Airport

Covering my face with my hands, there is an incessant in-pouring of light. I feel like I am in a casket. My brain seems to be swelling, in tune with an invisible pendulum. Waves of nausea flood my body.  Small children thunder around in front of me, like hysterical nightmare projections.

I have never enjoyed being in Airports. They are morgues with an added buzz of visitors and commerce. The sterility of the interior design and the nervous excitability of the passengers sets me very quickly on edge. As a salesman for a major international e-commerce company, I am required to fly often.

To avoid excess stress and anxiety I prepare meticulously. Nothing must be left to chance. I am regimented and purposeful during my preparation. If the luggage allowance is 15kg, then I make sure that my suitcase is dead on that weight. I reweigh my suitcases on several sets of scales. Checking there is no error in their calibration.  I do not carry any prohibited travel items. I ring airline customer support several times to double-check. I rummage through my suitcase repeatedly. I allow no error to go unnoticed. I google articles about travel preparation, checklists, essential travel items and I read articles about anxiety related to fear of flying. Neither my emotional state nor practical matters are to take me by surprise. I am like a samurai undertaking pre-battle rituals.

Check-in is open. I funnel through to the check-in desk. There are several people before me; their movements generate a low pitch buzzing in my head. They are hyper-kinetic, speaking at unreasonably loud volumes in an indecipherable language. My arms vibrate down by my sides, my tongue thickens. I feel warmer and more vulnerable. I start to think about the first meal I’ll eat in Rekyjavik. I have panicked thoughts, recognition of myself in these thoughts is minimal. I swing around to check that nobody is standing directly behind me. The several people check in without issue. A man in all black clothing, I presume, a security guard intercepts me and asks me to go to desk 13. Although there is a sign hanging down from the ceiling with directions to check-in desks 10-15, I am unable to locate desk 13. I double back on myself, I ask the check-in assistant from desk 12 where desk 13 is. She says that it has been temporarily moved to the second floor of the terminal. Desk 13 on the second floor doesn't in the slightest resemble a check-in desk. A burly individual with an absence of ****** expressions or an officious manner mans an oak desk. There is no conveyor belt for the luggage, only a shopping trolley. ''Ermmm can I check in here?''. The man whom lacks an officious manner nods curtly without removing his eyes from the newspaper he is reading. "Documentation''. I hand him my documentation. ''Passport''. ''Going to Reykjavik?'' ''Erm yes''. ‘’Follow me’’.
The man, who lacks an officious manner, leads me a door behind the check-in desk that doesn’t in the slightest resemble a check-in desk. A young child with golden blonde hair in white robes pushes the shopping trolley behind me. We enter a room that is high like a cathedral and tiled in exquisite mosaic tiles; alternating gold and white into infinity. The ceiling is so high it seems to disappear off into a void. Sat down at a bog-standard mass manufactured desk in front of me, is a man who must be at least 13 feet tall, he has enormous ears like an elephant and is speaking in rounds of what sounds like the same phrase. I do not recognise the language. I am ceased from behind by the blonde child and the man who lacks an officious manner. The man with enormous ears like an elephant screams ‘’I hate Iceland’’, the blonde child laughs uncontrollably grabbing his stomach like he is holding his insides in. The ceiling begins to close in and a space opens in the floor. The man who lacks an officious manner says in a sinister tone says ‘’Do you think you would be forgiven”. I say ‘’I have got a ticket, I’m going to Iceland on business’’ I feel a prodding in my lower back and then darkness.

It is a sickness,
That lives amongst,
The focused sky
The curious child,
And the moon illuminated.

It is an endless drone,
That wrenches our stomachs,
Enslaves our neighbours,
And breaks our spirits,

It is worshipped,
Yet will see us forgotten,
A blip on a savanna,

A loose handed emblem,
of folded thoughts,
Loss is weaponized in enchanted red,
Wrongs corrected stemming from the
blissful bare signed gawky individuals.
Homage backtracked and renounced
Barely earnest calls for a curious fathom-ability
Heaven bound birdlike shadows,
Bright light gagged and janky,
Found little finger blood tacked to the earth.

