Poems: SJ Fowler

Illo for SJ Fowler's poems.


Thank you for the material, ahead of the change that’s necessary, that’d be coming anyway.

The ability to perceive harm from the eye, and its opposite, that which is empty of the ability to harm. This is communicated across sweating brows when standing still from the back of the train. The suggestion comes to balance the population.

Perhaps you have seen Snowpiercer? There you can find my reference to the front of the train, that knows better than the back. And what finishes the Polar Bear.

Rightfully so the award should be a token, dedicated to them, and while we hoped not to make a crisis for those who years earlier did the same, the stacked up past masses weigh upon us. We have to go back there.

Look into that future wood where past trees are. What is the biggest rib you have played on your tour of your time? Was it when there was the climate of miniatures as stations of a pilgrimage you didn’t go on that caused a human community to value itself over those concepts?

A politeness belying the bright blue plastic of yourself, perhaps you’re aware of this through traditional analysis? That gossip is irrelevant, and evil, and presupposes something more, which is unlikely? World news, updated every twenty to thirty seconds.

Our ancestor, the green bear, sleeps and remains undisturbed, born to sleep certain months of the year and so to repair capacity for listening. The green bear is accompanied by owls and this is the team teaching human children we should see ourselves within.

Born to kill into a family of violinists, or pacifists. Born to feel the last beats of a deer’s heart. Born to resent one’s own.

The deer looks late, so human teeth kill the animal and then eat it, before the babies born to be afraid of conflict. They may yet need to overcome that fear. It’s perhaps coming anyway, either way.


Sanjuro protects the village, yet another blood splatters on the pebbledashing an abrupt end, and to the cowards, scrolling through his phone optics publicly, you cannot use this death in your new advertising campaign.

Black stool water chants the voices of the Congo, helicoptered, interred with cherry blossom. “Now peace has come to our land” because of Sanjuro’s swordsmanship, as only a dominance of force so complete that it endangers overflowing and can bring love to these odorous even though Sanjuro brings mercy to the crippled.

A sound of jug from the jugband, air as the sword whistles, splits. Sanjuro is eeling the foolish into bits, donning a cloak of wound cleansing maggots & with larvae bore electric chasing screen to throat in a high pitch battle wool & then weeps, having chopped epileptics into rope dust before he even realised, sipping divine caviar, he plans to be less direct & kill illegally, from now on.

Sanjuro crosses the dam, touches utter X as a huge statue published as a human face, black with the rat raccoon rocket with taper lit to scurry the galaxy, only to resurrect the murdered pit vipers.

We need them to operate the juicer, Sanjuro, close the draped painting it depicts his lies, his borders stop, forced clenched with the discipline of the warrior as human potential.

Sanjuro apostasises a wayward white man. Proclamation, distinct, does not welcome Christians & neither do I says Sanjuro, trying rope to the ankles of a very very very very very very stubborn Portuguese priest who certainly has a purpose, now.

The cinema is dead. The waves wash on. So much so he doesn’t know. They’re untied but Lords, he doesn’t spend his afternoons moping about saying “what’s the point?” Sanjuro bans the foreign.

Our figures of our near east & naga, they said to me “eating grind, politely, so you would disappear” in order to pick mushrooms. He cannot help it, the fungi lives within him expanding within his womb.

To be aer awe yeah of hoidun. To roll his pan into a swords fair. Sanjuro applies Jitsu to those and that which is holy, he shall leave you to the land of the living. For it has its own laws & bulge to fit air jams of damage, crowned through the colourless rider, a joint jaws like a crook of V, cheek & neck squash, a juiced squid teeth, greet of the rear crack in songs, mat cultured forgiveness in jerks, degrees, & its much a box bow sword, the sorrow in jiu jitsu, she’d in boast, speak of the flaming neck, how the physiotherapy of the host who shan’t leave for 19 months, he’d speak elbow joint breaks from the frogmouth hemmed on a shadow vague in a bad turn hyperextension, inversed in well swat & a scream, curling abrupt on the snaps to a hand tapping.
SJ Fowler is a poet, artist & curator. He works in the modernist and avant-garde traditions, across poetry, fiction, theatre, sonic art, visual art, installation and performance. He has published multiple collections of poetry and been commissioned by Tate Modern, BBC Radio 3, the British Council, Tate Britain and Wellcome Collection. He has been translated into 18 languages and performed at venues across the world, from Mexico City to Erbil, Beijing to Tbilisi. He is the poetry editor of 3:AM Magazine, Lecturer at Kingston University, teaches at Tate Modern and is the curator of the Enemies project. www.stevenjfowler.com.

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