I awoke as a tinder wolf
growling
a cut shawl man
dreaming of scarf’s
that left the world
drifting on infinite
dependency

I know I have
to wash
my human on
there are cigarettes
to be sung

could I be
a long shank man
a conqueror
or magician

No I am tinder wolf
howling,
hunting more
tobacco

Walking silent
forever
an assassin

She came home and said
something like
Hey how you doing
But I didn’t tell her
that I have been
indulging in a
sweet and sour
strawberry string
sadness
there is a living ghost
on Facebook
and I can’t decide if
it is wrong to unfriend
the dead
so that I am not reminded
about the countdown
of my own mortality
or of my family
like a sordid experiment
so she said something
about the weekend
which produces guilt
for a spoil I haven’t committed
in the spot in my mind
that is addicted to
a strawberry string sadness
where Netflix plays
and the dent on my side
of the bed becomes more
pronounced
While I try and decide
about a living ghost
what is wrong and what is
right in this media induced
******* that develops from
beta to final release to a total
sadness 2.0

She holds me with fierceness and fragility
her veneer like old paint on a utility door
so unsure with the internally rendered pain
of a thousand failing days

I will lightly sand those cruel  flakes
with smooth care expectant of improvement
and reset the broken hinges she has been
left to hang on, replacing the bolt and lock
so she has full control of who she lets pass

She holds me with fierceness and fragility
longing for alterations not altercations
different times of high hopes holding
within her wearing frame and in that space
you will find me with one ear open

Soothing the doubts of a hundred
internal put downs, that can no longer be

Hum among the snowdrops
they rise with hope,
least they droop and frown.

The soil has nurtured and held.
Breaking for this hope,
that winter wanes now.

They cannot sing of the season
but do they not hope
of their own time?

We sat an’ didn’t like the sweetcorn,
nor the forks, the moon had no quarrel.

The sun had no bite with the wallpaper.
Black, Black the salted air drifted

The colour scented with the taste
of chip’s n’ vinegar

The assassin lines up the shot
and pulls the trigger

someone somewhere

gets hit
by a tiny

piece of potato

It’s the pills and the bottle
that kills you
without death
sometimes your mind needs them
till you heal and you realise
that you have killed apart of yourself
sometimes it dies forever
and you never know who you are
even cheerful people **** parts
of themselves to survive
It’s the pills and the bottle
that kills you
without death
two pills twice a day
a mind ******
and a bottle taken
without control

sometimes doctors know best
sometimes a part death
is better than any upgrade
Maybe some people have to revisit
tiny deaths till the living parts
make more sense

Sometimes
A poem is the first hand extended
when the self is confused
and help
well it’s just a voice away

She Shells
as the sea sells
waves of goodbye
or maybe of hullo
an exclamation
nor the sea sells
shells of her
for she shelves
what is left
for others to see
and sells on the shore
in colours of green or more
but leaves the rest
on the sandy floor

Of course this poem procures no great wonderment
nor does it produce any invoice that would bring heat,
to the mind of the reader, nor from the placement
of ink from the printer.

Of course it does produce itself from form
from form-ness of itself in itself
but brings no cure and no ills, it just is ‘being ‘

That course is never truer or less of a test
when there is no phenomena of its appearance,

Of Course it has none

is there a tiny
           little bird house
                      inside
          that when the door
                   is opened
a Bukowski blue bird
                 howls its displeasure
     tiny little bird house
                     prison
     it's rough in there