A strange kind of intrusive ambiance; voices in several languages, forced laughter, technological functioning; human activity intermarried with machines. The volume rising perfectly in sync with my cortisol levels, I interrogate  my past for signs of the path that led me here; it remains blurred. I did not dream of working in customer service; but here I am regardless, moments of my life that I will never ponder again; a cascade of  the present moment repeating as long as my employment contract exists. An event-less horizon, memories are stillborn here and true ingenuity stifled. There is much and nothing that has led me here. It is hard not to feel like a horse bred for performance in this place; everything is monitored, quantified, reviewed and collaborated. Performance reports produced with the fervor of medieval scholars translating the bible.  I look to the sky, what else is there to do; only to see smoke alarms and aesthetically neutral lighting arrangements. There is art work on the walls, but is generic, created to defy analysis. The colouring of the walls is chosen to exude a neutral sort of trendiness; on brand for the overarching corporate image.

Flickering,
like a daydream,
knotted together days
losing curiosity
regarding what happens between,
polar opposites.

can't send a message to myself,
my body is willing something
false starts and abandoned plans ,
droning contained,
inside my head.
There is an inevitability to all things,

He did something in the shipyards, but I was too young to know what. Those times, in any event, had long passed. His hair was white and he had spectacles with thick rims, that is much of his appearance as I recall. It was hard to imagine the time in which he had worked; things around there were beginning to accelerate, melting into air and the past was exactly that; should he come back now he would recognise very little.

I learned much later that he sometimes visited the Chinese takeaway to talk about communism; he believed in an equally high standard of living for all, not death camps and suppression of the individual. If one man has a nice suit, all men must have a nice suit. His presence was not a political one for me, I was a child, he was someone who we visited. He greeted me on me and my brother's visits with a smile and a jig; "Not bad for 85 year old'' he'd say. He made us ice cream floats, slipping the ice cream out of those individual paper packets that ice cream used to sometimes come in. He was a vital man, there was something to him that made him exciting to be around. Although he had been educated to a low level by contemporary norms he was well read and informed, I came to learn in later years. He never had a child, that I learned too.     What does that do to a person to be childless? What does that do to a person to have a child? Time passes and things happen regardless. I think he died in the same week as my grandma, but I could be mistaken. The exact details of one's life sometimes become muddled. An enigmatic figure in a bigger picture. Forgotten by many.

Of all known tyrannies,
This is the most airy,
Each word from this day forward,
Will be silk coated
More carefully chosen
Whispered from a kingdom up high,
There are many feelings weaker than,
My hand upon yours,
Our eyes meeting,
I cannot wait to hear your heart's music,
And for it to be recognised for what it is,
Your steps will be the music that gives me strength,
With you,
The world has less sharp edges
harsh looks,

Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,

partial strangers,
networked communications,

keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,

system failures,
nicotine meditations

smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,

computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,

brightening windows,
verbose inflections,

silks ties,
limited reverberations,

exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,

pointless days,
power imitations,

numeric values.
insurmountable situations,

digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation

Tantamount to the crawlspace where your emotions
are dissembled,
is the animalistic focus in your pointed gaze,
Sketchy eyed with jerky limbed motions,
As elusive as you are always around,
Or so it would seem,
Their eyes fall upon you,
no doubt,
You are a vision,
That I do not and have never questioned,
There is a fundamental lack of
hesitancy in your days,
lately you have looked let down,
Thinking of you,
occurs outside the restraints of time,
I would like to be everything with you.

The night conspiratorial,
A certain unfriendly bite to it,
heaviness like things undone,
Autumn is television cackle mahogany scented,
one creature making sense
Of its biology,
Legs and arms and hearts and minds entangled,
Until lethargic resignation
Slipping our memories in years to come,
Like we were absent from our bodies,
Fleetingly appalled at my abandonment,
To what extent do the walls know?

I should have thought,
It would be easier,
Somehow haha,
It is neither here nor there,
A coincidental chain of things,
Setting in motion
Something akin to,
A dreamless day,

A wooden sort of way
Of going about,
Cumbersome,
Turtled,
Thiking about,
Nothing while,
Fixing blye eyes,
Analysing speech patterns
A superior sense of spatial awareness
Coupled with sartorial elegance,
That could be counted in kilowatts,
He/she is the incumbent ruler of a blank,
Where are our chaperones?
This is not the kind of party I had envisaged,
A monster is as much as you allow it to be,
So take me to solitude.

