Polymath hearts
the planets were occupied
so burnt that we traded

embrace
we trade nothing
but birth

my lap shadow kin
my beers my skin
where endless i go.

Why’d you get locked up then lad?
Oh. I’m locked up?
I know you. You won’t escape lad
Escape from where?

(Jackie Wilson at her majesties pleasure 1884, West Denton, Newcastle)

The sweat rolled off Dominic’s nose.

Its ‘movement’

movement

movement

Uniting.

Meditation takes a person out
from themselves
so far out, without any need
for any additional charge, toll, or need, that when you come back,
even if it’s within
the same body,
you feel

and the glow comes back
on-coming traffic smiles, dead less grace
the worst, and 7am

chess
without a game.
a drool.
an intricacy within
mirage.
hope in the sorry soft gas explosions
and death was heavy enough to fly and give
But not in the normal way
one second, and even joy spills
and the cabbies have begun to scream and break down at each other
even though it’s not a full moon
too many people squashed on a tight balcony
drinking us all away
too many hands
not dancing
it all away


Slugs emigrate across concrete when the soil is wet.
When you wonder why they’ve left.
Its pouring
and you think you recognise a name scrawled in the wet trail.

Single, intimate, observations.

And reasons for the evening to be near.
It will be worth it! – I’LL SEE YOU! –
And now we are allowed to be glorious without price.
And now it’s sad as hell.
And the trees know that.
But the squirrels never do.
And now those words don’t matter.
And now we are allowed.
And now we go.

And the laminate floor
has the weight of a cross.
And the thing is,
you know

(It’s all softly bombed)
Not in a horrific
or knowable
way.

But in God’s good loving
loving
loving
******* for ya.

We’re finally rubbed out.

Crucifying.
And uncrucifying.

Eyes are useless here.

Blackness first.
THEN that soft
‘soft’

dripping.

easy blackness.

Meditating, sat middle
the pentagram of a small flat.
blue white board marker, on ‘easy wipe’ wood flooring.

And if I wake, I can wipe all the lines out.

SO, it went the same.
blue colour of cityscape coming-black light flashing always
across the distance from balcony
a beautiful stillness.
Waves first. Sea. The complete sea. Swimming.
ego. Ego swimming. Ego going down. Hello! And ha!
And no more jokes.
And isolation.
And no more months.
But there were gushes.
Gushes of experiences in, and outside, with individual breathes
and the proximity of love, coming closer
like a germinating hand
guiding you down
into the oceans private concert

Not too close to the expensive parts, or the bad parts,
or anywhere too pristine.
Christ, that’d be
a joke. It’d be funny
and then the surgeon would come and operate
on you;
lifting you out whilst you’re asleep

And it would go like this:

Cancer: Hey! What’s going on?!
Get off! I’ve paid my
rent and don’t wet the bed
anymore,

Surgeon: Don’t care.
Come here...
Oh for **** sake you’re making my day long.
I don’t get paid
for this.
Cancer: Oh yes you do handsome.
Surgeon: Oh yeah!

rest on the long side of your bed.
‘What’d you do at the weekend?’
Where’d you go?

...

banter broke down into spider web
substance
before fading completely, as thoughts begin
to disappear and fly down
into heavier states
from outside you saw a man still dressed
in formal office attire
tie hanging undone around a white shirt, shoes kicked off
beside strange markings on a polished floor. From in,
the understandings
are quite different
fly gently, like a loved one retiring from life
as the single light bulb watches from your ceiling
tensing one last second time in hesitation
then blowing you out with a blink.  

looked into the well where life is buried
and reached down
arms lengthened like dusty pieces of ham down a hole
touching the foetus as it crawls back up,
and up through the highway lines of his veins,
like a rabbit hunts wolves,
like the peach reacts to your bite.

We smoked and ate apple pie as the autumn tattooed
We snapped small pieces off
then ate the mites.

And then when the well filled we made our arms lassoes;
that churned the grain,
turning the quietness into storm,
and back to parts of spring.

You hesitate, touching the ape
like a clown who’s just tossed his life into the air, and juggles it,
like dead poems and hot boiling yeast.
you looked further into the well and found the figments of the ‘Narwhal’
the sea creature with a prominent horn
that shoots from its head-

Early sea farers
used to think the horned mammal was a type of
magical being
it birthed the idea of unicorns
you let the water well mix and join
as we drink coffee today, and the night is less silent
than that of star of apples and gloom
each tarantula that scatters in the red stars of sand is welcome;
and the honey man and honey woman flicker,
through numberless bank checks and bills as knocks arrive
knock after knock after knock
into long vibrational hum

All that remains
is the bursting punch
near the bottom
of oceanic well

As it tightens your grip into the follicle hibernating bears
that speak eloquent words whilst we eat;
the deep groan of munching hands
in the well helps our arms
pull up the glowing carcass as it turns back
into us within our hands, it speaks easily and slow, telling each
servant surrounding
the hole that they should:

‘Dance casually, dance inside my red eyes’.

Some take advantage of melody, as a trust that funds satellites of globe,
as if no one ever dreamed or broke the yoke of more pleasurable things;
one of your arms
is like the way that a crab crawls past over my nose and into our future home

another asks that you aren’t so violent in February
and that the month is a counting mouth that multiplies zero
beside the arms reaching for a pyramidic beauty
under the ***** shell; aborting its children like blood in the snow,
without humanistic style, more in tune with time
than the army of water lifting your throat up,
spits- that poke at us with antlers, undeterred, no legged, mating in the sand

After a while, otherness takes over, and will comes.
And emotion is long shattered,
easing out,
playing skin game and dissipating need, where all will and human comes back
it takes a while.

And our gender has nothing to do with just lust
We are the almost completely blind, as the cliché remembers
Gender is
the lack of gender and the freedom of paradigm
whilst hands are upon love,
And more night(s) turn within us.
dream like bright black stars.

Weekends. Week. Work. Corporations dancing like butterflies on fire. Gone.
Gone
Gone
Gorgeous

nothingness
apart from its face and voice
speaking

“Heyy, how’s it going?”
Projection
No
“Yes... Lover,
Yes yes yes!”
“No.”
skull now linked to the lips of a home
“Correct, correct, correct...” The intangible
darkness, over and over

a rushing
and uncontrollable
heaviness of fire.

foxes in back alleys salute
the black sky with a mongrel scream
and all the animals of the world are linked for a split minutiae,
recognising and respecting the breach;

“You’re hurting... mmmmuh-” Dominic tried to say
in the onslaught.

Converging planes that came from the lips of the spirit crowning his mind.

“You’re not Juuu, Juh Juah Juh.”

He tried to say for the next few hours, as the sun spread down
on the city
and felt a deep
empathy for another one
of its children
attempting to free
itself.

“No.”

how right you are...” The spirit said
as Dominic’s head slumped from exertion.

“You see...” The spirit said seeping into his bones
and killing him;
paramedics zip
the bag
over his face.

“You see...” The voice says again
knocking the lights off
and flinging you
by your throat

Each one letting you
go

landscape sick in multiple elements of confused colour,
parts of buildings, art: growing up in the horizon, new structures
made by thoughts, old flowers inside limbs,
smoking.

“What...” The spirit
said.

sigh at the strange place,
without looking around.
blossoms of mind and traffic
circulated
characters
on a schizophrenic island

two flies ****** invisibly
and grow from the unseen smallness of their passion
and become an instant world
in the Red Mountains.

“What’s up?” Dominic say gloomily,
laugh a little.

“You’re meant to be screaming...
And yes...
Yet another ******* month
without hitting
target.” The nightmare says,

No incorporeal speech
no anger
anymore.

She might have been about twenty five,
dressed in a shade of grey
change
that covered her genitalia
and ******* from ankle up to neck

get used to it all.
raise your chin to the sky and try to blink away from the constant lick
of the beast growing
from yourself, or lover, or day

And grow the chimera
throughout numberless
stages
like a beautiful clay
that cant decide

Finally the meer-hawk looked like a Dickensian peasant
with an intricate smile, dressed all in jail rags
stinking of sweat, *****, and time.
And then we change
again

And her black hair scooped down
into the blackening sand
where the grains accepted her slim weight
through out itself

She was tired and fed up of the back-world today
She left her contract looking around upstairs
and accepted the hit
on her targets

A transference of types in the quaking room.
A quick drop of laughter flys
into the lil bear or a lot; and a snap and a lot of hunger
for us all...

The master of the basement was mostly machine.

The front of his face that we run towards
is a centred and hovering engine
at the far end of the shadow
room
and the stench
from its thought.

a farce and enough
to turn you away
from a really good
steak.

no walls

no matter

a car mouth approaches naked.

dead cats know this, as they lay purring still, licking their paws still,
misery knows,forgetting, and the coldness of the street gave birth

to numberless seedy neon lights
flickering away from the wall less walls
once more

and you know, we
all
have a prayer
that comes
out
here was
mine:

might as well let you know
whilst we’re at it
that this one comes
out, in some accent~~
but is how it’s meant to go

“...as if to prae
inside the rain
as if to move
the moon with small hands
ah cross the yard
and lucky sky

I live in that playce me lass
with ya quiet weiyht
upon me own
of ya li’l voice
that taeks it away

Ya-renuf ta bring
al me Gods back
an pin ‘em te tha walls

Enough ta mayke
al’ me angels breathe
heavy
for even an ounce
of ya grace

Ave begged at tha hands
of jesus Christ
for that tayste
of yeh
me sweet bonny lass
an ya the only lass
‘ahve evva met
that mayde us feel
like ah cuhd heal
without bein less

An I’m lookin at ya now
with al me luv
an ah divent need
ney where to ruhn
as am ah freed dog

and in ya charms

An ‘av ney-where left to luk
but I’ll kip alreet the neet pet
cos ya by me side

an in me arms.”

