The night is a shivering wreck curled up by your door,
eyes bleached blind by the light of a sun,
so distant from ours, so completely far,
she is a shadow of the lamb thing,
that once tripped around my room,
with shadows clipping merrily,
that carousel is doomed.

a hold

the night signs off with smoke and leather
sweating between the grains,
like the chalk residue of metal,
the powder still in your nose,
the ceiling and the walls fail together,
the carpet and the curtains melt with their stains.

We are empty alone but together,
there are funeral pyres in our brains,
little mausoleums burning eternal flames,
there are kisses wrapped in tin foil,
saccharine sweet prevails.

as the gun lit tip of the last wretched evening,
the last free unadulterated link in the chain,
peels off like ash before the window,
a pile of shit or guts or brains,
we are lying on the floor before ourselves
and I for one have gone insane.

the atlantic

There is an ocean pushing my hand away from you,
forming red spheres in the blue, popping as they come to,
and I'm left sifting the sea, left looking for you,
through hands wet and webbed with water,
as the clear sea is clouded with sand,
the blue is so deep that it is now black.

Were we not born in the same dream,
the same set of stubbed in tacks.
the same half delusion of grandeur,
the same poorly pasted up cracks.
were we not pushed out together,
to float, to drown, to swim back.

When I think of you in symbols,
you've already given all of those parts,
there are no new cells to nurture,
all divided before I featured,
and the lights blink into the future,
where all the sentences are blurry,
and all the outcomes mixed and slurring,
where my head is blocked and slurring,
and my mouth is full and slurring,
and I wish my cell was broken,
into two then four then open,
spread into bits out open,
like a pen leaked out then frozen,
ink iced up half chosen;
thoughts blurted out in the open,
and when I've torn myself right open,
like a pen cracked into the open,
and you've told me all of your symbols,
and none of them cradle me in their middle,
like I held you round the middle,
like I love you right through the middle,
but I can't see any other any longer,
 all our lights blink off into the future,
Even when you push me off like a suture,
And I'm sorry I know that i'm slurring,
but i'm scared just so scared that we're blurring,
and i'm scared of what you are inferring,
And I wish my cell wasn't broken,
this is no kind of life in the open,
this is not the love I was hoping,
I'm not sure my dear if we're coping.

Baskerville's Stanley

He lived a life by the letter,
lying through lipless teeth,
blue underneath.

Sinking through corridors,
like smoke between teeth,
buried down packed snow to sleep.

Cotton bud came out bloody,
and he sighed himself to sleep,
with poems from the good book
that held his hand,
that touched his cheek.

I heard him talk in vases,
echoed spirals right around my mind,
in years that grew like climbers,
a kaleidoscopic narrow mind,
switching up the chambers
 until he forgot how to tell the time.

sanctuary

How cruel of you to tell me,
years beyond the fact - Months -
beyond the turning point -
long since I held track -
shivers down my backbone -
and I'm craning to look back -
my brain is starved of oxygen -
starved of all the things I lack.

How cruel of you to whisper,
like its just another fact.

Staring daggers through your eyelids,
shooting pigeons flying back.

The love of sheltered wisdom -
the clairvoyant in the back -
the rooster in the hen house -
screaming wisdom into black -
the big mouth striking blindly -
leading the attack --

You are none of these exactors -
glancing daggers off my neck  -
you are just a poor rememberer -
you aren't granting me due slack -
you are a headlight flood lit sanctuary
from which there is no turning back -
the banks clear burst the estuary
and the sea starts swirling black -

pollen

two grains locked in cupboards,

perfect for ever,

a full collection of pollen on a leg,

shrugged off all of a sudden,

to be left sullen,

two ventricles without blood in,

two sucked in cheeks,

pinched red,

to create whole hearts, from fractions,

two grains locked in cupboards,

perfect for ever, 

two brains smashed together,

safely talking of the weather,

and breathing slower ever slower,

together always together,

perfect for ever,

a full collection, 

of pollen on a leg,

hanging on through sheer vertigo.

utter

i
 hope
 my
brain was better
 fodder
 for your heart to collapse around
like a cannon blooming

i
 hope
 my
eye was a signaller
      revving up singular
             sightless propulsion to push you through water
                                         and up through the surface
i hope you resurface
  again
    and again

i
    hope
 my power
 gave your wings powder
 to flutter majestic
to shimmer
 to utter
       collecting in air,
all around and up under
 enough to mutter,
 to glimmer, projecting
the health of the letter,
 the warm eyes and better

baby

fighting the helpful feeding, 

as you batter against the window, 

I can't hear a thing you're saying,

I cannot feel the weight of your hand,

you are a cut away before a big reveal,

you are a throw back to a complete circle,

so uncomplicated, lapping at your own shore,

rings of incandescence, like an endless sleep, 

I can't hear a thing you're saying,

I cannot feel my feet sink in sand,

and, as though I'm being cradled lower and lower,

and, or, as if you could be an anchoring influence,

you are the keeper, holding me by the ankle,

you are dipping me into the river,

which returns to its own source, 

lapping at its own shores, 

welling up a little,

 trickling from its open mouth,

stuck up in a high chair,

fighting the helpful feeding. 

best laid

I had it all lined up like dominoes,
rows upon rows, all ready to go,
spring boards for propulsion,
fingertip destruction,
 I felt like Hillary Clinton.

