Retreating from
  weighty day of toil
I settle my slack
  on tailored sprawl of lawn
Compressed soil radiating ;
  tapped battery
  of a day's warmth
Life is raised through my cartridge
  I stretch out
  receiving reptile charge

Aimed shyly
   at the expansive dark bedding of night sky
     speckled
         pierced
     pecked at with pinholes...
each emitting brilliance
firing out fuel
  exhaust from further worlds
                less adulterated than our own

There is a correspondence
  amongst the insects in the grass
  ticking, clicks and tats
  like static amongst laundry
There's a great correspondence out there
  in the night sky

here am
   invulnerable human
    suburban and secure
   belly...

a cross draft
   from the open basement window
              invades me
eggy sulphur burping from the drains
an organic degassing from below my house

: Betrayed ! 

my feeling passes
the stars behave stagnant
       and dismissive of me
; withholding glove oblivion ;
the clouds step in
  like a quick curtain
  over some 'lewd private show'
(must I pay more
                  to see more ?)
My world is kept restrictive
; a muzzling

I bare the weight still
      of the days wetter ill
Better off indoors
        filtered
            of my own dander
and projected upon
        by a feeding screen

We were bred in nuclear captivity
Raised behind the safety of stained glass.

We learned to follow the leaders,
memorize the Billboard Top 30,
sleep on apparently royal mattresses,
make love in forest green colored cages,
make money by counting other people's money,
track the number of times our feet hit the pavement,
and then die on a 700 dollar couch.

Still unable to believe in a god other than this one.

my love is gone...
my love has gone next door
my love popped round
to perform frottage with the hedgerow
and lust after the new lawnmower


whilst i built 'The Good Life'
my heart got distracted
it grew a cavernous attraction to the neighbours
and their immaculate lawn

my love is licking their heavy curtains
chasing their well groomed dog
watching their home entertainment centre
and kipping on their sofa
(made comfortable with extra science)
my love has repelled from me
to ****** toward another life
a life neatly removed from a catalogue
and free of creative revolution

Come to me, here, from Furness Vale

To this idle county, where
a dozen stations stand in
wait to loan the City her suits
and collect them, weary, at the day’s end.

Descend the chasm that splits
England’s pleasant pastures
and concrete miles; a balancing
or cancelling act that renders neutral –

but each Spring I watch from my window
the azaleas that blossom in my
neighbours’ garden, the petals peeling,
revealing, coming undone by the swelling heat.

Be here, Scarlett, let me watch
our shadows spread across my wall
as the shifting sky paints the room,
like burning embers.

And, sun sinking, let us go to bed.

The sun sinks differently under an undisturbed skyline.

I wonder if it has something to do with my eye-line,
With the way I want things to happen on my time;
The sun should set when I want and rise only when I co-sign.
Here in suburbia time moves slow.

The sun moves at a half-time pace and so do the days.

I wonder if I’m missing out skipping out looking out for what’s racing past.
In New York all time seems to do is pass
But here it moves
Slow.

I wonder if I wonder too much.

No time to wonder or wander in a city too full of too many too much too fast too busy I have to do do do before the day leaves me behind—
Here, I leave the sun behind. Or it leaves me.
Sometimes, time moves so slow I can’t tell if I’m rushing or dragging
But I know that I’m moving and I think that may be enough.

I look up again and the sun has set. Today, it must be enough.

please marry me. please, oh my god, please marry me,
because i have feelings i need to bury in the backyard
of our really nice house on our quiet gated street. i can
give you slightly above average *** and you can give
me your arm around my waist, boring and boring and
steady, a nice "have you met my wife?" to round off
the pleasant evening. we're friends, we're friends, you
tell your stories to an adoring audience, but you're only
looking at me, and i draw the shape of your head over
and over, trying to get it right. we can be alright, isn't
that what we all want in the end? i can give you those
chubby hands, a gummy smile, through the bars of the
crib, and you can be the voice over in the first birthday
party home movie, the proof that it's not just me. i roll
over in the dark and my arm hits you and it's not just me.
and when you get too drunk i can be the stern hands on
the steering wheel of our sensible car, and when i get
too sad, you can help me fill out doctor's office forms.
relation: spouse. tell me we don't have to be in love. i
don't want to be in love, i want the beige place mats, the
suburban nothing, the pb&j cut into triangles, a life of
april tuesdays. we can get a ****** golden retriever and
make our baby wear one of those flower headbands from
etsy and you can say, "i don't think you've met my wife,"
and when i roll over in the dark, you'll be there, boring boring steady, and
we can be alright.

85 and off the ladder

picking leaves from the gutter

Wife soon after

They found her dentures

on the kitchen tile


A few weeks later the neighbor

still in her sunhat and green gloves

hose running in her hand

Felled by a bee hiding in her marigolds.

Then her dog,

Went to live with someone else

But wouldn’t eat.

Wasn’t long before the flowers went too.

Eaten up in the dried, cracked soil.


The houses went up for sale

Little signs sitting innocently

In the front lawns:

“So & So Realty”


Pretty soon

some lovely young couples moved in

Had children

Bought a dog

Cleaned gutters

Planted more marigolds

Watched the rain run down

The window

And the reaper grinned

A little More than usual.