Dissipating into
the gaps of memory

A mark
on a perpetual bar
inside the heads
of others

hard to see
easy to feel,
hard to feel
when it’s easy to see

a mark so small
measuring the norm of us
instead of

The Norm

A flexible thing
with beginnings
undefined

Braving lapses in neon dreams
You don’t like the look of air max 90’s
Besotted language intercepted not digested
The babble of youths who don’t talk correctly
Basking loosely in nonchalant demise
The **** on the floor, what a mess
Buttoned lips insinuating nothing decisive
You are hard eyed from men outside the pub, you look away at
Bluebottles lying inside neatly dead
Get me off this ******* bus.
Black lines, interrupting nothing deep
Why always black and never red
Broad landscapes intrude narrowness, delicately
But you close your eyes and hum the cure
Breaking laughter, ignorant nuisances drain
I wish they all were quiet and tame
Berating loud intuitive noises, djembe
Banging hands against the glass
Banging, lightning, ignored, deleted
There’s a fight going on, you will stay seated
Buried liquidized imagery, naturally dancing
The reflection of drama in a window behind you
Because listening is not done
You think about dinner and where you will buy it
Because light is no fun
You again close your eyes and think about home
Busy lovers inseparable never daring
You enjoy your thoughts
Being left in near darkness
You enjoy your thoughts
Watching interesting things happen
Eventually yelping even shouting trill howls
After the watch, offset retina kicks

sharp and sweet I imagine
That I must burn a smell
up the inside of your nostrils
just where the bridge
of the nose
meets the eye
but you let me in
and inhale it all
a tangle of life edging
to the back of your throat
flavouring your tongue

you reside in
the silver lining silence
of my darkness

Cured meats hanging hooked
veiled in shadows, flies resting on pink
salmon flesh and a tall long bearded man
wearing dark denim in the Jewish Quarter
talking adventures, jumping vibrant,
Bold questions and stares, the woman
screaming in the Great Hall Market escorted out,
back of the throat slapping smells
on the train from Budapest to Bucharest
Stories from a tired man
aging wearing a musty coat no bag, complaining about wild
children near the dead sea throwing rocks at his sinking house

Hands beckoning in between white flapping cloths
- white sails everywhere high up, sleeping in the Hare Krishna temple
with mosquitoes ******* my legs, fishing for mussels
and eating grilled corn, 6.am grey skied Istanbul,
Morning prayers, the setting up of stalls
The shouting, the tasting of honey thick with the bees still immersed,
the tasting of cheese wet and dry brânză de burduf,
chubritza, soups, the hash and the ham. Escorted out
The juice leaking from tender meat
A sweating brow
Pockets full of coffee beans

hoping to be hit hard in the mouth with lucidity
knocking back the sweat of dark spirits
tapping the ash
of the last draw
onto our knee caps
songs suppressed by nothing
suffocating
under the breath

you look up,
a silver eye lashed kitten
Burning 21

racing through everything that is
from your toes to the tingling skin
of those finger tips that grip hard

ousting your eyes from their sockets
before bursting you
cut off from the system
with electric still running through your veins

and the room will spin

and the room will spin

till what ever was in it
is flung out

and it will feel like coming
back to where you forgot
you came from