ideas, William Fairbrother

wei_poster_08RR Xing, Z.Z. Wei



ideas are not rational
what are you hiding why
skylines like freezing temperatures
fog hangs low along the banks
just seeing is light

Iron Maiden, Iron Man and Timothy Irons walk into a bar…

not as a Narcissist is in love with their own reflection  I loved everything outside myself
when I was in love, I was in love with myself  no doubt, but a fracture was the romance 
I needed me to feel myself inside her

wasn’t penetrating a woman or a girl  I was penetrating myself 
and how awful that seems, this is pure romance,
I kissed her ears which she hated, I kissed her neck which she hated  I kissed her mouth, done

then there’s the ascorbic ‘Fuck! My God!’

you’re in the midst of a horror poem…

measures do not matter  there is no form  we all hate you anyway

I don’t know what I think and I don’t think what I know

I once was a poet  the shit on my hands 

that touches her

I was looking for something dangerous
I wished to impede any idea of sloth
so I bought black socks  six pairs bundled
and dark blue sweat pants  incorrigible,
I thought  then a pair of those Chinese
plastic sandals  light, the goosebumps
underfoot, and a remarkably non-skid sole
and a pair of real high-top shoes  leather 
no breathing allowed – then bought a ciabatta
and lemon soda and went home to wait, to read.

ideas can not be seen

I don’t think of nightless ideas

ideas are not inhabitants

an opposite to dying

she was like ‘o.k., you’re in to internet porn’
but she was pale pretending understanding
negligence sitting in cars…

ideas can not be seen

ideas are not inhabitants

ideas are more volatile than disasters
breast milk like blood
loving Death because of the missing face

ya know what I hate is being sanctimonious

I hate everyone 

I’m no different than them

that’s what I hate

unknown error

ideas become corporations
ideas are logos

that’s me, him  on to the story…
Ideas are legends
I hate them

ideas are ingredients

your mired fucklust
ideas are wolves

ideas are weapons

on competing with ‘Oyster’s Rockerfeller’  why I failed…
creamed-spinach and chocolate should never be mixed 
blandness is never coerced

me? I’m fucking a crazy cook  jalapeno ice cream banana split  it was hot and cold
I didn’t have a split banana to present it on  I used banana ice cream
they went fucking nuts  ‘a banana-split without a banana…´

I don’t know what’s going on in the world but it’s demon

500,000 chickens eating in a barn

I wish I were not free from guilt  but I hate that word, let’s say credit

things made him

engagements are roof things

what I love is dead

I don’t believe in this disaster movie, this disaster life 
but I see all the props
(I have no absence to answer to)

guilt is never a promise

I don’t like distance

crying thru one eye…

bad thing is you are now a witness

like when the scull feels pain

you don’t ‘kill time’  you kill all witnesses of time

it’s like weakness is desire and desire is sex

yes I wanna cum inside you  it’s not about all the shit of having a baby or shit
I wanna cum inside you  I want to swim inside you!…

(greatest love poem I’ve ever ever written,
but u(r)nreal, nominal, without breath…)
[my delusions are similar to forgetting]

the few people I’ve killed in my life have never haunted me 

it’s the living who betray me  with dreams of sacrifice

ideas are non-negotiable
ideas feed infants

ideas are ingredients

the blood is not my teeth

God how you love a man!

ideas are bacteria

I lost faith when I lost you

I will ever trust another person,

ideas become nostalgic, aberrant

so it’s to you not her…

I could be half of you

dream characters release orgasms

being human is sitting on a toilet

ideas are not worth ideas

my caskets are linear

tuna pigeons

Ideas forget you were not aT HOME

on pipe

William Fairbrother


Review by Greg Grummer

The idea is simple.  Do a string of koans of the same moment; or hundreds of haiku written at the same time in the same place over many years; or contemplate 20 minutes worth of lightning; look into puddles in a confined area, all reflecting approximately the same thing, all different; write a letter then tear it into scraps, send the scraps to the letter’s recipient  in different envelopes, mailed on the same day from all over the country. See the same thing differently. See different things the same.

Each line in the poem is an idea.  These line ideas are made of other ideas.  Some of the ideas branch out over various sections of the poem.  Perhaps the poem itself is one large idea reaching back through the various lines.  Perhaps there is, really, only one idea.  Or perhaps there are many ideas but no real ideas.

If you don’t love this poem like I do, what can I say?  The poem is like a lake in which nothing is hidden and yet much can hide.  Water is transparent but if something is deep in the lake, you have to stare for a long time before it becomes visible, and even then you only have a vague idea of it. 

I once was a poet  the shit on my hands 

that touches her

Maybe if you were never once a poet, or you still are a poet, this will mean nothing to you.  

I don’t think of nightless ideas.

The test of a really excellent line of poetry is that anything you say about it detracts from it.  Even looking at it while you read it weakens it, infects it with the world.  You want very much for everyone to love it like you do, so you feel compelled to say something about it, but unless you say more poetry, it’s hopeless.  Your explanation will slow the line down, the line will begin to stumble, lose balance, and there goes all the numinosity.  Like a butterfly pinned to cotton, you now possess the line, and it’s dead.  Congratulations.

fog hangs low along the banks
just seeing is light

I’m trying to explicate or somehow edify this poem.  The poem defeats me. Thank god.



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