I was to move from one point to the next
to the next to the next to the next

I fell asleep with a map of plans,
playing out perfect,
clicking onto each other,
knocking their next best down,
I woke up with a mouth full of vomit,
that is how it goes.

Poetry Reading

Come see me read?

http://www.conjunctionzine.co.uk/

the low ball technique

We built neat crisp shelters,

      From the foundations up, 

            thick concrete poured down,

                  and we watched it spread,

                      setting ants in led,

                    we had tied the dream between our heads,

                tied up in the promises said, 

  blinding dreams ran us deeper,

                tied up in ribbon red,

                    happy with safe ignorance, 

                    we bled and bled and bled.

spit a whisper

you have such brittle teeth,

careful when you chatter,

for as they start to scrape, 

they scatter,

chalk yellow anti matter,

mixed to paste with spit

you'll be left with blood and grit,

swallowing the shit,

a convulsive choking fit,

drowning in the shit,

that was it that was it.

sorrow sought a hanging basket and a sweetheart with a lisp

out into the peeling wind that licks away the skin,
Out into the fright white night I heard the summers wind,
cooling in of the embers of my burning broken skin,
out into cacophony that special kind of din,
after rain that comes like flash floods to wash away a single sin,
I can hear the wolves that move on pads in the howling whispered wind,
and the silent bark that moves not, stirs not, in the rustling of the wind,
I can see the fright white faces of the absent settled djinn,
a haunting from the hollow gods that have long ceased to begin,
the worry were of man and dog and logic never settled in,
it is absent in the near black of the yellow streets din,
religion in the overflow of gutters buckled in,
then the salvation that the locks click and the hall light carried in.

home to whisper welcomes,
in spaces where sound echoes back,
calmed by the low ceilings,
a sanctuary from the black.

the life

The life is begging and following me home,
too light for lampshades to hold it melts out,
the cupboard holds memories and scents,
I'm caught in your rigging, tangled, digging.

The life is winning over adventure, oh
the houses we drove past had wells, the
houses faced out the sea, blocked out,
sounds that would tickle the backs oh

The life presents as pretension, as I
pretend to have enough, as I
pretend to see, to have heard,
I'm caught up and I'm digging,
tangled...

The life is winning over adventure,
that builds to crescendo, the life we attempt,
to bundle together, like clinging mould,
I'm trying, god I'm trying, to see,
my fair, my chaste, my unexpressive she.

allowances

The door never opened to enemies,
feather lining caught out all coming colds,
but fault lines have collected at the door;
the bitter clubs campaign for royalties,
tin sounds rip right through the roof of my mouth,
blindly buying myself out, feeling for the folds,
that tell me five from ten or twenty.

I hear clear crying that stops suddenly,
feather wings that beat against feather chests,
mouthfuls of praise for their good charity,
meanwhile I lick salt and wait for fresh hay,
If I don't move my boat from left to right,
If I sit still through the day and the night,
If I tuck my head into my shirt stay quiet,
maybe I can be light enough to cycle,
out along fault lines that should really crack.

14 June 2012

people keep dropping,
while we're jogging,
our memories filling,
balled up like socks.

my heart is stopping,
correct it correct,
call someone.

gaining and breaking,
scraping and flaking,
curls of cold butter,
studded stuttering glint.

not enough to finish,
not starting right,
there is beautiful piano,
coming from that building.

all collecting up,
in memories filling,
until hearts clam up,
and sigh off.

signing up for everything,
bringing down houses,
shaking the frames,
until the dot lines,
collapses.

the world is porcelain,
maudlin,
you are languid,
sanguine.

the heart has breathed in,
there is a snag in my throat.

people keep dropping,
calm catastrophe,
organising ceremonies,
for the dead.
as I collect up all the unconnected items,
in my room, in my head.

Sweeping up spiders

clap clap clap.
well done well done,

rinse the dirt off that comes from outside,
there is nothing but laminate inside,
there is nothing that you can't hide,
you're shining up your ground flat teeth,
you're singing on a hot knife,
a high squealing slide along,
screening out the suicide,
glazing over the tide,
waves coagulated,
motion still but never sated,
a white wash for the chalk walls,
no more corrections,
 inscrutable meat.
I can't tell what your head is doing,
I can't tell from your happy face, your pretty hands, your pigeon feet.

