3 Poems
by Ross Brighton

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This salty this is empire of salt.

Is not animal.

No, the absent operator

is is

This is lies all lies.

Fractal this fictive city, its dishonest glassblown tower.


What you would say if I said I want to fuck you.

Movement of things relative to is other movement.

Inside of things there are insides.

I need to turn off my mind, even this screech or errata.

I need to insert my self here represented by the first personal pronoun in order to be rid of it.

Relationships between people, objects, signs and abstract concepts.

Red smear on the face is to do with fishes.

Fracture or rupture.

Cut out in order, redder.

Where and why they were wearing it.

Towering over, this arch arches.

Don’t fuck up now.

Probing the inside of this cataclysm must start somewhere.

Anytime is no time at all, and no place.

The arm gone and then the leg.

And then and then: et cet era


Augury             co-efficent
                                   (arterial gnomon)
councillor whittle in

tinder                                    adze           

vitality to                            halo side

                                           ( hollow )
filter tree light
forest pastor foresting bushels

odd end ulterior                                    (altar)


far flung wire
white whetted

islands under (whole)

fold sequestered out

face                 sunning whistle
              (little)             radiance
globe    set            far

night                       whorl                    ripple


thaumaturge priest                         henge
action movement             rocking
rocks side                                     side as can

rock slide

slow henging picture

vintage instrument thus hinged
growing urge acted upon             stoning
well suited for


gaol photonic

spider spindle