Chump knuckles down, brings it on
to blow a dandelion head clean off
with one large exhalation
of love.

oh man, abba is like
prog rock made simple;
and there's so much
cheese too... i could
start a factory producing
edible shoe laces - but
then the hot flush butterfly
of puffed up cheeks of smiling...
and what, today'***** single will
not get the same treatment?
we don't remember cavemen
and dinosaurs these days,
we're stuck remembering the
20th century, as the fashion
industry makes a testament of
on a catwalk of designing
a wardrobe no one would wear...
art-house tedium with skeletons
in an open closet...
they mind the logos, so people
say Versace! Dolce & Gabbana!
they really look out for those
signature stilettos and handbags...
the poor ***** just get the
logo printed on their shirts
so people can learn reading once more,
gimme gimme sweden's weather at
midnight so i can chase those Nike
blues away... the new signature of the
illiterate, once the X, now the tick;
tick tick tick... clocking into
a system of being educated to decipher a - z
like a cabdriver,
then pulverised by images to buy spend buy
and become dyslexic when oiled up ***** ****
became a slogan of trademark & copyright of
a certain style of writing C in *****-in-cockle-doodle; cola.

How have you been? I hope you’ve been well, but I’ve been thinking about how

A poem does have too much
person in it to be a tree.
Too many clichéd feelings,
too much sadness and inadequacy.
All of it pressed into words
that are too tight because
poems are always a size too small.
You’re right, a poem is nothing
like a tree.

I’ve been busy too, kind of, but I just want to say

Forget the miles,
and give me the woods.
Give me the dark and the deep
and the lovely.
I’ll leave the horse,
it’s better off without me and
I’ll imagine that the woods
belong to no one.
Just give me the woods
and the snow
and the hypothermia.
Give me the frozen lake.
I don’t want your miles
of tired positivity.

I think we were talking about faith last time, but I don’t think that’s quite it. You see,

I don’t need God
to do the battering.
There’s already something inside me
pummelling my cheeks,
leaving invisible bruises
and a lack of air in my lungs.
I don’t want to be ravished,
and besides, even this
monster won’t ravish me.

It really has been a while now since we last wrote

But nothing’s changed,
for the day I was born,
a week early, afraid
of being late,
I caught a glimpse
of the world and changed my mind.
I tried to turn back
but got a cord wrapped round my neck
and nearly choked.
They plied me out with pincers
anyway, wailing:
leave me be.

But I’m alright. I’ll be okay, don’t worry too much. Things happen and

Maybe after that,
I should have seen
that it’s not worth the fight.
Maybe it’s just lucky
I’m lazy.

I’ll write again, as and when I can.

upon
the
white cliffs of Wales
where
gentle breezes
pushed upon
the
soul of our sails
and
where
the instant swell of
blue Breckenridge clouds
provided our daily bread
thus
for our exploration ships
and
feed our men courage
oh lord
if we sailed back home

Black mouths
Running down the walls
They gather here
But no one cares to see them

A dead worm sinks through the crust
And blood wells in

Where? Where? Where?
Shrinking to the bone
Where? Where? Where?
Kafka on the shore