One day we notice that the sun needs feeding. Immediately a crash program begins: we fill ro… with wheat, smoke-rings, razorblad… after long aiming

‘My age, my beast!’ - Osip Mandel… On the lips a taste of tolling we… The light drifts like dust over fa… We wear masks on our genitals You’ve heard of lighting cigarette…

The taller the monument, the more… Look, look, a graveyard has fancy… Historians agree: this is the pebb… Every billboard is theoretically a… Mouth: the word’s exit-wound.

I don’t dare speak too loudly, some timbres could be fatal— that string is not too strong I think: and at times I have to breathe. Or maybe I fear

I lay down in the empty street and… My feet against the gutter’s curb… The building above a bunch of gawk… Along its ledges urged me don’t, d…

All it takes is Laura Riding’s ri… crop across my butt, and I’m off: Git-up horsie she cries astride me… I crash sweetly onto the carpet. Boredom what an esthetic,

If you are still alive when you re… close your eyes. I am under their lids, growing black.

is thought to be a confession, won… torture, but which our interrogato… hate to record—all those old code… the standard narrative of sandpape… throats, even its remorse, fall ig…

“...here thy generations endeth in… I physically resemble my mother And father and therefore must have… Adopted, because on my TV screen The role-children rarely share a f…

Note: Tomlinson is not only a distinctive poet, but a visual artist of repute. His graphics grace the covers of many of his books. This Homage attempts to imitate his verse style, or ...

Satiety help me I have inhabit of this world. Extant upon its des… to be more aimlessly fluttering at the window, to shadow all the patt… it offers each sun. In frames far…

I’m charmed yet chagrined by this… As when, after a riot, my city’s s… Boarded up, billboarded over, with… Similarly, swimmingly, I miss the… And my misunderstanding doesn’t st…

(Nonasyllabics) In retrospect the tragic nature of sea is a taste wept too daily, too depleted by freedom’s rupture; the eyes have other secrets to see

The bouquet Bluebeard gave his first date reblooms Railroad trains drop off the bourgeois’ pointy head God’s hand descends into a glove held steady by the police At their reunion The Ne...

Our love has chosen its appropriat… Which when viewed in the midst of… It didn’t choose seems almost insi… The gesture our love has chosen is… We both agree not that we have any…