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.

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.

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

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?

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.

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,

I have lain here for seven eternities,
Waiting to begin a journey
False starting numerously
Aching joints and mouth as dry as sellotape,
Ignorant of all calls to justice
Clarions unsettling my sleep,
Everything an interlude,
With mottled hands I pray to a statue of a blues singer on my mantelpiece,
Yet again I awake to the sun setting,
Basketball shoes almost comically big on my finger-toed feet.

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.

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

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.

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,

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.

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.

I lay very still in the bath,
here, there and in incidental celestial light,
trying to inspire a revolution without opening my mouth
if you just wait long enough
the loose ends that are appearing like locusts
will tie themselves up,
Silk and completeness,

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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,

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.

Bus number 1,

Was here now it is gone

Eyeliner-ed lads and young berserkers,

value centre decadence,

warwick terrace is decaying

I am cidered up and paranoid

my hands twitch omniously,

I will never ‘’be’

Dehsi bar and grill meals

Bathtub ruminations

rosy cheeks and wounded ego

watching ritualised ****** disguised as music

too much too think

confined to my mind

i persecute myself unrelentingly

I resent everything,

leaving the house to grocery shop,

I let my youthful physique dissolve

I no longer recognise myself

My hair grown

Bleak propositions

I begin to assemble empty defences

If you could imagine hums and whirs and beeps. Her eyes bulging, not being able to discern what she was really all about. Silks, precious fabrics,  high-end cosmetics. Neutral, objective, unfathomable. She seemed to fill the space like a gas with a pleasant odour.  'So you have a degree but want to work as a checkout assistant, how come?'. Uneasy, light attacking and her eyes looking at my face. I look down, shuffle in my chair and gulp. 'Well, it is a company with an excellent reputation and in all honesty I have bills to pay''. She smiles, but without conviction. ''Have you tried to find jobs more relevant to your degree?''.  I pick up the scissors and cut a sizable lump of flesh out of my forearm. I pick up the plastic chair and throw it as hard as I can against the interview room window. She flees the room, afraid, nervous and easy to read.

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.

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,

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.

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.

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

Laughter is not always the answer, he thought, as he rearranged his papers in-front of him as though possessed by a spirit devoted to the production of electric shock like anxiety. The word ''So....'' dripped off his lips as the first gunshot cracked into his temple, seemingly propelled by the screams of the audience.

They eloped behind the door. Her baggage colliding with his baggage. There was an eerie atmosphere, but they tried to concentrate on their bodies. By doing so, the eerie atmosphere seemed less imposing. Their eyes were red-rimmed. They were heaped full of caffeine and gluten-heavy sandwiches, it was surprising that they felt amorous really. Although there was nobody else present, it felt like there was a presence in the room. This could have been the hum from the insect killing machine located next to the copier. When their bodies met each other it gave off the sound off a shotgun going off, kind of, gentler than that really. Neither of them climaxed, separating without Ill will. They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing regret via the direct messaging app on a well known famous social media app. Much to the amusement of the CIA operative spying on their company.

foaming winter/hollowed out/shackled trees/brooding mother/licks tears/blood strapped/earth limb/dissuaded path/glow tentacle/downed civility/shed bonds/cascading days/lion's sight/mayhem night/echoed end.

Sickened sky favouring,
eyes trembling and fixated on unending facades
Mammalian dancers bled out
bound limbs and high pitched spirits,
heated up and cauterwaling,
the fundaments detached,
re-imagined by minds unhinged,

Your heaped whispers are soundtracking my hobbling days. Not all of your words landed so softly.

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,

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.

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

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.

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.

Have you considered,
It may never happen,
But then again it might.

overt discriminations
polaroid dickensian remonstrations
elevated poo pooing of forecasted demonstrations
coalescing in a whitley bay bus stop
be sick on my shoes
angel of the overcast sky

I will fornicate with bureaucrats and syncophants
call me beligerent in an acid rain downpour
belicose victim of the jackbooted thuggery
tattooed forearms,
a conduit for satanic grunting
I hear volcanos erupting, sick sick

Debonair and not caring
uppercutting the earth until it enters a feotal position
razorblade wit and ******* upon a darras hall balcony
I would like to inhibit a physical space paramount and facile
I smell tomato ketchup and whipped flesh
unequal pleasures and sequinned ******
boot me into a grave state of mind

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.

His mother called him Jeroen, his friends called him buckwild, but he’d forgotten why. He rode a 3-wheel bicycle backwards in the vicinity of the train station, his glasses steamed up at times. He didn’t often know why he did things, they just seemed to happen; ****** upon him by an invisible hand or colliding with him as a result of his own forward momentum. He liked to binge eat chocolate until his stomach felt like it was going to take off like a NASA space rocket. He liked to watch NASA space rockets take off on youtube, while fidgeting with chocolate wrappers. His bedroom smelled of tomato sauce and lynx body spray; he liked it that way.
Sometimes bad things happened to Jeroen which him which made him sad, sometimes good things happened to Jeroen which made him happy and then sad again. A suitable metaphor for his emotional state could be a see-saw or a shuggy boat. Although really his emotions were much more complex and fraught than that. Jeroen was Jeroen and buckwild after all.
One day, after he’d been to the supermarket to get a baguette, a horrible meat-based spread for the baguette and a can of a horrible fizzy drink; Jeroen was cycling backwards quickly. Jeroen forgot to press his break and went flying into a pizza food truck. Jeroen was unharmed.

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.

There was nothing that made him want to leave the house. The world seemed hostile and uninviting; waiting to trap and mock him. A life of action seemed to evade him, no matter how much he willed it into existence. There was nothing but his own mental landscape and how it quickly it turned on him. Unfavourable memories returning like they were on loop. He slept as much as possible; awakening only to eat or to chat with people he barely really knew on the internet. When he wasn't in his bed he could smell his bed inviting but sour. He distrusted those close to him, waiting for them to prove his paranoia to be true. He spent days pondering things of zero consequence and comparing himself to inconsequential  people.

If he bothered to wash at all; he sat in the bath looking at his kneecaps, trying to produce a thought that would change his circumstances. Transcendence and an existence outside of his own body and mind didn't seem possible. He was suffocated by the vividity of his own imagination coupled with his inability to overcome his own anxieties. When they came, social invitations were quickly turned down; the act of interaction and fostering relationships seemed superhuman. The task of leaving the house seemed herculean. He neglected his talents and watered his insecurities like plants until they were deeply weeded in his psyche. He ate infrequently; destroying a once taut and capable physique.

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.

I speak to you through older people,
suffocating me,
Reassuring to know that
This will never amount to
Bruised and quickly passing,
Is the worst of it
Autumn now and repeating.

The sun is a dreadful satsuma,
A man who looks like an Algernon,
with tomato sauce stains on his offwhite vest paces nervously,
Lives discarded,
As books turn to ash, word lost into the unrelenting forward waddle,
Memory palaces unmoored and imploding,
The sky pregnant with skin and consumer goods,
As sheet metal drops and curls like polyester scarves,
The hideous snake like hisses of sirens,
Eyes darkening like a newborns.

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.

My granda snored as loud as a shotgun going off
in a silent film,
called us tossers,
cooked us food,
picked us up from school,
was a source of joy,
set us right,
but never gave us thick ears,
in his finals weeks,
he took the time,
to tell me all he knew.

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