1.

There are only so many people you can save,
by tying our hands and our shoulders.
Bleak hearts whisper through our throats,
as we arch up like cats, arch up like angels.

favourite song

nearly cry,
 just a crack
at the song they never played,
sigh
 between the drunk eyes
that groan around the stage,
lean on
 affronted but happy to gaze,
  the clasp shuts,
they left you,
 a sapped sad sullen entity.

the heart is changeable, slips, sighs,
tries to pull the wool white, from your eyes,
but in its favour hardly lies, bringing sight bright embers tumbling out at the sides,
like welling tears nearly spilling, but ushered back by pride,
caught remembrances pin us and we dry,
waiting weightless when thoughts like ink blots collide.

roads

Cast back to the time we drove across the middle of a continent,
the land was a sea, the scale was distorted and the sky was dry.
If you empty your head and fill it with that time, when the world was unknown,
the visions will slide from side to side in your head like water in a bucket;
washing and erasing, breathing and sighing.

Last light

 parading light poured through  bicycle spokes,
laughed about itself as it broke, wedges on a tile,
tiles after tiles, hesitating out into lost sight.
Then the very last light, that sighed a flume of fright,
pray, the last one of the night, bit upper lips,
that are held in place by lower teeth,
pray, the last one of the night, bit upper lips,
near the point of pain of puncture,
nearly up to spilling point,
nearly but not quite.

you're softer and less certain, looking out over ledges,
dipping dreamily into past places, sipping at a cigarette,
just the tip of your toe out over

you are part of a different group of people now, 

you realised it I'm sure, you must have

seen how tangled you are, tripping along,

all lit up by something, then;  no gosh, that's wrong, 

strung out like a curtain, billowing and strong, 

directly out to sea you swim, 

until the currents do you wrong. 

mowing

Can't it all be like the fly by night,
lit up in the airplanes tail is the red.
Were it not for suicide and crass words,
and things overturned and overturned.
Light learns from its surrounding,
light dances in solitude and excludes,
the Merriweather, the hay, the garden,
in the grey.











Let the words weight deploy me,
chance, encountering my bed,
sat me bolt up like a thunderclap,
and that was all I ever read.

dream

 then it was broken valour cleansing power ripe fruit and flower seasons and sour crisp peaks and crystal cut wave tips freed into the bleak night eked out like the sun light snubbed squeaks and the brevity of post cards this sent me in like ill fitting pegs finding my sea legs finding myself a troubadour at a Mexican funeral. pop.

cut

here heads the open heart, here heels stand dug in and hard,
breath sighs another, through the mouth of a dawn,
wrapped up in silk skin, cocooned adjourned,
sediment collecting all about the sides of him,
cold eyes collecting all around the sight of him,
such a gifted mind for sardonic stares,
cut through great swathes of his life,
prepare me please as he is prepared.

Dutch barge

work it out for yourself, worked all up to something else, hand it out, pails and pails, 

pointless boat, damn fine sails, seats the whole hell bound heap of us, a crest fallen creep of us, 

there will be no more sleep for us, sinking souls the lot of us, we’re the best chosen crust, 

thrown out with the rest of them, put off by the side of them, 

hand outs and tidal cravings, unquenchable silences, between fortunate friends, 

lets live on a boat, lets run out to sea, there’s a whole world to float on, there’s a found family,

there are no things that are undoable, there are just things you don’t choose to do, 

lets kite fly for the hell of it lets sweep it all under the sea.

1st

There is new light under you, as the day takes flight,
as the sun pastes horizons over you, the heavy set hanging head,
looking up to see what's new, blue hope is cooked away.

There is new light under you, a lofty cry that steps lightly and plays,
as the day is new blossom, the world shrugs off its ardour and ripens its hue.

night

lick your fingers and stop this,
the nights long shadows,
need too much discerning,
more than I can muster,
more than each glance is earning,
I don't know enough,
can't reach enough
can't see a thing
 but flickering extensions,
 whole back lit dimensions,
 great contained infinity,
shut it off and sit with me.

Shout

watch you curl out your chest, as you breath in the air,
draw a line with the breath, that melts under your hair,
the sigh lights show me that your fading, out the good times into jading,
the bright light has drawn out, is hung out, is flawed and it is failing,
the raconteurs regaling was sold to us for training but we're all out of empathy,
and his heart is apathetic, beating like a pacemaker, regular and ordinary,
its all so damn proportional, the procession is disgruntled,
the street lights are blinding, with there sibilant similarity,
its all becoming so damn parallel, I'm paranoid and homesick,
bright light progression guiding and gaining, snowballs set a-rolling,
the cold night is strung out like cats eyes, like a metronome, sat atop that damn piano,
our vision is narrowed our tired skulls so sallow,
break bread to dip in the bitter, pill paste and shiver,
move with the litter, don't sigh like a quitter,
rant the world to right, screaming but indolent.

