The Garden should not keep its name.
It’s soil is filled with stone,
And weeds too thick and wild to tame.
One lily stands alone.

Her petals like a bridal gown,
She seems to bloom with pride.
A spot of white amongst the brown,
Too radiant to hide.

The vines have shown her mercy,
They tangle where they lie.
She bows as though in curtsy,
When it’s time for her to die.

Her gown is turning brown like mud,
But still she goes with grace.
She knows that soon another bud,
Will bloom to take her place.

doves
decay in gutters;
their ghosts dart
across your greedy
eyes.

Sitting, silent.
The buzz and whir of your new reality
The neverending parade, smiley glad hands
Watch and witness the decay
It won't be long now
Your family
The ones who love you
Forks and knives at the ready
Our daily bread
This festive day
Let us celebrate

Sitting, silent.
The buzz and whir, your only friends now
The parade, white coats
It won't be long now
At least you have your family
The ones in the shadows
Forks and knives sharpened
Waiting silently
For the day

Inhospitable landscapes
And opioid canapés,
Give into grief
And metallic decay:
Your mind in situ.
Moral compasses compounded.

Green grows grey
Far swifter than you think.
In the blink of an eye
We'll see different skies.
A pale blue bloom
Will soon become doom and gloom,
And marigolds macabre,
Perfume of tulip and
Netherworlds of hubris,
Will consume the gold
And the grey.

Except
We're not there yet.
Giacommetti, Picasso and Muller foresaw:
We're all going to be ignored.

Ultimately.

A single state engrained into lore:
Deplorably thick custard creams
With a side of sea bream,
Quarter-loaf multi-seed bread
And half a shilling in the shed.

Unimaginable-
Immemorial.

Pass the headstone,
Don the frown.
The bright brown obelisk of fate
Awaits you now.

I love the taste of fire and ashes,
even the pungent sting of burnt charcoal.
Decaying in gasoline.
Because they were remnants once,
of who I was.

If it were up to me,
I'd let myself rot here
Drowned in my cotton sheets
And allow my skin to finally sink
In between the gaps of my rib cage.

Rot and
putrefy and
fester and
ooze,
Flesh dripping off bone,
So this stink of my own decay may be apparent to me alone no longer.

Senses overburdened by defeat.

The vineyard growing out
of decrepit stationmaster’s hovel flays
the skin of buses and trains alike
faces long and
pe eli  n   g.

Atop a rubber sea I wade,
sunlight ebbing awash
on my strong shoulders;
in pinks
purples
blue and green and grey.

The soot of early midafternoon chokes
up, curling down
my spine,
hug from a friend
in the skeleton of a regulation
seat my mind lays
to rest, soporific
sweet.

Here lie the ruins of a plainsman’s kingdom,
ghost fox says.
Here lie the dust
y wings of Corvus corax, grey
in age. Here lie the
loves and the
dreams and the
hearts of my
ancestors
wholly unholy in their pagan worship,
but:
the vineyard is a graveyard is a home
wild to hold
tame at heart
and there lies my body,
(anything I want it to be)
grapes a-swinging just out of reach-

The fox gets his prize
how sweet it tastes on my tongue.