But now it is rather late my friend, and
we all know how long old accents last,
mine, I cherish, I will say it when cursing
and gone
when lit among friends and when
impressing
new jobs, that I shall leave, such is
my
way
and
i may
see you
again.

We lay down together.  

Unable to move.  

Our smell the same.  

Skin stretched out.  

Holding each other’s hand.

The days and weeks we hadn’t been eating properly didn’t show on her figure as it did mine.  She still looked full.  

Muscles and waist growing tighter, thinner.  But hers,
Hers

Her face, *******, lips, hadn’t changed.

An animal in love with beauty.  Old beauty, future beauty.

Bulgaria, Estonia, Latvia.  We had been travelling Europe for some time.  That’s where we were.  One of those places.  All of them.

And the heat kept beating, making me sweat.  
It made her sweat too.  
But we always had enough energy to be together.  

                  As our bodies become hungrier, our need for each others skin increased.  
                  Her sighs and moans and thighs becoming louder.  Penetrating darkness.  
                  The cicadas.  Black trees.  Collapsing.  Grinding.  Feeding.

Our love, returning to dusk my dear...  

Giving life back to the morning.  Killing each other.
Controlling hell.

A stretch of green.  Hard hills.  
Sand inside our **** and hair;
The ground, and her perfect smell.

We stand-up, and continue to walk through the breeze towards the train station.
I pray the monies been wired.  We stop.  I pull her into myself.  
Tell her all these things.  

She smiles  
our bodies join  
and hills the size of Gods

                                                           ­      Became nothing again.

                                                         ­                          :::
            

‘We will be fine.’

She said gracefully.

                                                    ­                               :::

            

There was nothing at the station hardly  
but a shop was open in the blazing afternoon
the unknown shop-keeper didn’t smile
but sold us enough with what we had to get us drunk;

There were no people or trains/we had five hours to burn until the next one came
the day stretched out and up into the evening as we laughed and screamed like two boiling oysters drunk in a kitchen time passed into and through the hours we wound around each other like two fighting seas her thighs tensing with absolute strength on my lap moaning from her stomach and into the sky

as I did
we kissed again, slowly and absolute - celebrating release
making the day travel into night

my back lay against the cold wood of the station seat
we began to wind down.
and the need for hope faded as we both began to sleep

I said one last thing to her to make her laugh a little, before we rested in wait for the last train.

She began to curl into rest, her hair across my lap, but I notice that she sees one more thing before her eyes shut.  She was looking down to the end of the station where the entrance was.  Her eyes burst.  Her laughter stopped like a match being put out.  
Her nails dig into my leg.

I smile down telling her she can’t fool me with the same old tricks; then I look too.

He was coming.

He moved like slow clay.

‘No.’

‘There’s just one of him... I can take him.'

We have to get this train...’  I think.

His lips lay still like two grey worms on top of each other.  Emotion.
Less.  Moving towards us.

And there was no-where else for us to go.  No more running.  
And I wouldn’t have run even if I could.

And this is what I thought seconds before he was near us.





11.46 pm.
the train nears
the night mixing with the hopeless age of the station
gently moving her body to one side I began to run at the man walking towards us
i call every mutilated thought I can from my mind and air
silence them
and pour them only into my movemnet

He was Russian like her.  Old school Russian.  No sympathy for an English ******* wanna be saviour like me.

No sympathy.
I jumped into the air - I could see he hadn’t expected that  
the time I hung there expanded for miles dying slower than normal
i have time to see his cold receding head,
the lines across his wide brow/the shoulders of a man half-bull
eyes etched into wood
he looks up as I connect

I land an elbow directly to his face before I land fully catching him with my momentum
all of my weight landing on his nose and mouth
‘let this slow him down’  I ask fate
the adrenalin jack-knifing through my body like a restless rush of pure red almost bringing it to a halt
tt rocks him, a little...
next: left
left
straight right
the biggest one i've  
Blood.

His head hung slightly low in sudden contemplation and pain
he still has a lot left.  I think

A gorilla dancing with a fly.

i follow up with more punches
his hand shoots for my throat faster than I can react

I can punch.  But he’s taken many a man like me.  
I think




No air.




I hear Russian
And parts of the station again.
I hear her voice
Straight in its pitch and unchanging melody
But-without-the-laughter.  
I can tell she’s scared from the way she puts too many words in her sentences, too fast.  
I see his grey outline pushing a much smaller one against the wall.
I think about Natashka back inside one of those rooms.

I think about her sorrow and strong will.  
Defiant, but captive.  

I was certain at every turn that she was misleading me.  
(She was)
She had bent my logic so far back it stayed there and made sense again
like a wild contortionist miming a perfect song

I had travelled miles to find her
after three months of dream I finally did.

“ah Jerome”.  
She Said.

We drank and made love for hours.  
reality adjusted to us
not the other way around

dark forms behind the curtains of an apartment
a bed of velvet sweat
wrapped around you, inside you.  

*****.  No air.  New life.
  
“Jerome”  She said after three days.
“You-must-go.  I have lied.  They come here when I call them.  They make you give money...”
“I know hon.”  I said.

“Lets go.”

We made final, violent, love.  
And then left.
I will now owe ‘at least 25,000 Euro’s’ she tells me

I figure it’s all worth-it
“That’s alright”  I reply
and light up as we leave the building





My rib-cage roars into the ground with disgust and rage.  
My remaining spirit pours into my hands and knees as I rise.
A dead sprinter.
A dead man
still rising;
A spitting snarl.  A scream.
The rats are woken.  
Old angels are woken.  
And I ask all the beer drunk spirits that are close to help me.

I tackle him hard into the wall, we crash into Natashka
but she moves just in time, even his legs are heavy, they slow my rage,
i only manage to get one, its under my right arm, held with both hands, my left leg steps inside his remaining right, behind it, I pull, the trip works,
he falls.  

I hear the train.  I follow me in
again
all I have in the world is surprise
and his squat body is the strength of three of mine
emptied into one.

And at the maddest of times it’s the strangest of things you remember:  
i see the lights of the train flashing across her whole body
and for a moment she transforms
and is complete light...

I’ve climbing on top of him
i strike down with the madness of ten days drunk on whiskey.  
aortas ventricle pulse

His powerful fingers grasping at my limbs trying to stop me, but it’s no use.
spears made of bone ****** down into his face
and the old angels watch, as I connect, drooling and enjoying the show, happy to throw me a few chips

His arms begin to flop down like tired wild animals returning to sleep
and perhaps my fury and revulsion can break even him
my hands on her body;
i force her on the train with the last of our money
the conductors can only see two drunks fighting beside a beautiful bystander.
I force her on.

“Jerome.”  She says screaming.

A clay hand takes my breath again as it locks around my mouth from behind me.  
I manage to hold the door shut long enough while being suffocated so that the train is moving with her inside
and when the train is leaving, I finally feel joy.

“Jerome.”  She says still.

And  finally I hear not.  

Not the man choking me or the time of day.  
In the seconds that my lungs drown, I feel only the bliss of having known you, a last toast before I rest within the driving sea, salt-water changing my lungs
but I know my last action was with all my soul, my mind, my body.

Natashka, I drink to you, fully.  Finally.
This thought fills my gut.
His hands across my mouth, my eyes begin to shut.
Her smell.  

That was the last thing I thought about.



                                                       ­                                ...




I’m looking down at my body, the Russian’s beside me breathing hard.
Tired.  Big.

And then to my shock I see Natashka again.  
Walking from the far end of the station back to the area where all the scrapping happened;
one of her knees bleeding and ripped, she limps, as if something is completely broken, her foot perhaps, out of time with the rest of her body.  

She drags her handicapped body all the way towards me and clay man standing beside me.
I can only watch.
When her tattered body gets close, I get to see all the cuts, one side of herself is badly damaged where she jumped from the train
and dislocated half the joints in her body

And when she is only a reach away from him.  She touches his chest.
Hands that can change anything.

And I look at them both.  
And death saves you from nothing at all.  
You just observe the same things, at a slower pace, from a different position;

you try to tell the suicides this, but; few want to listen...
there’s nothing wrong with oblivion, just remember that once you’re there, you still need something to do...

I break down.  Knees hitting the ground.
I see her body slide into him, closer, her hand disappears behind his back
like thin snake wondering around a rock
searching

Now

she stands pointing his own gun at him.  A shot goes into his head.  No hesitation.  Now she looks down at me, beside my choked corpse, a gun still in her hand. Weeping.

My hand wants to reach up to her.  
I can't.  

Another bullet fired
it discharges through her mouth, destroying her head.

Now she lays down beside me too
between me and russian hit man

The station endures our blood as we bleed out
forming one river that trickles down onto the tracks and gutter
you can’t tell whose blood is whose
or who is bleeding out the most

I look up at a light-bulb in the roof;
it tenses one more time, making the mosquitoes dance in quiet frenzy, before it lets out a final scream, cracking out of life.  Going-out-softly.

My head comes back down and I see another person standing only a few steps away from me.