Lost in ideas, the crisp morning is buried in bluster the headstone bears no name.
Swallowed up in whale song, sweat swallowed by the rain.
Fear arcs a sweeping dance with kindness as they marry off away.
Whole new waves are breaking as the cloud is melted by midday.

You're all sweet scents and hiccups,
dew drops glinting for half an hour,
stars on the grass,  tears from the leaves,
in the morning you are clip lisps,
kitten yawns.
and I ask you to leave.

hunting season

young buck gunning for it,
glimpse of sun under cotton peak,
call out a hoot, what virile excitement,
its striding like a centaur, just forty yards away,
click out forty rounds a second,
a silver poleax spray,
in the tamed woods of wisconsin,
the soil is rich with red clay.

shapedancers

Burning up in pools for the shapedancers
I know you are cut from cloth,
sounding out like timpani drums,
tight bound and jag toothed,
oceans embalmed, breathless,
reep reep reep, there is much left to crush for,
to shout about, run into the mass,
concentrated whole, smear blood,
all down the fronts of us,
creep and crawl

Danced beats through bedsheets,
reep reep through blessed beats,
the ground you flagged and sweat into soles,
you dragged yourself up,
followed me for miles, for nothing,
clasped tight this hell,
 you've bound yourself to me,
do tell tell tell.

You called out,
between the long looks,
freckled faces, bowing graces,
a look to say I love you.

burning up in pools for the shapedancers,
I know you are cut from cloth,
finer thread than many,
feel so light and heady,
blood slips
between sips
the fissure leaks catastrophe,
the blessed slip, fall, break,
 for me,
pray pray.

brace

silk cut marshmallows, deployed in unison, 

rigged together so sweetly, 

metal binding, ice white and blinding.

rain should roll into the dark,
over the dark green that pulls us apart,
the hot eyed horizon that swims like a shark,
can't stop for seasons, red lanterns for hearts,
held up machines, chewed it over and spat,
limp hand so humid so scared of the dark,
sad little whispered thoughts ran as I sat,
wind was so strong whole horizons might crack,
the black light, the plastic world, the night, the night,
ran out of pavement flat through the slats,
the moon light, the caustic world, the night, the night,
run out of town by the damn dirty rats,
the window's world is turning,
the rain is burning,
the bridge is blown,
my woes have grown.

the day is found rug rolled and clawing,
a butt heading gnawing, all chewed up and snoring,
my heavy head cloying I'm all done enjoying the bright,
the blue is incurring such costs,
the red is guiding me lost.

All wrapped up in rapture and set to task,
readied in motion, already in masks,
the minutia of a larger clockwork,
a never dulling blade, replaceable,
untraceable, expendable and dazed,
sea lions a-roaring, quarreling and crazed,
motors set in motion out to ocean,
hollow laugh, a dripping tap of lotion,
a wave that long since out lapped the bath.

bridge

please build us all a bridge,
 we are heading for the lip of this,

my eye has found a ridge,
 and I don't know what's beyond it,

humming through the mist,
 spiraling around your fist,

there are some chains we can't resist,
 and we are collapsing under all of this,

please build us all a bridge,
 we are crumbling under all of this,

my eyes are frightened stiff,
 i'm frozen glued to all of this,

becoming overcome by bliss,
 so destructive it might ruin all of this.

bide

Canned up as by fly traps,
 stale air packed up like boxed homes,
that we live in for long months after,
like clean bed sheets next to unmade beds.

i'd rather be packed in ash like pompeii,
 preserved for propriety, then fail,
i'd lick my lips, bide my time,
put my candles, fold my sails,
wait for the banshee sound to suck strong as a gail,
pull out the pop up books little arrows,
so that action sweet action can prevail.

sweet meat

good dolls are brim full,
ice water skin full,
goosebumps and drop calls,
are correlating to stall...

all the breaths in my lungs,
the words they would form,
ice water wears me,
you're saccharine and dull.

i cut myself shaving,
but the bloodlust was small,
i didn't need sympathy,
no, not at all.

