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It's the lack of sleep
that throws it down
a sonnet bag
of 14 lines....

Delivered off
a ten-pound-note,
that bug-eyed trope
of one-skin buzz,
runs ugly through
the neighborhood.
Some duggery of skull-top
lynching underground
resistance, thinking
every shot, a tracer
bearing names.

they are
out there, now
in no-man's-land,
that orange hell
of pictograms
and all of them
insane.
A W Bullen Nov 23
Took, passing, as
my chosen word
a comfort-food of preference,
celestial confectionery,
indulgent mewl of movement.

It's a prudent lie
I stir myself

this spoon
of porch-light parable,
a home-brewed benediction
simpers, intimate angelica

infallible
as love....
A W Bullen Aug 24
Hooking
bullets from
the muscle, I
took just enough
to get me out,

out of these
discipled digs
of occidental artifice.

Saw virtue, as
a patient bound
found floating
with the carcasses,
in oceans of our
artless composition.

So sickened by
my part in this
repulsive codependency,
I'll charter me another sleep,
usurp the gutless drone

to shave my head
the stillborn dream
I open up my arteries
the garters of my
cartilage and bone....
A W Bullen Jul 27
am conscious
of the ticking clock

how
the bleached reef
of a window frame
intimidates,
says
something
of a heed untaken,
propagates the
cloud-seed doubt
with lightly spoken
fallacy,

recoiling
on a layman
tongue.


Am
aware of where
the sentence stops.

where syllables
of rhinestone rain,
call sibylline ,

reverberate

in thick
galactic suburbs.

How
a soporific
doppler-shift of
moving conversation
played me, staring
down the outpost
of my unbecoming
walls.
A W Bullen Jun 24
The poster read:

“Gone Missing”

The come-back-kid
has failed to show.
The Old Man saw him,
******* by the Rainbow Factory
wall, against the wind,
like a prayer no longer given
to the prism-surfing life.

He said,

“The come-back-kid, might
Not come back”..

He wrung his
swindled heathen, left
with haversack and Macintosh,
hummed ballad in a Sea-King crown,
the colloquy of shepherd lore.
head far too full to sing,

Caught riding
in a burnt out car of
rude December archetypes,
an engine feathered Westerling,
to think.

He went
to where they bury boats,

Where mud larks perk
for potsherd farthings,
red-shanked in the gallon slob
oblivious...

Far off the Ness
He’ll watch them go..

... on meteoric dawn patrols,
a contrast to his built-in
obsolescence.

In provinces
of platitude
He’ll form no evanescent tie,
invoke his tattooed waxwing
back against their lactic
saccharine, to beg
the notion die...

But leavened light may carry,

A bold ceramic dialect
that skitters off
the short-sun marsh

dissipates in linnet banter
winnowed from the winter barley
crossing out the county lines..


The come-back-kid
will not return,
a blue-eyed, fell, Promethean.

Disfigured by the absolute
He’ll beat his way
unrecognised.
A W Bullen Jun 1
Swallowed
by Andromeda,
an alcoholic heart
bleeds neat particulars,

( Spun one spring round
the maypole Star
and even now
the grief is green)

A common lean
to Eden-seeking
hovers on, ridiculous,

preserved between
the pages, in this
Little book of Lost-Things.
A W Bullen Mar 29
Might as well
go one more round,

it wont be long
before they find
our deck of
haggard rafters,

all laid out
like body-bags
and facing in
the same direction.

Work it through
in pencil, in the margins
of a notepad.

They'll see
in tree rings,
years from now,
us , squeezed into
the sixth extinction,
fungal-spore
anomalies
in ice-core.



So, we
might as well
go one more round

got little left
to lose,

Come sand me down
those dancing shoes
again.
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