With a turn of her head she suddenly flicks me a half-smile
the kind she knows I like
the kind that rips the spirit right out from your chest and makes it feel good.

Before we begin to walk away together something makes me turn
and we both look behind ourselves. The Russian looks down at his body too, the lines in his face are still, and yet we know how he feels.

He looks across at us as we walk away down the tracks
we can see only the deep set hoods of his brow, shadows for eyes;
he moves his feet slightly so he now faces us flat

he raises one of his palms
as the other searches for his cigarettes
in the first movement I have seen him make casually all-day

I hear him say the words:

“Do svidaniya. Moi druz'ya. Byt' khorosho"

And although his language isn’t mine, I know this means:

"Goodbye."

"My Friends."

"Be well."

                                                         ­                             ...

I smoked. There was a good hand in the sky. It looked like a peach draped over tatty buildings. Hemisphere broken open at the end of a fist, and then at the end of an arrow shattering the pieces of night surrounding it, as the moon clouds shot, devouring it.

I flicked my cigarette down on the floor of the fly over instead of flicking it into the avalanche of cars below. Who knows what something as miniscule as a flying tab **** might make a person think. It would not be a fly. It would be a tab ****. It would be something that distracted a driver on the motorway, which they traced back to my finger flicking it.

It would be rude and imprecise, a car loses control and then flips over for a second, then paints the carriageway with ten multiples of itself flying and screaming. The driver flys inside the car. And I continued to cross the fly over. Outside the bookies at 10pm there is a dog looking up at me, his head tilts like he is asking me something, as he starts to follow me, leash dragging.

"Oi! Oi! Where the **** are you going?" A mouth from the ****** says, "Oh me, just down here." I reply, "I was talkin to the ******* dog you ******* mug." The gentleman added. The small white staffy was still looking up at me. Well, one of us is going to have to answer him, his tail said. "Oh ******* then." The mouth says changing back again into the building. "I guess we're going down there then." Schrödinger says, or 'Schrö', as he allows me to call him.

I light another cigarette as more arrows are fired from the sky, more like wet arrows now. "Well you'll need to pick up my leash mate; I don't want to look like a ******." Shrö says, "Ah sorry dude," I say picking it up as we continue to walk.

"Most of the people who talk to me are a little mad." The small staffy says. But why am I called Schrödinger? The staffy asks me. Ah come on, you don't get it? Well I do apologise but I am not that sharp on my quantum theory philosophy, and I am also a dog. Oh yes, I concede to him in my flat.  "Do you mind opening the door to your balcony pilgrim?" He asks me next.

"Sorry sir?" I ask him, "Well it either goes on your floor or I do it outside." He says. I open the door as he asks, and then lean against the frame as he takes a ****, and I watch him. He scrapes his hind legs on the concrete as if forgetting that it is concrete and not soil. You remind me a lot of love, I mention to him, smoking.

“You know what pilgrim? I think I prefer the name Otto Gross.” The staffy says looking up at the mixing night and I hatch open a new can pouring some into his bowl on the balcony. Cheers love. He says. He puts his two front paws on the meter high wall where my balcony overlooks a junk yard, and begins to speak.

“There is my lover! As screamed across sense and filled with conjoined gait, of my eye and hand, I am jealous of the city she walks in, by me, as I am half departed, myself, near a fox that gathers in ball, by me and is a better *****, than me, here, so I learn, from vermin, how to hide, how to fight, and how to re-appear. How to have humour, like theirs, and there unplanned joy-“

Woah “*******”, I’m spewing, a poet dog! A pile of dosh in the equilibrium! I rush back into my flat and grab a pencil and paper, shake a bit, take a sip, keep on listening, then nearly fall **** forwards returning to the balcony scribbling. And there’s a ****** dog talking.

“I trit-trot across roads with my last owner, winning jobs only within tasks of cemetery light, inside and on, the wall; so curled so, as I sleep outside, so sojourned within, grey dusk, car rivers- I spit! Not so far as giants can, just a piece of spittle, just shadow puppets dancing, just marionettes laughing-”
Schrödinger sang on my balcony beginning to howl, making the lid of the box open.

“To ******* the rain. To share within it, its fire, its knowable drench, of skin like hymn, that is so far penetrating, and mingled past flesh, opened and quakeless to the onslaught of lightening swans! The quickening fury, of several slow days, and lives, devouring the metronome of salutes, upon heart buildings coming down like tetrahedrons drawn by many hands, of dusk filth opening to the arrays of data goods and gods, and produced from the pockets of gibbous mooned skies, and I whisper to the tsunami: mood unhung, bellowing away from the dog fights, and unpainted streets, I seem: To be praying...”

Monday may come soon I doubted, watching the staffy speak.

“Planets growing teeth, in the stars and the junk-yarded iris, succour comes, and so do the sad journeying flies, flying in the mouth of many gales, as extremities to the planet’s engine, affordable, losses, condensed in- and danced solarlessly -in, dances of mortuary, and wedding sung precipice, the edge of a gale, happy to blow my face, away, just gust gust gust! And yes. I do pray a little, and past holocaust of saccharine tune, our shame is forgotten in the simple, rhythms, of a cup- a hand, a castle flock of gulls, landing in water.”

A dog wags its tail because it has just shat, his owner gone, bag ready below ****, I feel streets clean with loving owners hostile to the madness, of the furious dozen dozen flies- lobotomised drool, ready and alive enough, to laugh, and if you are knifeless, maybe a lil knackered, from work - - we might haul up: eternity, my love, and have a lil more, humour! In our sheets and face and sky, an take a **** holiday, right where you are stood or sat, walking, or resting.

And there are no gods, but the ones that let you see them creasing their soft cheeks and aging beside you, together, letting time die, parapets soak in the weather, and say: ‘hey’, here are my bones, there has been a lot of twisting done, but all they need, is yours.

Bones in the ashless fire
bright
from the growth of vitalic hands
from surpassing echo
of careless ground
letting all of the roads just
go
into the charging and dug-out
roads
as we walk in one body  
and the uncared for birds ate
with the cared for birds
lifting their heads up and down
in agreement
of shadow suns - sun’s shadow
the knuckled cocoons open
in the hemisphere’s grace  
that are not held back
by the dams that were fathers
to you
and the mothers eating their jammed crowns
of animalised peace
along with the ****
ha!
even they are cheered also, the hunters
of the field, arrows obliterating through eternity,
your heels creating, it
that song that tempers the cities reflection
returning mine
and season less unions inside,
desert storm, and warmed ice breathes
in toasts across seas
force open the laughing cage-

And the farm machine says:

“We will take more animals-
from you
tonight
we will
make you pay by the long tongue
of submissive crawl
and your livers
and liver brought
hum
by the hand-made knife
by the half-made, gesture

the horizons will laugh with boredom, at you  
pummelling dry, the mountains  
if you do not-

light!
LIGHT!
light...

(...//light.)”
...

throw ****** grunts like burping darts directly at the puddled lipped sky

run by, and through
the days of collapsing flesh
raining

Juggernauting mist!///

be unable to find sound

or sand hold

where the lights incept fog

and give it form,

be the crows in saliva
with no threat
as they fly by
between knife and bread
spewing cello grips
along the graffetied walls
of music
and moss burning teeth
in lines of paint  
into the secret wars
and charities
that nothing can touch
and the face at the end of that
brick’s
mind

is a welcome,
face

we walk by//////
sweeps that cannot
smell, themselves
at 5
a.m
fish shattering
by the entry
of our dive
into synapse blue - gulls bound to moon
the waves and the salt and ourselves
moments of dance
in conversation away from the roar
after the vermin
has roared
it’s last spittle
and has dispersed into low
figments
and the juice of that spittle
drapes over our shoulders
in curtainous glowing rocks

Come now junkerd star, trembling
gloats drooling with Cerberus' tears, through space
encountering unwashed books, and curving onyx lips
down hallow of easy river, of moor walk and gait
hares thump the ground of the fields, exchanging
the wilderness for sustenant flight, across it
up flow the silence as it reacts upon your gut
and sends sleep near lass and lad, back by a thousand hands of stars
into sewer skies of rats and eager swans,
growing from the dust of your gone fear,
the penultimate circles that cascade in the sleeplessness
of cigarette sounds and our waltzing vice
Hear Bound the stimulus! Of new sinewed blood
be the one trembling as the dwarf stars explode
into you, and our grips calm, sends them back
and are normal nights of coffeed jokes
sculpted from the clay of time
cascading outer vehicles driving along, the mocking hands glance,
and the hands of menace
ate artichokes
pealing plumes
and handing
one –
to you
the feet of your veins

pouring growth
of root
near mine
stopping only when

the roof top
is ripped clean//////////////

dry from every car, so that it settles
across naked architecture, giants in our hemoglobin
smile, the silhouettes, the wall, and the agonyless
streets, see our shadows standing to attention
devouring the suns toll-in the departure of our being

in the unwavering strikes of our dark hands upon the earth
that bring light to our iris, soaring,
It is this fortune that the soul gets to spend, only,
returning to the work, of life.

Nineteen twenty ways
to love the same photo, I
remember, it all.

The blubbering moon,
was thumping like itself;
no matter, we go!

We entered the room,
and we became an image,
and drank until full.

Illuminating
hot seat, the material
IKEA, alone,

pristine sounds of loss,
a man and woman dancing
each others eyes, there.

Midnight morning fly,
buzzing flea-like, almost gone.
My window opens.