i'm alright, climbing up a reed,
breathing out a stitch, hauling ass,
running round corners, away away,
life burns on like one hit pipes,
takes affect quicker than soluble tablets,
tastes all the more bitter, the more times,
you fuck up or fall down,
all tangled up in guitar cables,
tripping over dirty laundry,
overstretched, overworked,
underpaid, but alright,
cracked off like a push pencil,
snapped led, missing out,
to jobs snapped up by the pure bred,
file another failure,
caught in a riptide of rain,
i'm alright waiting
 to be dumped out at sea,
crawl back to the shoreline,
wait for the clouds to clear,
its almost here, this is my year.

night life

I set the clocks,
sat wracked,
the slatted blinds like gills,
arching out street light,
over wet skin,
sticky as split oranges,
blinds breathing,
in and out
comes the eternal day,
and the sound,
of drunk nothing,
let them rot apple on their tongues,
and feed off the fermentation,
drinking in their own bullshit,
louder than planes,
stupid as sheep,
and again I can't sleep.

California

More shrapnel than skin,
hide of a well worn whale,
strung out on snow peaks,
years were horizons of blue,
sun crests breaking through,
the flora dries in heat haze,
the mist along the mountains,
ties it all like a seam.

sink

The smell blistered out through the wool,
heat eked out through the gaps,
and transposed itself neatly,
in thin plates, pooling around the drains,
welling up all around,
the day was awash with it,
forming bright colours,
but who knows if they were greens or blues,
reds or browns,
blood or rust, twigs or nests,
these confused colours bled out on our vests,
and wet tie die shone bright on our chests.

end times

wind is blowing double, as the world starts to shift
the weight of the high sky is a heat that won't lift,
its the sum of the times and a sign of the drift,
the coming tsunami is starting to split,
its the freezing terror the horror and the tendon I ripped,
the creaking of bone as the sky starts to slip.
and i'm frozen included in the panic the grip,
we're all strung here like pheasants and ready to drip,
from the hot living flame to the cold wax pit,
its a marvel we lasted as long as we did,
so disparate, so desperate so unwilling to fit.

aw to hell

good deeds,
tucked up into your belt,
take heed,
their killing people like you for pelts,
run fast,
the snow is beginning to melt,
run past,
the acid hot feelings you felt,
and as old days are burning,
skylines are turning,
the burgeoning buckets,
of bright light and heroes,
as dystopias reigns,
pull tight at your neck.

You probably remember it differently,
the order, the weather, the sides,
the beginning of the last forgotten argument,
the breaking point where we rid ourselves of so much, but not pride,
when we pulled apart out ears looking, for pure defendable defense,
commendable expense as I bathe my burns in butter and mutter,
loves are lost, lost, lost, lost, gone.
But you probably remember it differently,
the angle, the register, the time,
the breaking of fractious peelers,
 fingers flaking at the peak of their climb

swept you low

swept you low,
undertow,
sweat you owed,
all will flow,
and the bet you know,
is a seed, won't grow,
swept you low,
swept you low,
bottled and upright,
you're so damn uptight,
holding my eyes right,
staring at godlight,
burning alone now,
sullen and low brow,
sea levels sinking,
seat belts are clinking,
and you're out now and running,
too busy running,
as the wave caught your ankle,
threw off your mantle,
swept you low,
untertow,
swept you low.

same old haunts

let loose the lamp light,
hot pleading hold tight,
you heard that old night,
pour a picture, send a sweet sight,
bright pictures threw me,
I thought you knew me,
but you said it to me,
like you were talking through me,
can't hold your hand tight,
your only smoke light,
hot head but ghost like,
a memory in plain sight.

days bleed on

young blood cut from veins,
snaking through rock to new lives the same,
derided away chastised to the gray,
beg for the witness as souls rot away.
dry aspersions cast on hope,
clipped cynical tongues crumble the days,
to decimate the love lost on gambling and fray;
every old love every new hope every loose night,
that let spill our gold needles into endless wet hay.

were we not butting heads all that week, month, day,
were we not broken before we started to play,
born evil little shit heads ready to say,
the wrong thing to the meek mild grieving prey,
were we not just as sullen as hard as set clay,
 as the priests who force fed us:
 geese flocking, to scared to stray

nearly nothing

beg you for a counterfeit,

a careful writ, let me split, 

leave you here with atom drips,

falling at your feet.

 sand castles moving to sea,
a clean sweep, and old is old and new,
the rock path to your house is fighting with the dew,
the moss path, the seldom said, the pang of guilt,
haunting every hilt, every corner of my sword,
as I cut through days that add to nothing,
bore holes into mud and watch the walls cave.

tomorrow

its good to be on an even keel again,
set right by rain and progress,
our backs bucked by the wind
 our fingers blind to the brail,
 but our mouths open and drinking
 and the water the crystal prevails,
dreams and drams of prospect
 stuck into tack boards
with quarter inch nails,
 as we roll pointlessly
up and down half pipes
 and blow smoke into the sky,
 we've breathed promises
 into loves ear,
 we've pointed at possibilities
 we know really we won't give a chance,
won't try,
as we wrap our heads
around new languages,
 foreign street signs,
 unknown distances and cry,
that life is arduous, ill fitting romance,
that life is easy when its dry,
that the promises we prayed
were tied to birds that couldn't fly.

