and support
that your sputters are authentically agonised
that the brown-red cloud you expel
at high speed
is a new form of particular knowledge
particular as in concerning particles
particular as in unique to you
and only after
inexpressible criteria have been applied
and you (hopefully) haven’t died
do you find out if you excelled
or if you’re just another subject
gasping for water in a suddenly
parched and hostile landscape
The Australian Gannet Model of the Cosmos
On all fours, I crawled up the rocky sea-fronting cliff to reach the guru to get the advice to set my mind at ease about the world. All exhausted at the top, I heard the guru say: ‘My children, the only metaphor is this: the Australian gannet lays its single, precious egg on a warm mound of its own shit. This is why in 4 billion years of days and nights we have neither transcended our nature nor fallen from it.’ I’d never thought of it this way, though I knew from my studies that the world was an egg, and that it had to sit on something. I had envisioned a swallow’s egg on bubble wrap, or a crocodile’s egg on some strawberry mousse. But I had failed to notice the self-relating intertwinedness of things, how until death each thing leads back to each, and that was something to think about alone back on the beach.
The Dead Men of 2012
For J.M. and T.A.
Like sixpences tumbling to the sea floor
these men live slowly, half on the street,
half behind one window with one plant in it.
They live wherever it’s cheaper:
where they’ve always lived or where there’s someone kind.
They live in a city without their children in it.
They live self-antagonisingly, in a kind
of bland fugue, forgiving everyone but themselves.
They drink beer instead of vodka, even though vodka’s cheaper.
This counts as ‘being nice to themselves’.
They are weeds unfurling their petals by night, soft toys left on the floor.
You could greet these men and the sundown
at the same time walking home on 45th Street,
but no, the poem doesn’t end with a lovely sundown.