All the yakking dead.
My porch- old wood and sunset,
smoke diving within.

Suffocate us sea!
If you dare drink what we have!
Our stomachs fit you!

The Titanic floats,
the night swim will carry us,
calmly to ourselves.

Opaque sea-gulls fly;
we are but moon beams seeking.
Igniting ripples.

The taste of salt shouts,
it devours our tiredness.
Running beside us.

Half shore nearing us,
no other bodies near us,
we know only peace.

Inside our madness
there is every dream which wakes
wet steps, standing up.

Skin inked by needle,
below your growing wild hair,
moving, as it stays,

A religious book,
its pages moving in wind,
brown with gentle time.

Negative film roll,
opal, and doused with liquid,
so we are, so still.

Permeating dream
a leaf from burning tree branch
settling in grass.

Sudden flower bloom,
I watch you grow as days change.
Time, can never be.

Holocaustic love,
returning to the swap mind,
nothing stays buried.

The last beggar hangs,
he was a poet, a friend.
Servant girl watching.

Holograph song sings,
she is more awake than words.
I smile back at her.

Doorless buildings shine,
travelling up beyond us,
the meeting begins.

The office suite melts,
only listening to data.
So much for talking…

Peyote smoked.
Old tribes knowing how it goes.
Perfectly happy.

Madigras come now!
Alive smokin drunk street life!
Masks bleeding with ghosts.

Mine, yours, lit by fire.
Lets join the raining parade,
and grab a chicken.

They do it in the ethereal range of our eye’s linking hands,
our bodies swaying to the din of infinite types of drum life,
happy to be ours, enough to fill every street with realms,
packed dead-masked as New Orleans is definitely new my love – - !
the bar door requires a kick from our ripened legs,
it shatters the sweat stairs as we walk down finding the ground
inside leaving the painted parade to flood in on itself,
the chorus is tap tap tapped and stamped by the bar-man ready here
to cool us down and let us choose from any drink we wish.

In thick New Orleans accent he says:

“You been swimmin’ in the big Bayou brotha-sista.”

But it’s enough for us to answer him from the photo behind his bar.

We let him touch us, we sit frozen in front of a box camera and wonder
what’ll happen as the bulb flashes.

I pull ma Creole queen into me, as all galllreees open brotha-sista!

The photo be taken quick enough to ****** life from shotgun.

You’ll just keep on sittin there wontcha ma cher,
while these gumbo ya-ya come down ma stairs.

**** Mardi graaa…

A couple come down the wooden stairs.

Helping each other stand from too much street juice.

Looking back from the photo the barman knows that the couple
heard him talking, they slap down on the bar stools as he kisses the
photo of him and his wife.

“Well they be a truer than you or me cher, dontcha think?”

He says smiling back, more cheer than teeth, as the conversation begins,
undisturbed by the pulsing sounds from above.

deep.
milk.
fire.
silhouette.

down be die
down be die,
how slowly i dream
how fast i create

rapid feet
less armour
less clay.

Controlled subdermal cage
we all have our own fields of fire
the world changes elements of boron
to day again ah the furious wet traffic
to my suit looking good but tired
white silk mammal lips
punk yards of spirits in magma
grace flies scream in antlers of highway
in through the iris out through the heart
nascent ghosts in time for life

Clocks grow pupae in my arms
under the frock and over the frame
disgrace the leaves at joy in autumn says the wind
poppies remain drooling in seas of light
the way men move through gas
champagne pours the cricket the gecko the feather the drake
the touch the brim the uncured wild
the street creates a world of song the koalas boom with fur
the mantelpiece wounds the air
the figments of life known as love live outside
until we grow kingdoms within.

Strange. The beginning of this city
is the same;
the personality
of your smell
is my flat
it grows out
across my sheets
back in
and i pay
with the few minutes i’ll need to
when I’m late
later

the sun likes my blinds
and your sleeping back
as i wake
easier
for work

looking up, I blink
and count the scabs I see in the sky
and the shouts from annoyed cabbies
and the cuts in my chin

from shaving
smile,
they leak open
and drip down
into the basin
each one pulls down the time
i’m late
but dress casually
all the same
it’s worth while
this
disorder
this
mixing
as I choose
as I fold my tie
watching you sleep
as i dress
and experience
a new laughing
a.m.

making my work day
an agile song

just,
a man
smiling at a streets raven
through a kitchen window
making breakfast
fixed
with
linking steps
that were loose
as we danced home
last night

i learn to do such things
at my desk
preferring to think
of our feet
twelve hours before

yours – in those shoes i love
mine – clumsy
up the stairs
screaming about something i cannit

remember
back to
flat number seven
seven ***** machine guns
seven
taps
on 'enter' now
sending this email
making me laugh
the peach lifts up through the city
and the power
to tell one person
that i’ll see you soon
is more
than enough gas
to find my keys

just enough
to crawl up my blocks stairs
and relax on my back with you
welcoming
disorder
forgetting my boss
watching
the rest of the morning rise up
from the landscape
whilst you sleep in

i laugh under my breathe
keeping it to myself
letting the rest of the day
rise up
beginning
itself.

Lets make you a snaaakey
son!
lets digest the ground with its spill of green pearl
and the bars polished floor, lets hold
the taps and pour down our gullets
the golden froth of advertised skies
wetting and wedding our four feet
not two, lets not worry that
its closing time, lets not worry where
The fox wanders, for surely
its steps are its home,
its fur, dying daily
its bite
its life.

i’m always glad
when a joke comes along
it’s all the casinos and things i am
and ever been lost in
i was bored
and no boredom kills you like lust does
it’s red when you bet red
all the time
and you’ll be alone
between periods of manic payout and disbelief
if you don’t leave
and slap the croupier on the ***
and ask them to join.

Where the sea-gulls hang in the sea
and chatter always

Where the water is fresh enough
to thump in your heart
like a new body
shaking when you leave

Where they still sing and wait for your return
where we find life and shape and humour
in this life
like a hand in the dark that’s a friend
guiding your palms over your work in the
different homes that guide you in
and away
as green life shatters against
the waves

And jack-knifes when you take your eyes off
for just one second or ounce
of time
of all the pearls that have been found
by the men and women who know how to dive down
of the cost we hang around them when polished
and no longer wet
of the joy carrying of them to the person
you found them for

A gift
rolls back to the waves
to where it was taken
in the smile
upon the neck of that person

Looking good enough to dive back for
and eat on a perfect neck
anytime
they’re worn
and seen by the warm hands
that placed them
just
*there

The males. Dressed in straight shoulder pads and collar bone,
a stretch of bone padded material.
No breathes admitting that they need air.
The females. Seeping ‘S’s’ – here for the same job
some of the actors knowing their lines, others
under the hollow gloom
more honest
about the play.

The training room.
The world made of blue felt and none
of the leaders allow hell to come;
where they lead us.

We know that the statues don’t remember.
We know what the worm knows where (s)he rattles
out, a constant poem that is not afraid.
We know that the sea must dance and lead the statues from their weave.
We are not the names given, but the names heard.
We’re sat in salacious dog eyes in the milking fruit.
We’re vaults on the decaying tongue of sad minstrels.
We’re the same as his battered fingers ******* infinite strings.
We’re infinite style.
We’re the lyre coming from the cocoon
savouring the world;
wings and unheard screams distilled in a womb of immense energy
flowing to the root
Apollo Agoria Abbraxus
is one of the names
releasing the buckle and diving into bed belonging to nothing
just a hearse in a low gear, just the last radio song fulfilling the waves with a
song and video;
where a black woman shakes near a window and smokes
like she does, when she smiles her mind is a knife, more naked
than a training room full of melancholy.

She’s drunk and sober.
She’s more awake than the sadness of mannequin eyes.
She’s the conversation that out lasts the time we have.
She’s every word that holds power and meaning in a den
that’s turning into a heated pile of digital scream.

We’re the first thing chiselled into rock.
We’re dressing our limbs and placing new scents upon our skin.
We’re the night we’re the jazz.
We’re the thrash and the shadow.
We’re the history and the human.

We are the private life of two workers
keeping our puke to a minimum.

Then letting it break out in one sigh of red thought
once we return home.

My weariness is forgotten as heat rolls across my cheap carpet
and you’re already back.
There’s stubble upstairs on my cheap razor.
There’s a small humming bird sat on the fence past my kitchen window.
You’ve already thrown away your office
clothes
as I throw mine away
too.

It’s 10. And the fire is forgotten and new. We don’t own a TV
and the walls are cleaner than a womb made from our own flesh.
Dusky sand blown into our face from a bomb collapsing out and in from the sand.
We’re the particles collecting over the dunes, uniting themselves
in the night – new languages opened in sphinx dreams and sphinx sighs.

All we gotta do is sit back and watch as her paws twitch and she rolls her neck.
It’s tight after a few millennia of sleep.
No one is sat near our place below her chin.
Watching it drink in the murmur of our thumping chests and heat scent.

There’s the sound of flesh ripping from marrow.

There’s the sound of lorn coyote’s mixing in the heavens and the street rain.

The street has a thousand strings combining our arms within itself
knowing that the road rythm is a mime, and that our four paws
are more
and are grace itself. The stage
the gods,
the science,
the electric
breathes
of nature
hungered in the spectacle of sliding shadow
amidst the mood of viperous traffic lights and moans behind sunglasses,
a wolfing flock,
a cavernous look of sacrifice
in the death strike of a swan
protecting its eggs
below the bridge where we once walked.

