Saturday, 16 June 2012


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.

Thursday, 14 June 2012

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,

the world is porcelain,
you are languid,

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.

Friday, 8 June 2012

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.

Thursday, 7 June 2012


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,
 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.

Tuesday, 5 June 2012

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.


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.

Monday, 4 June 2012

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.