so uncouth running riddles right through the middle of dilapidated buildings,

so morose lying there glazed and unamused,

remember all that energy,

now there is nothing,

just light burning my eyes,

making me turn away,

so ruthless running shivers up my spine,

a hand up my thigh.

the fan belt was burnt out as my imagination,
my rain coat was all holes and my cupboards are all cans

by the time you'd filled my head with door wedges, 

tapped open my eyes, filled my ears with metaphors, 

stopped my heart dead, stuck me sinking to the ceiling,

lined my bones with led, by the time you had set my mold to drinking,

love was already bleeding red. 

can't you see shapes under our eyes,
black lines and angst and fitting seizing cries,
the tanlines that make you a cut out,
to pin up on my wall, the hash tag then a number,
the sweet release and all, crushing liberty,
I watch it writhe about a pin,
superfluous renditions between love and sin,
 tides turning in the breeze before returning to their fall.

cut tethers, teeth bites, run lines,
dotting eyes, darting, crumbled,
led etch, you bet, we're made,
set up, run down, but near,
nearly, almost, but not,
cue me, stand me, slotted,
painted, uniform, tactful,
in tact, bright shine, painted grin,
brushed leather, well worn skin,
laugh lines, crow's feet, crooners,
no sooner, do I peel off, I turn,
return, back in, we cut,
bite through, separate,
build bridges, colonies aside,
isolating pride, but burnt,
lines run, two bleed to one,
candle wax on icing,
another year done.

away

the gestating wild, digests us awkwardly,
we're swaying at sea, cast by unfathomable tides,
many fathoms from our hopes, or supposed destiny.
what manifests is more tests and more tests,
of our patience, of our temper.
as tempests cast us rolling up or down hills,
at walls or over waterfalls,
truffles rotting unfound, diamonds crusted under mountains,
wood lice beneath flower pots,
tax rebates sent to houses we have long since moved out of,
golden opportunities, twinkles drawn on our sclera,
then erased in the wake of full calenders,
as our duties siphon us off,
away from our dreams.

Let loose dreams that never set,
pile me with old motors,
discarded cards we should've bet,
and though my lips are cracked and red,

its from screaming "I'm not dead!"

butting on without a head,
as the night takes hold and sets to led,
 as the world is washed with red socks
and the pink soaks through the thread.

work

office desks, piled with regrets,

tedium, and blood let, as night lets us linger,

on what we aught to get, 

out of outcomes not yet set.

Burn's

I knew then, that it would be no crime,
drinking the glen, you borrowing verses,
to lend weight to words you meant,
more poignantly than the one who used them first,
way back, way back, when.

I knew then, that deer park trails,
and trials by night could frighten me,
so much so, and that I could depend,
on you and your willingness,
on our quickness to defend.

I knew then, that all the pine,
and tack boards of posters,
all the fine print, were nothing,
to your loving brown eyes,
and that nothing never lies.

I knew then, that if it fails,
this hot headed first try,
I the braggart and the beggar,
will be welcomed at your side.

My pores are bleeding;
missed opportunity,
felled delusions,
burning, burning
and more.

Time we had for aching nothing,
for dog eared fallacies,
Broken crying,
dreams of happy dying,
shit stacks and turn stiles,
turn corners and run
 miles on miles on blisters.

A dream of sympathetic sisters,
america and gold,
as the blue forgotten sunrise
takes hold.

stuck

sat around, drawing up courage,
and pictures of plans,
reading our own fortunes,
reading our own hands,
knotting our brains, for the strength to understand,
the path from mediocrity,
to endless golden sands,
but the plaster sets, deplores us,
setting death masks where we stand.

act 1

hollowed out,
we scratch our names out,
from lists,
of names and names,
we persist,
to exist outside the frame,
our spines,
our long necks crane,
unwilling,
to bend, to refrain,
acting,
is a soulless game,
one piece,
in an inside lane,
another,
tucked, ignored, insane.

Thought you were a profit,
a promise of love to come,
the cherished possibility
and the bright heart of the sun,
as we drank and planned out futures,
like we had not only one.

divorce proposal

I opt out, I reject, I find these grey pastures abhorrent,

I have been washed out to sea and caught in a flood light.

blinded by the bright.