I really want a doughnut,
i think,
but where do i get one? I am vegan and in Belgium.
They are not widely available,
When I dance in my kitchen thinking of doughnuts
I am the spirit of James Brown
Well not really, he was way cooler.
Additionally, I am 6 foot 5 inches
White and have two flat feet.
I can speak Dutch though and James Brown couldn't
my kitchen surfaces are sparkling and I am possibly high off the cleaning product fumes.
Provided the manufacturer hasn't removed them for safety purposes
I really do want a doughnut.
Now, not tomorrow,
Life is short, give me the sugar,
I wonder if James Brown sometimes got strong sweet food cravings.
Could probably check google and find out,
but some things are best left unknown.

Expert testimony has decreed yellow,

Who are we to speak against those with seven tongues and antlers,

You sleep as the muffin man creeps

Camera in hands and remnants of sickness past upon his clothes

Your eyes Otto Dix, your face like an anguished customer at Greggs.

He, the muffin man, staggers in the night and surveys these barren lands.

At what point will you release your patterned anguish?

Expert testimony has decreed yellow,

Watermelon and disorder for the masses in their lived fury

hunters of the lowest rung,

misery and handbags at the cumulative paces from Newcastle to Carlisle

Flawed Romans and tasty Saxons,

Expert testimony has decreed yellow,

Revolt! bring down the manor!

The muffin man in his element, deckchair reclined

Barely do my Wednesdays fill with longing,

Lost observers rendering August whims to the scrapheap of infinity,

Galvanized entities downing tools schematically,

A posse of awareness pronating towards incandescent light,

Mostly everything a prolonging of jest and belly laughs,

Dawn brings the sick belly of listlessness,

Hordes of happenchance and imaginers of silence dancing,

The chitter chatter cadence does dim for a minute stretching yonde

you of pharmaceutical lens,
Concrete handed
sharp edges rounded,
colours slandered,
you womb-safe,
blanketed,
bleeting sounds
non-threatening,
Shadow individual
Deodorant mojo,
the man-made park,
well governed hair
lips are moist and plumped up,
a conveyor belt human,
bowel movements and idle chatter are corporate losses,
Neglect that which is outside this Kingdom,
the office must remain hermetically sealed to ensure maximum shareholder profits
breathing in sand and time,
this here void of monotony,
numbly dispirited
poor food and no discipline (that's you),
face is sallow
sagging,
you are nothing,
not really,
your bonus will be paid at the end of this month.

They must not hear of
things that have gone on,
under this roof,
during these hours,
they would scream at the top of their lungs,

You do not want to know,
pressing intentions
why his waist bulges over his belt,
why his face is so red,
a murky sky,
eyes slits in ebony stone.

she is gone,
someone must know why,
others are left to guess and to gossip,
hens clucking,
you must not know,
what they whisper with thickened tongues,

There is a kind of pride,
in being the one that sees and knows,
nervous,
menaced by petty stimulants,
Events become like a sepsis,
webbed,
sickness  multiplying,

years kind pass like temporary paralysis,
fear is  a currency,
sometimes.

Allow 3 seconds,
to enter,
ignore him for he is nobody really,
the sun has not yet risen,
the stairs or the lift?
These are the choices you make,
20 calories per floor,
How long do you want this?
chose your story,
Your rib-cage molests your skin nest,
You are not the youngest,
face reality,
What have you achieved lately?
Be present in the moment,
Do not fail emotionally,
Keep on fighting in spite of being wounded,
Your bi-yearly evaluations have been consistent,
This is to be applauded in light of your recent health troubles,
Some things are clear to the naked eye,
It pleases us immensely that you have decided to stay with the organisation,
However, please adhere to company guidelines regarding the dress code,
If the train is late so much you should consider driving,
Bake a cake for the cake sale,
Your colleagues are all here to support you,
We are organising a departmental night out on Friday, attendance is mandatory,
Consider working extra time in order to clear the backlog,
Breaks are to be restricted to 15 minutes,
Ensure the correct status is inputted,
Give us everything you have,
You are our company.