An absolute, of sheer life.
A universe of sheer decay.
Broken away.
By our song.

(and I don’t know why we are mongrels in our heart,
but hell… Lets ask em-

Roman nose.
Broken.
pug shaped unheard of thought ******* away cos
its been awoken by high rising spirit,
but call it anything, call it the breaking of your phone
that’s replaced by another when you feel a chorus stretching
into your ***** gut when they speak, just calling…

blown away from thalidomide arms of private growths
death from long ago neither feminine nor masculine
posture of slumped morning brighter than split stare
of obliterated ***** hit gently hard and lit
my heart knows: my sheets are a poor excuse
for where the room suffers our corporeal rage
in our calming conversation

within country stare of effortless green, some:
knowingness, perceives madness from outside
its woven hands so accepted in the city as it cries,
and walks together; shed upon from all parts of its locking voice
a union within the falling parts, of islandeque love
when rising to hard abyss pardoned when nurtured,
fate, a toothless, small, finishing chew

smothered out from car fume; Buddha can’t speak anymore
birds can’t speak anymore, even the locksmiths have words
without need; i stop in a graffieted place, my veins happy
to just sense: home: proto – home, before…

with whom there is a consensus in the lewdness, rabid as 6pm
is; opened by wild cooked silk until it is made, and
ready, I’m shattered, my bloodiness has no body, none,
worth me jacking it all in, or talking, about new governments,
ours-

explosives walking through arcs of dimmed light
intoxicants highlighted in fading windows, brimming and walled open
beneath my feet, i would run, i would strip
open, the exhausted car parts
yelling, but the impermanence, of us, is the grey ebb
and flow, of engines colouring, this city, impassable
by our actions- full of Bachiacic choice, stopped at the
gate dead, when anything wants to speak inside our home,
apart from your voice, and mine

and i did not know, that cities were so moveable and
pleasurable, and that madness is always correct when animals cling
in agreement; Karma of infinite silence between them when needed-
rebearing low glance into imploding music
down past eye, oesophagus, stomach gently reseeding
hands of movement, dust spokes of haphazard drivers
like the proof in the wetness of the most lifelike dreams that
humanise the raven infancy of the winters blood

insight baked by the sun’s finally accepted sea
in clay, where we must adore what we create from our hands,
and adore the cinders of its coldness as things that can
be anything with any touch; the holograms choice in emotion
the: ‘I’:

only a background chorus
of floating crickets when we whisper, torture moons losing there grip amongst
the unsolid shapes, passing, us, as we walk through,
universal… ‘axioms’, summiting, to a peak, near the soul, when raw, but never there;
we must speak about ‘all or nothing’, in a different way, instead
as the pattern is completed by: ‘immersion’, two servants of the
womb, a judge, and a convict, and the jury broke and sprinkled
across the horizon where we walked like my grandfathers ashes

we don’t gibe, the rest, if we get there
we won’t look across the heard and pick out the
leprositic ways that are outside of our own, there is no
pride, there is no ‘knowledge’ of pride, there’s only
a proto-home, there’s unsaid gasp of what we shall eat
from the flawless flow of the weeks hard work, where we asked for no
prairie, hell, we didn’t even ask for a ticket flattened into a card
that’ll pay for it all
but hell, that’s ok

it’s a while till pay day,
but hey, i’m happier than a slave being paid in the rip-tide of several
monks and maidens authoring where i’m sold
in awesome gloom- one finds themselves a violin
even if they can’t play, even if, they have no limbs
most times, those too
go, or jitter when you don’t want them too in the middle
of the gala
i have already trusted them to you, however;
so, i’m sold, and happy.

As our grave has no flowers yet.

And we are the flowers upon that grave.

And we are the owl howling.

At that grave.

And we are the grave eaters.

And the only.

Animals.

Who can stop them.

A very important email, from Fidel Nkrumah
Best regards!
It began with.
I am banker from Ghana.
I need your help
transfer US$7,500,000.00
to you. And
it is that
easy

The intricacy
of the hand
searching
your ****
for beauty

I replied:

Thanks for your earnest
email
illuminating me
of your plight

Mr Nkrumah,

mind if i call you

“Nicky”?

My bank details
are as follows:

Sort code: 76 32 89

Account number: 93761011

Best regards,

N.

Can you make the payment
out in traditional English
shillings
please…

i have a barrow…

have you read:

“I Have No Mouth and I must Scream”?

By Harlan
Ellison?

man that’s a crazy
kick-***
story
one of the best

perhaps
we can
discuss it
and whilst we do
we can fly birds

not aiming them
at the sky

see Nicky,
we were all there
when you were
christened
with glowing
tear
eyes
because there was water being dripped
on a small
skull

it was so moving
it was so
perfect
we went back
and bent down to work
the next
day, nothing
changed, nothing
drew
a tetrahedron
on that head

but there was an organic
chemistry
you see
“N!”
there was not a cross hatch of birth
inside or out
that the organs could not
consume
they could always
see them
there were always
the droplets flying
down

like those birds
we’re gonna
fly

we’ll make it
nicky
don’t worry
but in return
for my bank details
i would like to suggest- that
the rain is only god
spilling his beer
over
you see
like back when we
were being christened
and went out
without shaving
much, and one day
the system was
broken
and the next
it was fine, like a paper
whale
rolling back to the shore
of the desert
he didn’t care much
for christenings,
he kinda thought
hell!
that **** ocean is near!
you think i need some
fat fingers
dribbling
and
playing about
in my head— it can’t

capsize-the-sand

leverage worn out like sandless off colour
murial
but ******* the grains, alloping
and mad
salt sweat
calling out
to it insanely
as the world continues to rest
there’s another inch driven
away by its gut
there’s a permanent bed
of shadow
small
mamal wings
turning over, one after
the other
that no-one else
has to worry
about

the castrations have become
electronic, instead of simple knives
and the gravity of that thing rolling over to the east
back to where its shore lined haven awaits, readily comes
to it
a ready made
meal
dense
and watery
like it knows that you’re pretty much
knackered
but sends shattering dreams across
your back, sends its universe
to you, just another
dive
in the sea
momma
i have no
idea
what time
it is
but luckily
neither
has anyone.

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.

it has to be straight to my flat tonight
my day ended with me hugging a smack head
on the floor
until we both stopped shouting
and my boss came running behind shouting
“gooood job!”
the cars twitch
as they stop at the traffic lights
and roam on into the night
the day wearing a black hood
screaming at the road
i take off the uniform
and hang it up.

Shadow cars and shadow feet hassle home
in the meagre rain advancing ****-
sapien slowly, blending the day through multiple holes
in tall buildings where the lights come on and the key turns in,
and mind comes to life and substance, more visceral,
than a thousand Eden’s that are now franchises and factories
counting themselves in back alley dice games
and the tears of glass buildings bayoneting the sky
with still fluorescent arms painting nothingness
in a morse code flashing red then black,
birthing in repent to open night; the automatic
hands of love firing faster than you can escape, antennas
orbiting the globe spitting from TV screens covered in paw marks
from the dust of hopeful, but forgotten salesmen,

the hallways accept you in, the machine clicks off
and the saints curl round a loop hole and a strippers pole
inching the shower on, sliding lava breathe
of uber spirit down your back exploding
heart-thought and no buzzing coming
from strange messages
or complex dream,

pull your reflection across the mirror and towel down,
fuels of organic loss drag perfection across the skyline
in peach rememberance(es) shouting out in mutual joy of the city,
like a mouthless crow diving across the landscape
into the jaw of itself, un
metronomed, as you take off your coat too,
and the crowds of harvesting fumes are blown out
by your silent smile,

and even from the rotting beauty outside,
we are the within the painted walls of our
home, a conjoined pulse that shatters each
season, with single shots of melody undoing
our forms like fog settling into hands of light,

– ahh,
so!
…
Even the thoughts of tired pages,
are mutilated by the balance of my wine
and your water, the burning smell reads
like an axe for our cheeks, combined with temperance
and taste of meat, spiced between pinch,
as we lay it out,
the style of our eating,
always more,
than the meal,

our race now nameless, the colours of our skin
lost from machine and time,
neither of our hearts can diminish the walls
of solid
liquidic song,
history moulded by a changing of clothes and shoulder
bones, moved down to mattress or road,

again the architecture is moved by our city
again the street lights bulk
fed by our voice,
down from hue, to repeated family chime
we rip open the odours of tar mac, replacing the rain
with burying fur into the one body of our spirited
field, arched mouth of coyote
and playful worker,
one,

our water plant eyes moan in the morning and wonder,
where the night sun has gone, migrating steps from the bed,
hang low in reflection of the past, one of us still sleeps
happily
and begins an hour later,

I take your mask from the white sheets where you lay,
with a glance, and a grin, and place it on, and look at the day
through mercy holes, cut through the holes,
where it fits like my face,

showing me the day as you

with no need to shave

or ever wash.




the image to go with this poem:
http://kerosenechronicle.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/thevalencianplayunit.png

He makes a wide ring around my feet, as
if him tied to me
or me tied to it - moving me over
the polished grass, taking my mind away
from its machinery;
his urgency is mine for a time, mellow
violent arcs within arcs, splintering
between fork tail and mate, deciding which mood
their pattern will make, finally the image of dance
ends, where the world is carried further
by the replicants of their colour
on the hand of skin,
between thumb, and fore finger

tapping a key board with one speaker
in the best room the dusk can buy,
the sonata shuts off,
eyes made of oil passing over the brim,
shivering with innate worlds smashing on a plate

unslaved gambles and flushing light,
suns night colouring thought in endless epigram,
letting the conduits and candles melt down,
into the folding pool, to journey out

wolves storming bones with silk, and
silence, passion without conscience,
a planet seducing the hive, so acutely mad
that, until it stops to roll the bread in its hands
letting its animals eat
and love first
it cannot grow

a swallow followed me back, the village gathers
into concrete ***** of feral child scream,
and the weeds burst through the concrete, not knowing
that heavens humour mocks everything below,
the local news, the national news, and any news,
make your atoms ache if they join hands for too long

but later
we form one walk,
where our feet whip the path
and signal to the storm with the gestures of our own
that we make in confidence;
turning the lights on,
where they are not,
buying the last tickets
to the last opera, and letting it sing
purging the stage,
and letting us dance up;
feeding the sky
as our joy tells the rest,
it can just wait,
for today.