There must be some collection of words, 

some selection that curbs the indecency, 

a little poignancy, that softens the suicide,

there is no reason to go on, 

 already, in my head,

I have divided up my belongings,

I have arranged for the cat to be fed, 

after I am dead.  

a little clipping of fire,

burning in your stomach,

growing and growing, 

one day due, 

the eclipsing of the sun and moon,

by this light of flickering blue.

blessings

you were so bright,
so angry,
wrapped there,
clinging desperately,
thoughtless and,
immovable.

stuck on like a stamp,
that won't wash off,
it stays, after the hangover,
after the cough.

you clung there,
poetically pathetic,
stammering,
stuttering,
rhetoric,
you were,
poetically pathetic,
like a drunk fool,
swearing his soul,
to fish nets,
to the north star,
to hell and high water.

Is it the first sign of insanity,

dreams merging with reality,

storyboards plucked inaccurately,

something murky yet vivid,

 a dream or a memory,

life drips on, so insipid. 

I've hit an end,
run into a wall,
i've coughed everything,
out, up.

nearly croaked,
but instead,
choked,
coughed,
and up came my tumor,
a heart shape,
a saviour.

all the death,
lurching wet,
out of me.

I am forced,
to confront,
to stare...
blank white canvas,
dead white flesh.

How is it possible? 

That I find myself hopeful, again.

When all the other sentences have bled to an end.

Every other misery ended a misery.

All the world sent me sliding again, 

out to the wild, wind fiercer, rivers rushing. 

Every glimmer of gold turned out to be another,

duller metal, I caught the reflection of myself,

and counted myself rotten, felt forgotten, 

but I'm here again, hopeful. 

Catching the glimmer, beneath the surface,

across a table. 

swept back to the setting sun, the cursed do run in circles,

the circles are select, the black hearts collect and elect, 

and run rings around their necks, sacred symbols of respect. 

crept round and saw all heck, the gathering specks and flakes and pulp 

and weeds and overripe, overbearing, ominous shadows, all bunched up like

laundry, that should've been dealt with, wet spun, long cycle, shaken, dried, 

ironed and folded.

leapt up and pounced crying with the heat and laughter of a jackal, 

the rapture of fire and the crackle, while the burn stung a black heart 

onto white skin, as the sacred symbols tied me to his and his to him. 

slept though the night in the company of perfect strangers, 

led astray by perfect dangers, the exquisite shapes of ursa major,

the languid legs, the rings were spun in unbreakable silk,

my legs were bound and my eyes were knit to the sky. 

swept back your hair and gazed into your eyes, 

watching your pupils dizzy dance of perfect circles, 

how they rang rings around us, 

how have they found us? 

how the gods to astound us and now.

we are stuck here in the dark, 

at the altar, listening to the crackling of our skin, 

a hearth to warm our kin, 

a sacred sacrifice, 

bound lambs deafened, defenseless and dim.

ground me up with a slow clicking jaw,
tapping out a sentence like a metronome,
like a doomsday clock for one
as I face the wall and sweat tears,
the finality is a surreal fantasy
as the world folds like paper boxes,
all of the space crushed
all of the silent air squeeks
as my life rushes under my nostrils
and I try to figure out where I peaked.

a dull sky sets on a day that is easily forgotten,
a grind towards the standstill, another dud,
go with the grain,
polish the dust,
warm up the old metal,
and the cogs start turning again,
the day is gelatinous,
it is clogging up my sinuses,
the monotony is terrifying,
as another dull sky sets,
as another brain stem is clipped,
as I forget,
as all of these trimmings collect,
perhaps piling to something substantial,
climbing, ambling, aimlessly,
 I scramble up the side,
of this pyramid,
towards...

...perhaps,
all of this monotony,
that boils and freezes my blood,
that sets me sinking in quicksand,
that saps my soul of love,
is necessary,
perhaps each day is a tribute,
or a tributary,
to the ocean,
to a wave.

Brownies

the generosity of greased parchment, stuck the sheet to the pan,
stuck it all to the roof of my mouth, hell to the thought of it,
the sugar will melt, but now it is like sand, and i didn't know to avoid salt,
that sticks to the hand, nor did I know the merits
of some crystal over another,
or that cake should be springy and not cloy,
I did not know black from brown,
or a hat from a cake stand,
amateurishly I check the oven,
again and again, I fumble at nothing,
I always make at least one,
rudimentary mistake,
when I bake.

You won't push me into this,

the holly dance, the unplanned drift,

won't guide me to your arm your hand,

I am clean like polished alloy, 

I am pure powder snow,

a fly by night a dainty, quite,

and yet i'll win, I'm sure tonight. 

I'll pause, refrain, consider,

each passing thought will linger,

until it forms a holding finger, 

and all is subdued, is muted not moved,

you won't push me into this,

i've danced around the precipice,

i've danced through licking fire,

i've burned my hands, my neck,

i've turned and I'm not turning back,

I'm frozen still in judgement,

i've peeled off from desire. 

