:: Article

the zen guide to slipstream an ego & other poems

By Daisy Lafarge.


I being the constant
vowel getting fucked by a consonant

we spent a summer playing
a violent strand of scrabble
no board, reflex movements
I still have knuckle scars
where the nails dug in

there’s an offbeat aphasia
when certain words wear thin
like personal pronouns in poetry

you talk about meta on the bus
and sound like a wanker

the city in summer
tastes like hot buses
when One is bored,
One feigns synaesthesia

your city is only pretending it can swim,
and all the buildings wear arm bands
what is it like, an hour in the future?

such low ambitions for time traveling

I’m only interested in archiving
each desultory second
so the archive’s only about itself
except for the seconds which are first and last

400 seconds before it comes
I would like to be informed of the last,
T minus 400 seconds
to slow my breathing
& create the relevant slideshow
or maybe just

stretch each toe
to the corners of the earth
and marvel at the beauty
of the blank screen before me

the zen guide to slipstream an ego:

(autogoogling and masturbation)

thank god a poem can be a skin
don’t peel it [implored] not today at least,
maybe – some xylitol tramtrack AM with a thin film
over the market like lychees, the bile tells up through
cobbles to booted pre-arthritic knees it’s after all

– plain sagittal sailing-

last thoughts before sleep include:
uppers, flax and the elderly
recumbence’s not all it was laid out up to be
even horizontal sex: my ideal weight
has never been
that of another
top of me


I forgot the sea air
is a terrible coiffeuse
and gives me sexless
pinkeye to boot

along by the stade some
meringue shell waves
are crushing each other,
housewives in training.

on apposite A4
5PM weds,
come for a pint

I need some
direction RE:
my career
in haunting

the shipwreck museum
is a great spot to yearn

but this whole stupid sea
is the lemon meringue pie
I made for our Last Supper


we need to conserve
the shortcrust seabed
from gentrification

cum drop glossy
the rows of dead fish
talk dirty about herbs

I see the lobster cages
and think ‘apotropaic’
tell me, how would you tell the nets
about art history?

unbuttoning my shirt
to the song in the arcade
boys beuys buoys


queuing and eating
kleptomanic raisins,
I conclude that
childhood was a dyad
of orange juice or apple
& see the checkout woman 
has a plastered thumb with which 

she’ll press the tired from my eyes
intra-sockets, snagging on hairs and nerve endings

I’ll wake up at the back of the world for sure
but right now
there’s an audible calcium in my bones
and the nights sink teeth into scopics

Daisy Lafarge studies in Edinburgh having recently returned from the Finnish Taiga, where she was writing and trying to avoid immaculate conception by lingonberry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as HOAX, Ilk, Up and The Scrambler.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Wednesday, April 9th, 2014.