Last night communing with the,
much more than anything,
but still not quite,
echoing in worlds beyond this one,
if it pierces,
empties out carefully
What is it that is never quite,
intact or playfully,
ask the sages to reconsider,
paths to the sun,

Wonderful it will be to reach,
apexed or transcedent,
finger tips dusty or removed,
which is the endpoint subtracted,
faces that are familiar,
but are no more,
bottle green,
they are everything but sad,
dowsed in caffeine again,
heart is drowning in,
stolen courage,
the day passes away,
lost and fragmented.

Bleeding earth,
Of motioning limbs,
praying to the tethered sunset,
wooden seasons snubbed,
abandoned and slathered,
Between almost everywhere,
Unnamed and shrub covered,

Something found in the endless,
plain and comprehended,
Civility manifested,
cottoned on to,
scratched out with plastic implements,
roaring blood cascading,
mechanical timidity,
tongues are on a journey,
naked and dead.

Hideous static,
dreams orbiting,
a dark planet,
granular daydreams,
gasps of conversation,
footfall drowns out conscience,
layered chatter to infinity,
that which is not man
......bleeps.............
a regret rimmed thought,
............afternoon's perpetual zombies.........
plucking at a keyboard's harp strings,
evaluated,
numerical data streams
no contemplation will set you free,
from 8 hours dragging on,

Sometimes he stared at himself in the mirror, his skin polar bear white. He thought if he stared long enough he would be capable of withstanding time and its weathering effects. He liked the scent of his hairbrush and the feeling of it pushing against his scalp. A stranger, high on ******* and misery, pushed him infront of a metro. This was not in any way part of his future plans.

Harassed light is cut and divided
coming of the day is decayed in milk,
the haggard moon is the latest unwelcome intrusion
Detached body parts are the new order of things
retracted senses ignore the smells of yesterday,
A quiet mayhem to each passing moment,
Each thought wrenches like sand under fingernails,
Settling into place briefly has no explanatory value.
Time is retracting wrapped in plastic,
Guttural cries the sea is a bathtub of regret
Formless burdens illuminated by the sun blunted and captured

Moans were heard at a distance,
there a point of separation
between deed and sound
untethered from chance,
dragged time is repeating,
beholden to a frail passage
in the eyes of the yielding sun.

Have you considered,
Despite your best intentions,
Independent of your best efforts,
You will not remember this moment,
Regardless of your drum-sure heartbeat,
The thunderous slaps of rain on your roof,
The rising tide of confusion within your thought processes,
Life showers everything in impermanence.

Varnished
Almost gleaming
A voice much like my own
In my head
A pale narrator
The cigarettes were a suprise but shouldn't have been
A photo, you are my age,
There is not much resemblance to speak of,
Seaside
Seagulls screeching witnesses
What passed from your lips
Conversations somewhere

With tears streaming down my surprisingly gaunt cheeks,
I hide out in a public toilet like it is a cave in somewhere much more exotic than this,
I am not a ****** addict as per accusations but I don't feel so good,
Useless at collecting money for a charity
Just another thing to feel uneasy about,
My brain and happiness are a half-****** dial-up connection
I bawl my fists up like an infant testing out his hands.
I think about shadow boxing but feel too lethargic to do so.
If Floyd Mayweather is money than I am poverty
A woman who looks like a Beverley, asks me if I am OK.
I lie that I am and thank her.
Deception is a necessary weapon at times.
Perhaps I am too far from home.

obey the sea for now,
further instructions will follow in the chirps of birds,
the silence between seasons,
the friction between elderly humans,
the yellowing of the halo of angels fallen,
the rotting of discarded fruit

I slept wonderfully,
expunged of all sins
actual and imagined,
under a checkered quilt,
I dreamed of an Adonis and forgetting,
His clothing perfectly accentuated
his classically perfect physique,
I don't know what to make of that,
that has  been happening so much lately,
Who do you confide in, when there is just jittery energy?
My body is calling for something but I have not yet formulated an answer,
I have made a deity out of caffeine lately,
and my nails are so far in the distant past,
they bumped into my great granda on Bedford terrace.
People ask me if I'll move back to my land of birth,
But I have never really left.

Sometimes his attention seemed to split apart. His consciousness seemed to visit different dimensions simultaneously. He felt like, at times, he was living inside a kaleidoscope. Although he often lacked the means to describe his lived experience to others. When he tripped over the old Dutch woman; her hair disordered and her body cramped up like a day old hot dog, he experienced his head hitting the last step of the escalator, but his mind was also elsewhere compiling a shopping list. His thoughts were still something briefly as his body became nothing. His eulogy mentioned his numerous professional accolades, but nothing of his trivial end.

