I can hear the baby quail,
they’re telling me, from in the hay bales
and chirping like little frogs.
While they themselves
**** back their bog pockets,
bloom, press the weak wood, and leak to me.
The trickle-slap pipistrelle
in subito notes, that hit and fall,
that explain to me so frantically.
crooning to me so mutually
and between themselves,
like organs pumping air into each other.

The birds sail on it over fields
relying on the attitude of the night,
feeling out its hot rushes.
In sensory geography,
dependent on a mood of its own.
In an ocean, emancipated from the moon.
The sky-lung, plays its shivering reeds
Where the spores, the sycamore, shattering
in crochets, quavers, in minims,  
on any mistral score
are mooring till but a touch of direction.
It hears all of what my fingers feel. 


It tastes all of which my eyes are witless.
The asp in the verge tasting me
with undulating flick of forked tongue
in aromatic echolocation,
both received and given by all.
The curious noses of foxes
between the furious foxglove
sifting out the berries of effort,
of strain and sweat in fur
haunting out from the stems.
There they find the scared,
shouting in the language of the animal.

And when the colours leave the flowers with the day  
the night is painted in flavoursome air.
The night which licks at your ear,
the night that chatters amongst itself,
sonic charybdis,
whirling in the moth-light.
The dark side of the earth
is facing me.

She looks
me in the eyes,
for just a moment,
as if it helped her to say
“I am only going to date you
if you just go to confession first.”
I think she wants me
to clean my soul
before I shave my chin
for her.

I unlatch
the wooden grate
and feel what it’s like
to look through the holes
of an Irish potato sack.
It’s the kind of guilt you feel
not having enough
******* for the recycling,
again.

He accepts
my quiet words,
Metabolizing them,
into fuel to keep nodding,
and I think of that stolen ******
in the back pocket
of my Sunday best,
between the fabrics,
and pressed by the polished wood.

Back to the sack insides
still, he wants to know,
the anatomy of my soul.
He wants to trace the outlines
of my spiritual blood vessels
all the way to my spiritual
heart, tucked behind spiritual
lungs. So he asks,
when I’ll come again.
I’ll need another two dates,
for the three date rule, to apply,
I think.

I don’t want a sunbeam
give that to Jesus.
Don’t bother me with purity,
don’t let me make shadows
out of you.

I don’t want a butterfly
batting along on the wind.
The wind of my word,
on the gale of my opinion.

I don’t want a pearl,
something that needs to be made.
Made from gritty sand, held close,
and pressurised round and edgeless.

I don’t want a rose
called what I want it to be,
cut where I want it to be,
on my lapel, for when it makes me look best.

I don’t want conversations like schizophrenia.
If you want me to be able to explain you in four lines,
I don’t want you.

We are in the ungodly hour again,
that sixty-minute stretch,
embedded in the nighttime,
of undisputed stillness.
A fracture of the evening
occupied by deep breaths
and oddly-human silhouettes.

The town butcher spends overtime
breaking bones, working
on the swine, and counting  
the progression of the night
by the swinging bodies.
They’re cold and sinuous
but he likes their company.

The town preacher wastes time
as he knows to pace himself
by half hour intervals,
squeezed between nightcaps.
In every period he remembers
slightly less that, a boy
is to be buried by the morning.

The town beggar walks towards nowhere,
he blows an alcohol breath
into his clasped hands
like resuscitating a needy mouth.  
from his ceiling-less living space,
he looks into black windows
just like we would look out of them.

The town dealer is on nothing
living back some hours he lost
Inside his head, looking, from a distance
through his eye sockets.
Now he’s on a strange sobriety and with a text,
the Londonese and the hood come back up.

In the ungodly hour,
no storm makes an eye around me.
In an un-pretty always, things just happen
to fill the timeless time.
We all assure ourselves
we’re all alone.

In her room
The only eyes belong to posters
And they never change.
She feels somewhere overhead
A plane shattering clouds
And then feels smaller
And more circular.

Clothes touched all of her like a predator
And she curls inside them.
Standing she let her feet feel the noise
Inside the carpet from downstairs.
The shouts that hit against her,
As rain explodes on the windshield,
Again and yet, again.

She even swears quietly
When she swears in her head,
Just like now.
The mouse gets squeezed with love,
A furry grenade,
And it gets smaller than before
Swiveling, pin-less.

It squeaked in reflex
And she didn’t stop holding on.
Not till there were two
Sets of fingernails in her palm
Neat impressions of waves,
On a child’s bedroom wall
And everything stopped moving

And everything was the same.
She expected to shake
The loose stones in her gut
And for the power of the ******
To scratch her,
like an itching match.
There was still nothing interesting.

There was nothing interesting in ten years
And now she wants to drape her love on you.
Like a mother with a sweatshirt,
Against your shoulders,
Trying to match your eyes.
Trying to remember hurting in them.

And when I take in this air
The wind mirrors
The currents underneath me.
We're made of the same
Un-cut-able energy.

These under-waves that breathe
In Blooming aneurisms,
Like a great heart
Caught in the rhythm of the moon
And it's steady eyelid.

We are but capsules of this movement
On loan from the ocean.
Void-mother, salt nirvana
Breathing alongside us
And through our many faces.

Deep, hungry, all consuming black,
As the only affront to the abyss.
Her maelstrom-stomach
Now spitting wood and bottles
At the shore.

Before the inversion of her,
Loosening her keen grip on life
She settled to exist in scars
Pounding rhythm into the shore
And singing in many voices.

That masculine sun
Holding her flat, rejecting advancements,
Falls in their dance
And cannot cover her turning.
He flees the storms.

She swallows electric
Giving light to the deeper life
The great glowing thuds returned
She’s waking hearts to contain a fury,
She's making music into movement into us.

And from the movements,
Bubbles take the warmth up
Past the gaze of colossal ones
Living their lives as silhouettes.

Past caryatids in the black,
With curious eyes,
Holding up sponge-lined trenches
Threaded with eels.

Past the sand bed stretches
Thick with silt-eating things
Relishing the mud
That rises on the corners of rocks.

Past a plaice's eye
Which Crawls across his face,
In his short puberty,
Looking for dangerous shadows.

Delicate bubbles turn
Their pressured skins
Up through water currents,
To come burst at my feet,

And in the millionth morning
That comes into its opening
I am rocked like a child
In the movement I’m made of.
So I can just look forward
At the sun-blink.

The dogs and the men
they bleed into the fields today.
The primal is protected with tradition
for the blood magistrate and bared teeth.
For the hoards,
who’s cider ice lollies dribble into tweed.
Snuffed Wellys suffocating in Jempson’s bags
pressing their crescent moons
into ****.

Iris flash, fast peristalsis of air
on both ends of the trumpet today.
Screaming brass.
War only requires one note remember.
One long note
orchestrated by children’s fingers
lifted to the butchery song
releasing the blood-cell men;
the forest’s traitorous antigens.

They are there to nit-pick the trees.
A mercy killing, without a wall.
They should have had a wall
and they tell me
my morals are sickly.
My sensibility is held up with gum.
So pound that war drum.
We’ll bite the backs, tear the scruff
like some death mother to them.

For the runners and the watchers
olympics needed prey aspects
to keep it going.
Teach your children to need that itch.
To save each and every Sunday school *****
from her husband’s boredom
and her children’s boredom
and all the things you notice when you can live and eat
this side of your living seat.