why spend time observing wretched things
when apartments bloom like sandcastles
in every trench - in all the concrete?

why languish in wretched things like
phantom-busting;
tail-chasing,
grape-avoiding,
ball-breaking the black box
or even ROYAL DECREES?

When you know you are late to work
but let time hang loose from your body like an oversized suit regardless,
you are sure to open the floor of the earth and feel like a pervert.

Feet will try to scuttle you with haste across leaf painted pavements toward your occupation but, glancing at the bustle of similar people spread about, you now feel embarrassed.

So you force them to slow down, almost bringing yourself to a stubborn standstill. You can't stop entirely of course. The momentum of the merry-go-round would crush your organs against the stationary facade of your body in an instance, and there'd be no blood left at the back of your brain.

Hell rises on the back of a Hell-razor,
bursting through the skin of flowers.
I have long-since given up the dry shave of the cold edge INSTEAD opting for an electric experience...
buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
... like a band reaching lightspeed. Their infinite galloping spread across a night sky the size of an operating table for all the nice guys and doctors to see.
SEND 'EM ALL TO SEA, along with the electric razor and me.

happening upon a street light

and then another
and another
and another

until there are no more street lights
and i am met by a reflection
clearer
than any mirror
i've happened upon before

nostalgia hits like a train

i want to
                fall
backwards

the future's kind with pain

our love
                falls
                         forever
backwards

my desire
from curtain fires
to life on lillypads

put ******* liars
on washing wire
for peace in cleaner hands
...
the end of ends
amends my friends
i'll sleep when life is calming

on river beds
i'll rest my head
with frogs forever charming

there's a humming in the apartment.
a monotone kerfuffle

a creature so beautiful; so broad, so ruffled
could not stretch upright; left, right,
or down between the legs.

the humming in the apartment
is painfully obscene.

I'm stumbling round the apartment like a ghost,
falling through doors; this way and that.

Each corner of my smile held up on whimsical stilts and my my my

aren't you so fine.

We Dance in the Twilight Meadow
And
Drop to the Grass along with the Petals
And
Last Call has been called at the Bar
So
You can Fall in the Midnight Hour at will

Stealing a yacht just to ram it in to the horizon
along with a muse fatally misplaced in whatever I can grasp with my two hands.

Finding the first blood red bloom of a rose bud
or the gentle sweetness in my last drag -
I would gladly die to live forever

Like all the love climbing the walls of our plastic zoos

at least i can disappear
behind its vast veneer

they aren't the monolith we are

Uninspired

And lagging behind my forehead.
I can't find the right button to press.
It seems preferable to be a lab rat with nothing but a big red button to squeeze when you need your brain to get there

if I don't think about it.

cradled in the pumpkin patch
only to drown in the the canal
along with all the discarded tat.

i would laugh if it wasn't for the aerosol in my chest
and microplastic in my spine.

dining on cardboard fish as to not upset
THE NATURAL HIERARCHY
of things
and so jeff can go to space in a *****.

such ****** performances to languish
UNDER!
the carvings in my countenance tell me
autum will deliver ORANGE RED.

I have spent hours as a cockroach on the wall and days waiting for the bomb to drop in a trench somewhere out East.

Once I finally steady myself on the restless knee of beauty I find the night to have violently betrayed me - and although I still scatter under the light like those wretched things in our bathroom,

the days cast shadows with you

I leave the ice-cold bath, shivering into all my goose bumps. I put pink trousers over my broken knees and make my way on to the balcony. Our worries about hot water watches over some dialogue between two pigeons. They make good neighbours the way they know me.
Cold air on my bare feet mutes the tempestuous soul of the city. The final moves of the game are being played out there while I relax into my break. Eventually I move my bones inside, to my corner -

at the end of the world.

i'll let the wind sing me to sleep
because
the sheep i count have started to count me