Back down the million mile road
down south again, buildings
familiar love, fashionable stones for throwing
across the Thames, office fields, floating stocks,
driving to the train rythm of city gulls and movement,
eager, bored, and feral, but
you’ve gotta choose your home…

London-queen of
mimetic ceremony
silhouettes cornered in pristine rooms,
finer than the attire of imagined skin, remembered and felt,
classic
projected
films
moving
into one line
of crowded parade,
stepping to
and fro, dressed differently
every time

the city and i- we
head to a shop
that puts a crate of beer
on my shoulder,
and a better drunk than us both
asks me for one

i say:
“sure man, take one”
and i offer him my smoke too,
“take it, just made it”
we add,
“ah! you’re Captain Scarlet!” he tells me
as the man sings the theme song and rewards
me
with a dance.

And sometimes the sickness and poverty of it all
helps
and its ok
tell me that after two breakfasts land down,
for a while, and two tumours laugh
in an empty car park
at the same thing.

The name for god always changing,
some days a digital
word,
sometimes
a bird stood upon a lamp post
at 10:16,
the way
someone smiles,
the science behind welcoming,
cancer guns
and the engravings
on the handle,
that you care for more
than all the dry sweat
night dripping,
the kind that paralyses
insomnia
and rises from your bed
outside your mind,
again:

that familiar smile.

We won’t be a salary in the morning,
we’ll be a Magritte, or a Picasso
at the weekend,
we’ll stand in front
of artists dead
and see no difference
between lamb, now roasting-
and the experiment in seasoning,
that you, or I
added

there’ll be a non-charging cash point,
counting sounds
that are lost in chaotic uncares,
and if my lights go out at 4am,
whilst we’re linked,
the vat
will at least
be made of us

the androgyny
of burnt climaxing sky line
will be clear through the polluted hive line
of buildings,
we’ll be wearing hooded macks
in the rain – sliding between still light
and shadow,
crossing the intersecting lines
of humming traffic
and unheard noise
we’ll pass without tickets,
as they fall from the bridge,
and the edge lifts away
from our feet

and the rest goes underground,
behind ageing tunnel wall of aging
graffiti skull -
tracks nulled by snow in winter,
body late, perspiring -
pouring peddle down, response
automatic,
eyelid better for counting
time, than opening eye -
synthetic wait for for any fire
that is kind,
raising corners that blink
in false dream

our seven seeming tied, and untied, bonded,
and unbonded,
gropes untied with hunger,
the sky kicks in the brick walls slaying the hours
with calls from strangers and friends
indifferent-

one.
-
two.
-
three.

seconds
and faces.

(and the city hates slowing down
doesn’t (s)he?)

until its ready that is,
the only joke being to wait and drool over corpses and post mortem like
thought the place being in your heart and the ever-glow being the same
as any love that you feel and the way you need it to take you forward
and just let you ride the and forget that its there because I’ll die
before I stop acting on my instinct for you the ever-gloom and the skull can unwind elsewhere! Oh the poison
that forgets itself if only needing the same formaldehyde
to keep it still-

That’ll do.

…

Perfection is a woman without eyes.

Perfection is a man without limbs.

Perfection is the home that walks you back when the day is yours,
and someone elses.

Perfection blinds the crippled mask.

Beginning.

One that fits your birth.

Your death.

All of the ****
islands.

All
of the ******

****

islands.

The Thames rides high in the city's red wheel!
the indigenous birds of one country are moored no longer
the night is worth its ride, and castrates each reason
to not sell: the freshest cut mind: its only state: its only guest  

Babes milked by dunes, growing giants from their anima palm
low nebulae of sea anklets, by the cooling of patience
by the stored morning of vittalic kin, usherette grasps
shatter spite, at the risk of all peaceful vibrations in humour
where the roads connect to all amor fati, amor fati, Amor fati!
la chimère d’amour; where rhythms are shared by all animals,
unflexed in the skull by denizen skull: the populace melts

So passed the point of brinking-worlds, there are only elements
so no rapier can slice through dream like the scent of day,
and we scream in melodious waves of diving accident;
which brings notions back of extending fire sighs so opaquely,
happiness cherishes the chaotic mirror of booming children
the figureless dance of the last disgrace, which has no pity
and is the travelling word for success against liberty

We are no longer life, or its blushing ripped condescension
only my shadow and yours are the freeing muscle
where man has shattered space into the thousandless voice
of solitudinal stars in the androgyny of light-
hemisphere of binary pleasure; jealous boys and girls drink smoke
we the haphazard twin of darkness and light forget, wilfully
as if destiny is a circular pleasure, of both stomach and sky

By the watering mortars of the watchmen from Soho dancing again
and to this city the agile mouth of a field is awake
where the sad winds entwine with the yeasts of the hare
the smallness of light balancing on your cheek, gargantuan
to everything through the hymns of a car choking, to spirit
two moments transmit all there is, by the third, death emigrates
or it does when we dress each other by the charm of time

I have no idea where this music begins, and perhaps our DNA laughs
as do my fathers, your mothers, in the emergence of reversing gods
the birthing of make-up, the evening day mobbed by innocence
where purity is less magnetic than a sliver of fish, dead in a dog's heart
even that now, même que maintenant, even this now
même ce maintenant, is a better howling blood of choice
where a little fatter and choicer- rage is the sonata of calmness

And much dusk where the glimmer is, the ****** drool of half
heartedness is your soft wolf walking in, the silk of your bating voice
my only vice, and the point of all tantric scent
the murals of our past are now the sculptures of changing grip
like early and significant horses enduring the guilt of eating
all tribes in all ice and fire, the fastest cars cannot beat the tram
the tram and old bust marriages of constant grace

Fundament, infallible, mercurial, wholesome in lie
there being no flea with enough backs to carry us all
no poem in hell can survive without being saliva
too much **** and not enough road makes a dull car of us all
but, there is only one liver waiting on the ground
what is the perfect song to let it breathe? Tonight
you are my attire, and I am yours

We soak the ribbons with massacred blood, we say
to the absolute: no, I choose my partners carefully
I am yours, you are mine, our habitual skin
blowing leviathans training the wind
and chokes as we stroll releasing our hands upon its neck
but let ours fly together and apart, nothing holding the world
in the divinity of wood, your translucent perfume, our body

The dogs have blown into darkness
The moors create hybrids from themselves
Wild garlic ferments in fields of skin
Texas leans into Vertigo’s kiss
An ape is born smelling of you
My sweat is your blue June
Armed only by light.

I’m writing a paper on the Stanford
Prison Experiment, which now connects to Abu Ghraib;
one set of men walked into a plaything, a basement
in the bottom of a University, and could quit
at anytime; and roll into fresh mattresses
again,
but when it came
a second time round, and there was another reason
to be afraid, what happened
was different;
no get out clause in the basement
just the hands of mindless hearts
of those already
too numb
to do anything different
when down there.

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.

Your arms move inside
as your hands enter the kiln
heating the days work.

When you’re strapped in
and get down to it
once your jaw is permanently dislocated by your own
once the gut
stops
knowing
how it’s fed
and why it has fire all the time, in all weathers in all fuel, nice and bad and good and anything easy
and anything bad enough
to keep on coming back for more
way after if should
way after everything is torn away and bored away to ****
when your orchids make you think
when you cannit count on certain things

like days
they
keep on
turning up

i asked the owner ‘Why do people get so obsessed with the things?’

she told me
and i stare into the mouth of this thing
on the kitchen table
with its small tongues open
it has this small part
that looks like a split tiger head
inside
with eight purple arms spread on either side
of two large wings
and two tongues coming forward
after all this
that look just like

how you
think

tongues

*look.

I sat where the bums fought in the summer
the concrete of the bench had energy at 3am
there was air pouring from an animal,
and beside me sat a fox

Close to me, it looked ahead
and into the haze we were not fixed
but sat drinking for a while
I smoked beside you.

people accept
animals change

below street lamp
bleaching wet
changing back
as beggar becomes saint
cold rain
a wine
nailed by hammer
a twist
a tongue
a cursing
a symphony
a belch

a chance.

It'll be alright by the lightening
it helps us walk like itself;
walking up through the ceiling window
of my flat
we link myth and flesh
amongst the cherub jokes and sinuous cloud,
hands shaking pulse in the concaves,
death dance and phoenix breeze,
the prayer and the wet
rolling down the slates
harmony in our butts, rolling the storm back, and watching it all
happen.