His back was slightly hunched, but not to the extent that a stranger would notice. His lip jutted forward, like an animal edging towards a precipice. He used his voice instrumentally. His clothes were generic. People would not remember him after a fleeting meeting, he was not regarded as a charismatic man. He was born in Gateshead, England, although his name was Schultz.

He entered the hotel with minimal fuss, neutrally. Schultz did everything with the air of a man who wished to leave no trace after him, unaware that he was being pursued and plans were in place to put an end to his existence. The youth at the reception desk, looked out of place, exceedingly handsome but in an androgynous way. It was very difficult to read the youth. He was all function. 'I have a reservation'' the youth opened his mouth to respond as the chandelier fell. The impact was fatal. A noteworthy end to a monotone man.

The sky takes its rest,
Bright but elderly
What we are is still new enough
We keep abreast of the smoothness in each other,
at behest of your more rational spirit,
I aspire to glide through days,
But sometimes I fixate on details,
Keen and intense like the sun in memories,
I drown at times in the now
Limbs possessed by the sweet whatever,
Your passage is smooth,
A vision of composure wherever you go.

The noise was incessant, a jungle in a suburban street.  Their uninhibited laughter and carefree glide as they strutted down the pedestrianised street. All jumping in turn over the bollards at the end of the street; shrieking at each other. They didn't give two *****, cocky little *******. They were all hair, charity shop jumpers, and self centered to boot. One of them parked his sporty ****** car in the back-lane, like he was trying to colonise the space between his house and theirs. This prevented his easy access; he couldn't get out effortlessly on his bike any longer (several thousand pounds, carbon fiber, a serious model) or unload his shopping. In a semi-lagered up state; post-Friday night drinks up the town he had gotten himself into a revengeful state. He wanted to show the little ******* that he was not to be messed with. Thinking he was just some bald middle aged fella in a parka, he'd show them.

He let his resentment get the better of them, keying ''****'' into the car. **** them, a keying well deserved, don't want keying then turn Black Sabbath down. He had felt briefly guilty the next day; eggs on toast and coffee wondering if he should have done something so drastic. He was ultimately mild-mannered and avoided conflict where possible. His guilt diminished when the music started up again; he hadn't had a moment's peace since they moved in. He felt like they were insects on a hot day; constantly invading his personal space and making him feel uncomfortable. They woke him up constantly; he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. His skin was getting paler, his eyes bloodshot. They should try looking at excel spreadsheets for hours on end, punching in formulas on 3 hours sleep. None of them had worked an honest day's work in their lives, little *******. He hated their flat caps, berets and other arty accessories. Sometimes he thought about lining them up like dominoes in height order and pushing them off the Tyne Bridge. Or feeding them to the dogs at Brough Park- **** little *******. Sliding up the street- carefree and laughing at nothing in particular. Laden down with cheap cider and frozen pizzas. His friendly notes had been ignored, if diplomacy fails then it is time for military action. Politeness was no use anymore. They obviously couldn't care less about keeping him up; night after night, making him miserable. He put on his black Adidas tracksuit and his Berghaus jacket zipped up to his face with the hood up. He put a ball-peen hammer down the back of his jogging pants, he smeared joop on his bald-head, on his ears and on his neck. He walked next door ''Once in a lifetime'' playing in his head, jumped over the little garden wall and banged on the door. As he banged on the door, he heard the clanging of a snare drum bursting out of the window. He didn't have time to react as the stonework from the window ledge above fell on his head. He never did get a chance to make his grievances clear.

In those freeform movements,
Your small hands,
twitch out the blueprints,
for a life well lived
on my chest
I find more of myself in your light-shy eyes,
every second,
I feel more than ever.

