sight is not a silent sense

you are fire in mirrors
behind me and cold to the touch

smudged
 the white noise
a train
rumbling through the quiet night

impossible to reach
not impossible to fracture

by touching only my hand
 alone to my eyes

you are alive in mirrors
you are alive

cower

run little walnut roll like the fire is your tail
spin little lyre bird you have function and a brain
can't you be the trident that pierces falling rain?

you could be a thunder clap that crashes mountains
you could be the thud of a kick drum

sleep like an ostrich
sleep like I imagine an ostrich sleeps

stand taller than that, be straighter and more upright
stand taller than a small man in a bar fight

curl and unfurl
be a boy or a girl

sleep in the belly of a cave
be frightful. behave.
be a raucous riotous grave

you too could be the sleeping wishes
found under the fingernails of the desperate and depraved

meanwhile the boys inside gut fishes and cry out for the waves.

hearts song to the shoulder blade

this is the last time,
could it be at half speed.
baby, hear me out
  could you could at least

slow this down
my heart is tripping to keep time
trigger finger stuck
 lagging behind

there is a white wall against my shoulder
there is chalk dust on my shirt
there is a brick wall caking over
all the beating muscle is too much dirt
this is the last i time.

I have fallen at your feet
I have hell to thank
but not your cold hands to hold
I have the sublime
 ethereal and insubstantial

Do you remember
coming to meet me in work
telling me to finish early
demanding I go straight
without detour

Do you remember
the wind and the rain
like a tide

Calamity will never again get you

You are erudite and important

Bathing in the now infinite water

That spans more than the whole world

When the river ached at its banks

Born to be an ocean, it broke

A word was shouted as it spoke

And it span us like a carousel

all clung tight around its throat 

with our fingers tight as mesh wire

With our guts scrunched up like iron wool

Our nostrils and eyes were dry and chapped

Cracked and bleeding

berries

There are berries growing on the tree just by my window
in the front garden that is right on the street
old men and women seem to know what they are
I don't know what they are
old men and women seem to be taking them
I don't know how I feel about this
sometimes I mention the berries to people who I think might know what they are
sometimes people seem to think they know what the berries are
I offer them the mystery berries openly
I don't know how I feel about this
why do I offer the berries to these people
why do I mind others taking them freely
they are so excited
taking them brazenly or slyly
surely I should be used that someone is making use of the fucking things

why do I get a tiny pang like I'm being robbed
tiny berry theft
tiny unknown useless fruit

I suppose I am a hoarding, greedy; capitalist
sitting in the front room of a rented home
pinching my brief ownership
between my forefinger and thumb

In a few months I will move out
I will walk past this room
I might steal berries
with a pang of guilt
and a feeling of ownership
pinch it until it bleeds out its seeds

Rot

The last lump of you still beating

                                         clinging to the bone 

                                                       of the slow 

cooked meat flaking wetly away

                              the wet flesh/

                                          dust of dead fish 

swimming off with the brines 

                                     currents through 

                                             the last blue dawn

                                          

to the black cold bottom 

to the heady pressure 

 of the sea trench: 

the finger pulled fissurs in the earths crust 

                                                             and then lay down

after three minutes 

where I didn't think at all

only shouted out;

"blood cracked skull! I wanted you for a side car to ride through the world of new adventures to find the last slip of unmapped land and comment on the worth of its fine green tree and its unturned rock, 

I wanted you to play the first ever original song on the last untunable piano, while I danced and drank and sang, I wanted you to convince me of the value of religion, to value my redemption enough to convince yourself of it and redeem the both of us, I wanted you to sink into my cold skin and embue me with the warmth of your heart, 

I wanted all of that, 

for a start."