from Conspiritoire


assemblage of
what do you do for a living
this bracket
outward toward it
where the datum finds
hinge forth
round about insights
drum support up
research funds dwindle
as if at a distance
the sound of sickness
a rumble of archaeoacoustics
the military tattoo
led us up a dark path backwards
slender men behind pines
a cabin in the concord


the content aggregator
love as a relation in terms of
the Bilderberg Group knew that
that being there was it
Industrial Society and Its Future
people become nodes as networks work
filling in the lapses
attention stands to reason
blur in and out of pixilation
Rupert bought us out
the whole we'd dug
waiting on Hale-Bopp
as the stream buffers hard
patients line our corridor
Panama leaks
and assembling metadata


such currency
as a side parting
a lobbyist's tone of appeal
in sneakers filibustered
the swansong of the lumpenproletariat
mothering some day
the plot thins out
a crowded lift collapse
shuts mouths of babies
great cooling pie charts off
silos beneath the quarters
the hellfire the raptor
shredded papers streaming towards
the evening redness in the west
capsizing just off of the sure


a beating would do me
the state of exception
the price of doing business
a world of good
Engels sang of
ring bound sexed up dossiers
the variable lining
an inner anguish
full bodied flavour straight from
the font of MK Ultra
knowing reeling off
handfuls of end user data
horsewhipped by
the curtailing strength of
if blistering is over


it is a directional thing
stranded a nude pile of men
of it and at it
as a reconciliation left
lighter than a birth
the non-lethal weapon of
hung parliament
out at it
and conferencing together
a discrete series
of phone calls
the coal face whispered back
a material matter
Sam Byck stole it
stuck right out at an angle


i imbibe cyphers
being told loudly off
how to listen carefully
the facility is rife with
anthropocene circularities
warzones stand on their heads
the cube of extrajudicial hunts
phosphorous weeps
Rumsfeld's hot house
is our ire ours? 
and inside out of the weather
in Pasolini's stink eye
the horse whipping
and if so why? 
a horse before the platz
privatisation's decay

Matthew Carbery is a poet and associate lecturer working in Plymouth, UK. He is interested largely in long poems, phenomenology and philosophical pessimism. He has poems published in Tears In The Fence, Blackbox Manifold, CTRL ALT DEL, Otoliths, Stride and Dead King Magazine. He is also Assistant Editor of Periplum Press and Editor of EPIZOOTICS! zine.