Of all the eccentric ways

tongues given to the withdrawn ,

As the day becomes a disease,

never quite what it should be,

Numerous guises intertwined

there is a flippancy of rhythm

Knowing but not,

mouths are soiled and numb,

There is no grander way my spirit of dissolution is lined with angel's teeth hands exploring,
indulging themselves bulwark of a new day's dream rigid of eye,
Colliding with mutinies as in the mechanical cavorting of creatures marching,
Past albatrosses appearing and hindering caffeine messengers from the ether,
Somewhere if not here aborted holding hands with disdain there are many ways to be anything.
words exchanged with impossibility are untied threads piling up until there is time spare to sketch them with morning breath,
preoccupation grandstanding efforts minds broken **** coloured dawn of convenience rigid and timebound,
all must inhale the earth smoothly

Puppet-master
You flavour cooking with untruths
your teeth are roadside shrines to in-authenticity,

your mannerisms are that of a rogue aircraft controller
you are above all, a conceited individual.

devoid of humanity
a puppet-master without understanding.

lost in the shadows of your own ego
you are a slave to your own impulses,

a hissy fitting diva
you weaponise falsehoods.

creating division and disorder
you never take responsibility and look to deceive

you are full of simulated pomposity
you are 6 foot odd of nowt.

His marriage imploded; smoke and insinuations. It was a shock that he always knew was coming. His conscience sent him North; a man and his bags. He was 38 and had gained weight. A once handsome face melting away into middle-aged near-obesity. Ruing over what he was not proud of, every human interaction was endlessly scrutinised. He felt that he had a true essence that he had not yet uncovered. If he could discover it then he would build a new story around it, one that would get his life back on track. His meals were no hopers; microwaved, industrial and sodium filled. His meals and his days did not nourish him. Feeling lonely, he had started to go to the pub. Although he stuck out, he found the locals rough but friendly enough. They, the 3 lads, were going to come around for a smoke. A little bit of companionship might stop the walls from eating him up. They were all in their mid-twenties, he'd guess, so younger than him but not oddly so. He flipped between politics today and sky sports news; chain smoking like it was a vital function. He drank a can of san pelligrino blood orange, slowly, his mouth overwhelmed by the sugary taste. He sighed from the tip of his toes to the crown of his head. Within an hour, like his marriage he would no longer exist.

In 2008, the British Home Office lost the data of 84,000 English and Welsh prisoners. Catastrophic events can follow on from the humblest of beginnings, in this instance the data was downloaded to a memory stick by Home Office Consultants and deleted.

He was not involved, nor in any way was he linked to it. Nevertheless, he feared these types of occurrences and built his life around guarding against them. He subscribed to the business maxim ‘’How you do anything is how you do everything’’. He approached all facets of his life with a fanatical fastidiousness. He lived an almost monastic life dedicated to the eradication of risk and error. Life, as most people know, can throw up its own unpredictable events. Any conceivable eventuality can transpire. As he finally choked on the apple, he didn’t quite have time to think of the horrendous banality of his end.

In 2008, the British Home Office lost the data of 84,000 English and Welsh prisoners. Catastrophic events can follow on from the humblest of beginnings, in this instance the data was downloaded to a memory stick by Home Office Consultants and subsequently lost.

He was not involved, nor in any way was he linked to it. Nevertheless, he feared these types of occurrences and built his life around guarding against them. He subscribed to the business maxim ‘’How you do anything is how you do everything’’. He approached all facets of his life with a fanatical fastidiousness. He lived an almost monastic life dedicated to the eradication of risk and error. Life, as most people know, can throw up its own unpredictable events. Any conceivable eventuality can transpire. As he finally choked on the apple, he didn’t quite have time to think of the horrendous banality of his end.

You ought to do so,
Really
Just to keep in time with the setting sun,
What do you have to lose?
For the sake of a clear mind,
Time is ticking
It is the sign of an expanding conscience
It will make your vision less cloudy
Your days more intense
Get involved in it
Reluctance is a straight-jacket,
You want to be all you can be?

It is probably nothing to ruminate over,
Regardless,
Leave me to do so
There is no other way
Afraid to leave definite things unsaid,

Our hands are not interlinked
Nor should they become so,
In spite of contrary glimpses,
This is not our journey to make,
Leave me to regurgitate what probably isn't,
This afternoon,

I do not ache for what is left behind,
Not anymore at least
Sometimes I wish I had more places to go,
I have cast more shadows than I ought to,
Listlessly trying to find any other way to be.

