Mutations/ James Nixon

If the living are still here

it will find and add them to the census

which you’ll find filed down by the past.

it’s only a story and the detention

of its I they recommend indefinite.


or machines powered by calories

the irrelevance of numbers.

The more life a thing has, the less it can defend itself


the truck

in the subject is part of him,

at the dead postures of accident,


their homes, their stuff

looked at them also. A rubber sandal. Plates.

A white surrender. The ulcerous Aleppo button.

The leather casing of a face, dented

like a football. Invert skin continues

the body beyond the fingertips,

to sell

at Sanctuary in Covent Garden.


tripwire around

entry points for basic information on the body.

bodies assembled properties

with industrial uses, so we can belong

to the logic of mechanized labour even

as deep into this study as

I am from a mass movement.


and in clouds

a treachery of movers looks just elemental,

dust returning through fire to its resting.


To avoid the pent-house the Saracens

shot straight up into the clouds,

their darts fall back on top of them,

their bodies, houses that move

now only language.


a child at cross-purposes heading the other way

in shredded lettuce, dressed sort of uh aioli.


slay them in pleasure parks and places of recreation;



Read James Nixon’s bio here.


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