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.