I will make windows from your daydreams,
Assemble your loved ones,
By a body of water,
Hideous is dust to me,
There is a swank and a swerve to your
Outward ways,
He thought about this too,
Never much of a god,
A vessel for fragility,
Make plans of glass,
Raindrops anxious of the coming,
Stretched out and white.
Moments are dismembered,
Filled in with beating hearts and then racing away,

We must not neglect,
each other's tenderness,
pushing forward,
the unknown is a moment,
in the midst of everything.

My blank mouth,
Mummering half-words and compressed sentences,
Triggering his hate,
All a misunderstanding really
His patience convulsing
These things can be a trigger to less enviable states,
Is it drastic that I want to end?
A forest floor and some last restful thoughts,
Body layen out like tinned goods,
Some kind of logic to do with presentability,
My organs works of macabre art not yet returned to the earth,
Birds sorting through my body like archivist from gods,

Oh goodness me,
It happened so fast,
powdered cappuccino on the bench,
a faint smell of petrol hanging in the air.

Drought began to colonise the air, like a daytime ******,
He, sat, in a prayer like position counting his few blessings.
Blood drenched, a speck of dust in a daydream.
At odds with the cycles of nature and life itself.
Or so it seemed.
He dreamed of a life made up of sunlight and half-clear images of picture perfect happiness.
His throat ached and his feet were mangled like tree branches confused.

They could barely relate to each other. Unpolished as is the human
way when observed dispassionately, but like humans they tried to
seem certain. Thinking they could carry out their plans, manipulate
and get their own way. Their eye contact had become forced and
staged; their smiles of acknowledgement were masking
estrangement. When the woman choked on the hard part of a
tomato; they were forced into immediate action; one of them applied
the Heimlich manoeuvre while the other called the emergency
services. We do not have to get on to compliment each other
perfectly

Some people found it invasive,
others,
Not quite there thing in the vast scheme of things,
I, on the other hand, was very much indifferent to much of it.
If anyone cares to know.

All creviced and doomed in places,
Everything under the blinking stars,
Blood neighbours,
It doesn't take millions,
To drool a river into existence,

Some half baked dubious ******* that I wrote on a train headed in the direction of Kortrijk:


''An endless stream of not arseds to hang your ***** washing on/Ya forebearers are all mutts, your pallbearers will be too/You are a kazzoo blowing *******, an idiot's tac nightmare/seen two or three of your alleged family members puffing their chests out down the backtrack, propa knackas/Ya ma is very particular, your sister is as cold as a fortnight in the briar dene (although a fine dancer when she sets her mind to it/
Getting older or more toxic? Shushhhh, be kind/started hearing normans and lennys settling betting slips while I'm on the netty/dettol and despair- the golden duo made good/I'll be bed ridden in time for christmas- flannel pyjamas and sentimentality/heard your kid slagging uz & saw demons in the mist on the windee (window, *******)/cutting my losses/tobogganing hopes/
the left side of my chest is 85 the last weeks/the streets in Brussels speak to me and are canny this time of year/I am not a francophone by predilection/making a secret pact with the universe not to mourn its passing/Every social situation is becoming like a casino for *******/Starting to feel a little bit more Panzram than Ghandi/Flanders is flat cos someone trod on it while under the drink/I might have fitted better into a bygone era- a bewildering lack of manual skills- what came first the dial up internet in your ma's back room or my cack handedness/Don't have owt to tell anyone anymore, don't give two shites nevermind one/Your step brother watches hollyoaks and eats ****** snacks while your step sister hums songs of unknown origin''.
A bumbling idiot's invented history of tyneside:
''I saw 3 cats attack a pigeon in heaton park as bobby thompson, aka the little waster, danced suggestively with the setting sun, a serviette tucked down his front to catch his dinner....................mike neville cried in the dark, while suckling away at a glass tizer bottle from the arcade chippy in whitley bay, that day there was no news on tyneside......T Dan Smith liked a snack as much as the next man...but what he really liked was to drink a pint of water everytime the clock struck 36- that way he could **** the toon into oblivion at his own behest or the behest of occult forces.....I found Gazza, shellsuited, eating a child's portion of cod and chips in St Paul's church yard, in his ruddyu red hand was a 6 pack of socks from winners (the flagship store). Abandoned between his feet were 50 notebooks from the fisherman's mission.....don't get me started on sting''.