3 little poems

1. grown
the flush faced boy,
finds rest bite in solitude,
only once he's grown,
once he has forgotten.

2. wash
the narrow wind of water,
draws a course, and of course,
we must all, eventually,
be washed out to sea.

3. murder
the kind crows feet,
belie, tender eyes,
without the heart for white lies,
without the blackness of crows wings.

tinkerer

snapping man
sighing like a tree branch
under the weight of edifice
yellow silk glaze
on his dull buttery eyes
so tired
so damned

boy

Little boys who thought they were airplanes,
who grew up and had great big brain tumors,
passing out while silver screen orgasms sang them to sleep,
with the sweeter secrets of the universe,
all of these memories are dreamt then forgotten
by the sons of wine merchants and black cab drivers.
all of these thoughts grow like green grass,
then are bled dry by cold maturity.

I dreamt of you behind your back,
I'm sorry for that hated fact,
but you burn brighter then astronauts,
brighter than the sunlit arctic's white,
I thought of us in airplanes,
I fought the sadness of the night.

homeless

caught up in the drift,
of the snow, that you had left behind,
when your home is the dust
of the places that you used to hide
with a mouth full of rust,
because you bit your tongue to protect,
 runaway experiments,
now the street fills up with amputee apes,
and blind mice,
remember when you were home,
when the world was small comfort,
and possibility was a dream,
now your home is a chip,
of the place that you used to call,
the number still in your head,
rings dead.
guide-less little runaway,
no light, to beat the night away,
deadlock poker games,
stale mate stake outs,
life of profane love,
hatched and grown,
coup flown and dipped from above,
remember when you were home,
now that your home is dust,
in a dust bowl,
insignificant anonymity,
you
the motherless child of infinity.

it is hard to harness shrubs

the dirt on your boots undermines your stiff salute,
crushes your bowing, fuse blown mutterings,
untempered steel, so willing, so unable,
falling foul of your own fable,
caught up in the excitement of big dreams,
you forgot to stitch the inseams,
and your trousers are flapping moronically.

stupid

you are billowing out wave after wave, grey cartoon clouds into blue cartoon skies,
above blue cartoon seas, the smoke stacks are bringing the world to its knees,
the enveloping, the encircling, the enshrouding, has us bargaining with god,
pleading with science, crying through pinched laughter, farting out disaster.

what happened

we sold the glue for our hearts,
now the meat flakes apart,
its so light, too light like sparks,
but our hair is in heavy braids,
and our plates are sunk in heavy cream,
but our mouths are cloy with bitter words,
and our dumb struck wives are bitter birds,
caged up in crates, contained in crowns,
pricked by wasp tails, and death leaking bee ones,
we sold the glue for our hearts,
now the meat flakes apart,
light as puff pastry,
pink and tender,
raw, red raw.

milk

struck by the second coming of the white rain,
white washing our windows, muting all our pretty colours.
bathing us in milk for beauties sake, to cover up our regrets,
tattoos and love notes to strangers,
swallowing the green earth, eclipsing the day,
the earth becomes a mirror of the moon,
a mirror to the sun, and back and forth,
and so on, again, and then again.

can't you see we're burnt up inside the same cinder cake,
we're caught in the same net, clamped in the same bear trap,
mouths open aghast, letting in the swirling wind,
silent in the summer time, frightened half to sin,
we are locked up in our own acedia,
sadness glistening on our skin,
ankles tied to stool legs,
stool legs teetering.

tangere

it saturates,
the cut of tooth,
the gentle day,
peel back the skin,
let me stay,
unfazed by,
the words of kings,
the echoes of gods,
but your breath,
it saturates,
I can hear,
like a piano chord,
ringing out,
unopposed,
I won't forget,
you're in my bones.

doe eyed john

i'm sorry there was no follow up,
no flash back, no sympathy,
no rectifying act, only reticence,
I let you talk and I listened.

now my friend

cast back to the moment news broke,
you bobbed senselessly
 awash in misunderstanding.
then you were dragged back in,
then we all knew you couldn't win.

the whole world ignored,
slack jawed gawping and bored.

look back at the body you could've won,
had you cracked the whip on your own back,
had you cut yourself less slack.

but you swallowed sweet pills in place of bitter ones.
you curled up in your bed,
you groaned for the profound pain in your head.

now my friend,
you are stupid
and fat.

you were the shape of the sun as it shimmers
a canyon whispering an earthquake,
shaking like a sea bird,
humming out a curse
sailing an intangible course
clipped tongue
clipping at my heels
humming out a curse,
a melody
a hook to hang me
and my dreams.