from Handshoe
          (after Max Klinger Ein Handschuh (Paraphrase on the finding of a glove))

this is
a game of chance  
throwing the ice
into the air

and watching it fall  
and for your next
impossible trick  
you are angling to

catch it in the glass  
holding your breath
for an instant
at the event horizon  

skating perfectly
on the meniscus  
but as you follow the trajectory  
the glass performs

a topological manoeuvre  
flattening and freezing
as you hit the surface  
opening a hairline crack  

can’t know where you is  
a fissure in the think  
how is it happening
at this end of the room  

sure sure
you were
at the other  

or does this is
in a beginning  
an heteronomous
categorical imperative

of justice  
to speak
the unthinkable
next move  

wobbling super-saturated  
on its catastrophic edge  
it all makes
too much sense  


as if you were a poet  
using a multiplicity
of devices

to structure
your surface-making tools  
are these the facts
that poets like  

like that handshake
was a challenge  
juxta enjambement
and position

of the upward downward slopes  
repetition and changes of the mixture  
spreading the earth
and doing the loopholes  

so work
you superficial bastard  
you are now the author
of a personal quote form  

and it is on the front line  
and are you trying
to break this
without separating  

it’s an image   
speaking with the borders  
celebrating this
occasional courtship  

this pagan failure  
and who
would read the next job  
a different

congenital frequency
which is where  
without permission  
there is a sudden

sharp noise  
the voice breaks 
is it a crack down  
or is it cracking-up  

crack on  
was that a joke  
humour is the
holy of the

wholly holey surface   
the sound of symbols  


a stone hits the window  
and you cracked your tooth as you fell  
something you slightly non-specifically  

to reach what was inside  
just a moment  
a small resounding moment
of perversion  

a turning aside of itself  
but contrariwise you see  
to crack means
finding a solution  

so blind drunk
you can’t
see anything  

eggs into the mixing bowl  

the lightning is not cracking   
no up  
you’re on the floor  
at the frontier  

where the earthquake
cracked the walls
and the roof collapsed  

thin lines and narrow spaces  
tracing and marking down
a translation

from chance to skilful  
light and deft  
dancing delicate  
rolling through

beyond the dead-end of the flaw  
which way will you fold your soul  
performing acts of perverse


you need
a bargaining chip for gaps  
light the conceptual stunts  
transform the devices  

skip the delay  
configure the melting ice  
here are the facts
you have not  

you are not  
all here  
but listen  
how pretty  

a moment of silence  
or to turn your head  
the force so cold  

come back  

and vast  
calling it an accident  
an instant  

force flashing  
to get the last word  

the first would help  
the excursion terminated  
or run forever
after the penultimate drink




[Patricia Farrell is a poet and visual artist. She has collaborated with other writers and artists, most notably Robert Sheppard, as well as the installation artist Jivan Astfalck, on the project B*twixst, exhibited in Birmingham, Portsmouth and Cologne, and A Space Completely Filled with Matter with the dancer, Jennifer Cobbing. Her collection, The Zechstein Sea, was published by Shearsman in 2013 and her latest publication is High Cut: My Model of No Criteria (Leafe Press 2018). She completed a PhD thesis in 2011 on poetic artifice in philosophical writing.]

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