Half of my life
ago
the head
of a friend
had soft madness
placed within
it

by a windscreen that met him
as he danced
in the street

after that
his words jarabled
and I don’t know
if he ever painted again

but as we are met
by horrendous days
and the intricacy of our life
is humbled, and humbled again
there is no where left to bleed;
and the breathing sound
of demanding nothing,
from anyone, at anytime
is better than asking
because if you’re there on time
when a possible drop
is there
you will be linked,
and your body
will work the rest out
by itself

all else is the smell of time
where she is most silent,
and has no smell,
evil changing
in a spray of perfume

where the chimera transforms
because the car is smooth
and sings in the works
humming a song after the crash

no-one knowing
what you’re really
singing,
it’s chosen
beneath your tongue
where nothing moves
if not shot in this ballroom
made of dust.

Between the long plain that reaches over to London eye,
and over again to the ornaments that lay under the sky-
the city opens up its zero chorus of blackness within light flys;
I’ll never be up here again-
on another night where the staleness seems to have been flashed
away;
- I lay back and accept the clean wounds of space between wind pulse;
the campus sits as a passed morning meaning that I can stay up
here until I need to go, migrants of vehicle sound beaten by
a flock passing below the polluted white clouds- I’d welcome
security to find me; I’d give them the most genuine
‘hands up’ at this point;
I’ve taken enough neon in to know that it was worth it. The ache
in my body is night breeze, any losses are about 100m down,
lung and heart happy to stare- I doubt there’ll
be a hoo har- my mind licks over the clear void of the campus
and rests back; it seems worth it just to sleep,
just here, but I’ve gotta climb back down too
and even that thought,
is sent back-germinated
from the stars
as if the symbols of their light,
are more warnings,
to accept their open room
as my own;
without question,
less I quit,
and dive now
too.

Lives  in the mouths of cannons
engineering themselves in laughter, smelling, changing, in the tip of a firefly-before it thinks or truly lives. Glowing, in the buzz-hum with a perfect way of rolling
over each other in geometric bliss-mating
like shadows flying from the hands of a tribesman, in the ceremony of his eyes – - explaining to his love
that she is the stealth of his blood, and that the camera watching has lungs too, like you or ‘I’. Stripped negatives from chests sing from a line of animals hung in a black room
the only thing to remind the city of its eternal face, wetness clinging to each peg – all augmenting themselves, transforming drains into ventricles and aorta’s-opening, the sighing pool-mass we see has a curve along its far corners – slight – returning its shape to us inside the battery, and eons of humbling war, and the vat contained molasses,
and the occasional faces of god
in flickers, of red saluting static, across the landscape.

Our time is linked as the day shifts, workers conducting the days lips
joining sculptures uniformed in nakedness
steam glides across the deepening pool,
rhythms of the earth belt free from knowledge and chaos,
no life vermin,
no energy separated from birth,
or the simpleness of walking beside you

Where we always are,
in the climbing paths of voiced and unvoiced back world flowers, which hope without thought,
and never begin
until they are named,
and known within cell,
microbes repeating their art.

A nightingale crossing paths with a worm,
all of the lampshades tensing at once,
holding the air up
completely still
transcending a tight fist until it bursts into a tree
placing its roots in the burning ground by melting its ice
illumined
traces near the opal shaped glass
where we purge our minds
of transport beyond our own
intricate company
settling into one
and hearing nothing
that is not here
belonging;

with us.

i look around the sweat cage
there’s you looking good, me looking good
back then. i could make a life from that one night i remember,
if i was insane
which seems normal now; the music playing gave us our bodies,
it knows that our tight dance is better
i’de forget it all, if it didn’t slice through my day
and transform it from getting dressed to complete night
blacking and blacking all else, untill your particular dress
and style of step
and hip, is the day;
we’re given single hairs of such things
that must last, past when the morning
tannoy says
‘hey all boarding for gate eighty-nine!’
and you’re still sweating your mind out -
to make it
so far, I’ve always made it before the gates shut
i run like a sprinter towards you
which is where i have trained
and keep on going.

we all know it.
we all have differing amounts of it.
we’re all doing the same cha cha cha!
we’re walkin through a waterfall, and we all at grab the same things
on the other side
we reach for each other and hold our arms up like victors
as our horses bleed
the horses being wednesday and saturday
they are the times we have left of our beds needing many more hours
with our loved ones
and knowing that the street is not as us
yet, unable to stop moving
we get one snap in the eye of it all to say it all-
and hell
maybe that helps
maybe the heaped stimulus of work has it’s time now
to give us that hammer we need
to know that our lives are numbered by irriversible clocks
that untwine in the furtherness of how we will be
so for now
we are given an untidy space, with a number
to say what we mean
before
we’re driven away.

Laggard, the ships drive down
emancipated parts tapping the sea with reasons
to soar back up
like fresh whales and the pieces of meat
falling to floor from human mouths sick of holograms
and trawling and fixing for our debts
ghost rythms, shaving off grissel and time
passing over stuble
the intricate need of each
hair
all of us, using the same tools;
ungendered across our bodies , my hand rubbing the grooves where your **** sat in the grass
all of the words now, slumbersome after a work day, but still able to see
where you sat and I sat
the beuatiful knife that few have, but always will
(needing only one type from one place, to begin)
saying to it, like the mad do, and we do:
‘Good God
blunt again
*****.
how many steaks have I used you on?
come on, where’s your guts – - , oyy… go onnn…’

But it’s alright about the silence
whilst you make a cheap dinner
the walls don’t know that you’re a little mad
they turn around like a house of mirrors made from cards
and say something back.

the day light was wrong
so it stayed there until the night dance came,
and everything flew apart from our hands that were
to used to tools that had old roads, later
we’ll go on up
and see what the hell we were talking about.
we’ll live normally, and will see every intricate part
of the carcass
(s)he will have a familiar grace
and behaviour behind our eyes;
bleeding out.
signalled by our sleeping embrace.
to do the same;
falling in windows
painted in silence
since we’re both off today
and our new place needs work;
paint streaming from our hands and nails
that makes no sound.