The night spills its last beer like weighted sweat.
The opera accepts our tickets and slices us down with gallous applause
Where do our limbs stop being the night?
They do not, so it seems, and spread the thunder out
from our one hand
to another;
the nails, and skull, of one, open
fist, retaken-
and driven up
from the worlds core, remedy in scent
the talent of our blood,
damming the poison, allowed to evolve
inside cell
and be another - celestial light, that not only drives the heard,
but is at home in the energy of waking
life.

The lightening passing down through gelatenous night clouds,
caring that there is only sense in the warmth of our mind, our synapse grace,
the float of our hands moving away from the globe,
un lapin mouvements de warren
farmer gathering his flock as the night moves
chain smoker watching you cook
another reason to storm the bellowing halls, one more toast to the sodden market,
brings the landscape to a halt, and strokes out its weariness as apes walk
the amazonian peaks, as the sunrise settles down
and into us; summits
made of nothing,
but the story of your day, all that makes a man
know
and remember
that yours
are always waiting
and are willed by things
that I will never know
completely, but walk like lightening;
creating,
when the storm comes.

Letting me know
it's all **** false,
if not
you.

A city made from music and gas
-a humor of golden mass in the boiler room
phosphoric eyes launching up;
heroes come slower now, fearful, decadent
as if engorged by war for too long
changed;
within the soil
looking up from the street with malleable bones
like antennae sending up endless prayers
expressing nothing
if not heard

a city, a dome, a breast
cannibals small, eating freely
‘a passing rebuttal’
a glance in the ride – which smiles back
and the world followed will
and the earth gladly sipped

cooks cooking better asleep;
poems, gas, meat, hunger
locked in horn
knowing they’re the wrong type
of poem free
to do whatever
they ever wish

even the energy of old worms has sense
and the concrete knows the distance from where they have come
from the earth-helping
them back, by natural pull, or passerby
before the parade comes
and the hooligans still have rage and bayonet
colliding inside faces
like metered bodies
unable
to learn dance
helixing
around you
their song-
neither taking
or meaning
anything
to your own;

the west-coast train leaves
the power station to my right
opening its three pounding mouths
to the quiet drone of the fog and sky
a sandwich and a coach full of drunks
-communing
-inside
-memory
and hail hits the window
solidifying rapid water
cocktails;

nearing a station and familiar fields
office, and tired sun
letting your face know she only jokes
when her tongue radiates
later on
when her body
finally breaks;

soaking the last dust
a home within scent
calling out to everything else;

calling it
a liar.

The tattoo appears soft
but buzzing and happy to appear
slapping old choice
away
and penetrating
choosing
your compulsion and colour
in spikes of energy and time
across our arms
like an inked map
of lines and endless capillaries
where the movement
in your elbow
upon me old kitchen table
in me old house over breakfast that time
is the sight i welcome in
steering the rest of tonight out
like a perfect camera beside me desk
a dancing needle in dancing shades
as the map glides
out of my control
but in welcome jest
on the page.

There is my lover! As screamed across my sense
and filled with conjoined gait, of my eye and hand,
I am jealous of the city she walks in, by me
as I am half departed, myself, near a fox that gathers in ball, by me
and is a better *****, than me, so i learn, from vermin
hide, how to have humour
like theirs, the unplanned joy-
that trit-trots across
roads, winning jobs within
tasks of cemetery
light
I know that their light is company, inside and on, the wall;
so curled so, sojourned within
grey dusk
car rivers-
I spit! Not so far
as giants can, just a piece
of spittle,
to ******* the rain, and share with it
it’s fire;
It’s knowable drench, of skin, like hymn,
that is so far penetrating, and mingled past flesh, opened
and quakeless, to the onslaught of lightening swans, the
quickening fury, of several slow days and lives devouring
the metronome of salutes upon heart, of dusk filth opening
to the arrays of data goods, and gods, coming from pocket
in gibbous mooned sky, and the whisper of all tsunami, hangs mood, bellowing
away from the dog fights, and unpainted streets, I seem:
to be praying, beside this funny lil guy, just settled
beside me, on the wall, of course, I am not, of course, I’m not ignorant
he’s gotta feed, tonight, the same tragic logic, as me
as plants
growing teeth
able, to ignore
the rain, until succour comes, do, sad journeying flies,
flying hypnotically towards it’s mouth, as extremities
to the planets engine, affordable, losses, condensed in-
and danced solarlessly, in dances of mortuary
and wedding sung
precipice, an edge of gale,
happy to blow my face away,
all the **** time, gust, gust, gust,
and yes;
I do pray,
a little, and see past holocaust of saccharine tune,
And find that, so often, our shame is forgotten in the simple,
rhythms, of cup- a hand; a castle flock of gulls, landing in water,
a dog wagging its tail because it’s just shat, her owner,
bag ready, I feel streets clean with loving owners hostile
to the madness, of the furious dozen/dozen flies- lobotomised
drool, ready to laugh
if you’re knifeless,
maybes a lil knackered from work- – we
might be able to
haul up eternity
and have a lil more
laughter
in our sheets and face, than the sky,
an take a **** holiday
right where you’re stood or sat, or walking,
and there are no gods
but the ones that let you see them
so there, together, let time die, let the parapets soak
in the weather
and say
here’s my bone’s
there’s been a lot of twisting done
but all they need
is yours.

The translators scanned us up and down
it was relaxing, they had a nice authority
later we flew back and ate it
not so much that ye canna recognise ****
their sound, or binary trail
more like a one and a zero
in a small chrysalis in your hand
that eats champagne, presidents
dull houses and dull cheeks
we gathered our belongings as the air port
moved
hints of shade on our sunglasses reported the sun
they called it
a certain name
as we walked

Your waist
gripped my hand
it felt like
we could go
Anywhere.

In 2020 we are the motors of the mechanics we drive
in the bed
of other work days
as the bees fly less

and
the drive of somersaulting mad men, calmer
than a pool of iced days off
after the pool boy
cleans up
start screaming,

although it’s universal when you rise, and my limbs burst
through these elsewhere tossed things, and elsewhere bones
that have no succor in the middle of the sun’s dance, as if:

naïve butchers in the street are sleeping on the bus and
there is no answer from the ricochet dream apart from
keep your **** together
keep your **** together…

and the world is well travelled when you’re smoking beside a dog
and the obliterated silence of a room has a voice,

but the turnstiles open when the poem begins, ah!
the weekend again-this, envelope of random orchids that rustle
and
open,

in the haven of a ***** flat where we find the best corona jokes
new cities
these shaking palms
the way the world works better at 10 am
and the humour of a crazy snake, checking KPIs
again,

and when i wake
i will love this zero
hour
contract
more,

i will worship you and say
yes
yes
YES!

I pray that the city is a germ
spreading up from the bottom of the country
to infect me
again.

I let the architecture of her name
multiply out from the clock holes
and throughout the day.

Her uniforms have no gender
and change every time
tourists on the back of workers backing out
travelling along a giant line of tattooed
buildings with derelict spaces that hold
a strange light to my loading eyes.

Normal as the silence in a taxi-cab
empty of people, but a place that has
become
a familiar mural
to me; a night that is concentrated
and stream line
over weight with art and adhd.

Streets continuing when bored and often robbed,
and transport that never stops.

any holiday can go on and commit suicide in some old ****
coconut
postcard, I reckon.
it’s alrite here.
it’s not burning and the sand is a lame type of concrete, but
it has a lot of life. there’s even coral here, I probably need you
to call me up and have you explain it to me
but it’s here
all the same;
there’s howling monkeys that can open yoking orange suns, that
don’t know what to do, we wont ignore them though;
they keep on skipping around
pulling
the tide up to our seats-like they like the raw smell we give off
its normal in the city but unknown here
we fight- nothing
the world dives into itself
and see’s that it still sings
the resort keeps on beating behind the eyes of the falling sunset
the calls of our skin are catnip to the flying things and moving things
we walk across the beach as it follows from 11 to 3 and 4am.
it dies and leaves the moon screaming
in sirens within the black distance of the shore
the vehicle that comes as we sleep
holds open the road with our eyes
and remains eternally as we wake.

And the world was never mad,
it simply forgets where it should place it all,
some crave the stone
where it was carved into the top of blood alters,
and can’t find a chisel good enough;
even though the clothes are piling up and there’s dents in the floor boards;
some like it when its saved until the weekend and blown in through the
mouth
whilst it fights for air with liquids costing five pounds per word;
the pitch squeezing up through all walls no matter where you’re sat,
and what you’ve got.

A face looking at you from across the underground train.
A paragraph says nothing, even the rats look for gods in the rain,
cars plummet by caring nothing of your thoughts,
where they centre in wild spins through the air somersaulting;
colliding snakes made from your favourite director.
The world was never mad – and proves it by the chance to place it all,
and take it all in from a smooth place in the grass, or desert,
or black room lit by giant screen.

The room plays with your will, rolling a 6
and a 6
and a 6
and an angel
1.

And the avalanches roar in cascade worthy of your soul and logic,
and you walk out to the street rolling your own numbers,
in your own cup – it grows by giant star -
but is still not mad. It never was.

The splendour of going home in the peace of neon signs,
and the smoke of the city inhaled, by your lungs, once
or twice,
(depending on your vice)
bringing us back to zero -
passing up your thigh bone with all the messages
the basement
locked away
for a while.

The words are clear, fleeing from flashing screen to cortex,
hastening, and flushing away
whatever was lost in the gambling room.
You reply with a smile.
Death cannot.

And madness is a choice of joining, and doing.
Time shines behind a moon made of marbled skin tonight,
a view from your bed that awakens you without you waking fully,
five roman pillars in front of your window,
a floor sprayed with construction work all around you,
a balcony where you thought there was just a wall,
opening on the same plane as the statuesque building on your lawn;
and to your right, a grassy path leading
to a church, enough to wake-
and see it again
knowing that your room has gone back,
no sun, no darkness, no fireflies in your hand
or mind, no silhouettes,
no choke;
no passers by, no question;
just a question of heat
within your body,
timed to the perfect decibel of your hair
or mine

Singing it out in some room made of nothing but the clarity
of our lost bodies, calling to the ceiling and sky
to mount as much as they wish
because our arms are suited and dressed;
we’ve come a long way,
we’ve been bored in the pit of dinner parties
and holiday tables
drank water in patience of the waiter exploding,
opened a steak and a vegetable
spewing its guts to time;

Call it what’s left in our DNA to know,
call it anything but madness,
it was created the same way bad food was,
chipping paint
without someone
to look out for it,
horses flying through the fields,
wind making water fly from their eyes,
as they run,

no riders
upon their backs.

left
hard faced
sweeping
open eyed in madness looking up at the sun
and the wind the same way
politely nodding to friends
rage in the wood
like something has been taken
a berserker smashing mirrors
and himself
looking at his own movements
(un)believing
that he has aged

not much left today
just words and a smile
that same glare
that same joke in quietness
still that strange mix
just a few words today:

“i did it all son. for a long time. and my kids are all ****** up now.
don’t do it this way.”
he tells me.

And the night has great spirit
so she will be disgusted if you do not
at least prove that your measures of horror
are forgotten like dead poems and unformed cities
where she steps over them with you
and litters their roof tops with her feet
our scents know our shadows
welcoming them, creating them
like drunk shadow puppets guessing names
below a tower bridge,
– light
eating my fathers old teeth, remaining our mother
growing day from slashes in the river tone
calling out, sleeping well when the diving pace
is still, or floating in a crazy tank
that x-rays our hands until they release our fist
asking that no thought should permeate
the vice of our restless birds, the day humble
rolling out like animals from a burrow, I
throw my eyes out. curving them against the wall
all the better for having some dice,
as the street changes them and unites
our mirrored limbs near the southbank
where it chooses a low voice to speak in the thames
and hides 2am in the wind,
and that same voice
throws my eyes back, and lets me see yours,
where finally, the last reaction in the black,
is never human, it’s the breath, that shares it all
letting dominion know
that its welcome too, as long as it rests
whilst we dance
and relays our union
from skin beating drum
to landscapes that join
finding spirit in the meakest time
that sing the same
as cries of war
or laughter
within the fox hours
of our home.

When people are allowed to pretend
they are never
truly
free

The sound
of a bus
is the chorus
of a man
or the woman
driving it
and the terrible rhythm
dragging us
to
and fro

it has has a name
it has a pyramid
effect
on us all

blue
remaining
architecture

noisy
over-whelming
flame.

people accept
animals change

below street lamp
bleaching wet
changing back
as beggar becomes saint
cold rain
a wine
nailed by hammer
a twist
a tongue
a cursing
a symphony
a belch;
a chance.

nothing walks better than the ‘day light shakes’
you’re working today and the briefcases are deciding,
to be hearts instead of skin
you’ve decided the night
whilst it past

not worth its sleep – the sun juices
a dead man across sand
the beers beers beers or maybe just
the previous day
a dancer in itself
was enough to keep you
awake
and moving until now;
stretching the ground
with your feet

one after another, an absolute laughter of free limbs apart;
escaping the need to run.

the sun
just another mouth openening
just;

above yours
you’re commuting and already rolling your neck like a sleeper
with a crook and a sigh
because the night was rough

and when you blink – your eyes water
and duty pulls you in
like an engorged worker
in a factory of silk

there is humour in your tiredness however
there is a rubber floor
moving
beneath your feet
understanding
why you smile quietly
(every now and then)

getting on with the daily beat
body-aching
each and every part
used up
from lip to heart
arching back
the phone rings;

you pick up
a cat sits
eating dogs
a low voice, contralto
below the voice
you hear
a piercing sound

the orchestra sings in the open office
above the 4 ft walls and above the water coolers
and again you chuckle
as the customer does
and a sweep
just enough to **** the day
a little
to open you up
enough
to let the mouse move

to let the flutes devour
politey unwashed
reacting to vermin
a savage flux
putrified by clock
quickened and quickened again
turned
so no animal speaks about the tick
no lights on
a blinding grace
which -
there already is –

the foundations laugh
and the day flys
as the window slams
and she leaves inbetween

as you return to your desk
turning your head
to watch the thing go
and disappear
past where you can see.

and sometimes love is a stranger
walking up behind you
dressing the nights face
and you don’t wanna look around
until it’s too late and you turn
-around drunk
pouring it away like forgotten wine
when really the gift has no age
and never has the taste of anything nameable
she is the hum that torches words
as they are not like her
where the word hunts, this stranger
is fed by a drive on the open road
that knows every part of your skull
that moves through the parade,
and takes you too
war
turned away
like bugs on skin
where it sweats with no remorse
and rains
somewhere else.

the poems, the letters, the sculptures
the movements, the sleep, the mute
the deaf the blind- and in the end and the beginning
there is all the art you need
a pounding hammer
the work of small anvils
replacing our arms
able to bruise the sky
just by waving
and there is no line - needing us;
in the end, and when the beginning comes
our blood will break the desert
and our flesh will be the architecture of silence
the proximity of our cells becoming each
season that we name,
ourselves
and the stars are shot faceless
by our days, and even the snoring dogs
will create time, as our hands stop the sun
from landing in our laps and gods are returned
to infants by the muscles of our arms, men
and women dragging carcasses near cave doors
will halt, and sigh at the future-
ticks in pelt and intoxicated elbows
of musicians pulling bow across string
will send perfection insane
once again
like a scream and a kiss landing at the same time
and all the wine of every fruit will not equal
the lone smile of a wrong turn
in the night, in fact- the small ball they crawl from
and make you rock into
will pass, and the partitions
of your faith will open,
tombs will shake
jokingly in the floor boards
friends will smile in the nails
ministries of sermons will ****
and burst out in private flight, when nothing can.
be swallowed anymore, lucky there is
the millennia's that feel the same
just a piece of gin
in a waltzing glass
reflecting your face, wondering
if you're going to stay
here
just a glass watching from the table
taking in your company as the night
becomes honest enough
to rain
and end any distance
that would separate our one
simple
organic
song.

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.

A man’s hand releases bread crumbs
that soar into a flock of birds distant in the moor
a clock wise stir moves in the cup, then taps on the side
ready to be consumed, sweeter than Hemlock
poured from a tap
drank in the last room of an old house
the night moves like a bow
waiting across a set of strings
the cars move like chunks of drift wood
in a black current
someone’s blowing on a harmonica
out of tune
down the street
and somewhere else

as I arrive home
and find my cats waiting eyes
they’re friendly
but know it’s time to feed
they begin
making a single purr
between them, that’s entwined with the sound
of their banquet between bites
cleaning
every
last
morsel.

It was a gift, and is engrained with the words
“The whole world is about three drinks behind”
now it catches up-in
humour;
of marathons, and sprints, families of credit
hustling their own into bunkers at the coast edge;
where the crevice can house no more than two,
watching the war come
from a small peep hole.

I look inside and see the wealth of crushed cans
and crisp packets, I walk over the mixed grass
and sand rock finding a place that stares out to the sea;
better than I can, but is happy to seat me
for a while, words of love affairs
cut into the smoothing rocks;
and they wont last a thousand years,
but have endured until now,
my skin resting upon them,
as I accept the seas hypnotising world,
which is enough.

Letter headed grains of cement flow up
like reversed particles of snow sick of flowing down
changing back through the air
dancing through change like a gift and drift
raising us all, salt watered skin and all, seeping skin
and other numbers of bone like it
count the days no more
dancing back the in the waves of binary and soil
back to the starting arena once more
unaware of the birds that join
old neighbours within this world
acidic tongues biting the cheeks of day
lap at them now
forgetting the steps
and remembering how they join
in rhythm with the words of hell and grace, inking them
marking them
with gestures of spectrum and instinct
of flight over the greys of practice and time
which soar all the same
more sleet flows down now
intricate waves of flight collide against skin
as you separate and centre
held by the substance of your eye
grounded by root
like the sense you have to run
to the flood in the sky
where we are comfortable and coded
walking in metronome
painted by the herds of many
but formed by one
and fed by much.

It’s always hard to agree with leather
the change of its way back to skin is hard
pliable
i watched it grow all day on the back of my office seat
it was a present from my girlfriend
nothing I’d bought myself
nothing my eyes did
whilst it opened I drank coffee and tapped
its pink hairs flexed back into place
each one a part of the chair
it sewed back on the cow as it grazed
and aligned itself
once more

happy that flesh flies this way
upper class
or the hell in economy
behind.

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.

The year likes to weave
the jack hammer slows
the media delivers opposites
the negative looks good today
i hold it up to the sun
and fix a **** cocktail.