I have this pen
this one pen.
irksome it is
licentiate be a pen
colourless it writes
so blunt be it
crooked writings produced
yet its my pantheon
and this is my panegyric.

this one pen,
Not is it croon
I believe it crook
I adore this one pen
this pen
words cannot produce
words cannit be pronounced
A magical pen
perhaps mystical
my pen is pantheon.

This one pen likr myrrh
A lure pen I love
secrets secrets publicly
Be ware....
my pantheon on the look
Any vice will be on the book.

Strange. The beginning of this city
is the same;
the personality
of your smell
is my flat
it grows out
across my sheets
back in
and i pay
with the few minutes i’ll need to
when I’m late
later

the sun likes my blinds
and your sleeping back
as i wake
easier
for work

looking up, I blink
and count the scabs I see in the sky
and the shouts from annoyed cabbies
and the cuts in my chin

from shaving
smile,
they leak open
and drip down
into the basin
each one pulls down the time
i’m late
but dress casually
all the same
it’s worth while
this
disorder
this
mixing
as I choose
as I fold my tie
watching you sleep
as i dress
and experience
a new laughing
a.m.

making my work day
an agile song

just,
a man
smiling at a streets raven
through a kitchen window
making breakfast
fixed
with
linking steps
that were loose
as we danced home
last night

i learn to do such things
at my desk
preferring to think
of our feet
twelve hours before

yours – in those shoes i love
mine – clumsy
up the stairs
screaming about something i cannit

remember
back to
flat number seven
seven ***** machine guns
seven
taps
on 'enter' now
sending this email
making me laugh
the peach lifts up through the city
and the power
to tell one person
that i’ll see you soon
is more
than enough gas
to find my keys

just enough
to crawl up my blocks stairs
and relax on my back with you
welcoming
disorder
forgetting my boss
watching
the rest of the morning rise up
from the landscape
whilst you sleep in

i laugh under my breathe
keeping it to myself
letting the rest of the day
rise up
beginning
itself.

When you’re strapped in
and get down to it
once your jaw is permanently dislocated by your own
once the gut
stops
knowing
how it’s fed
and why it has fire all the time, in all weathers in all fuel, nice and bad and good and anything easy
and anything bad enough
to keep on coming back for more
way after if should
way after everything is torn away and bored away to ****
when your orchids make you think
when you cannit count on certain things

like days
they
keep on
turning up

i asked the owner ‘Why do people get so obsessed with the things?’

she told me
and i stare into the mouth of this thing
on the kitchen table
with its small tongues open
it has this small part
that looks like a split tiger head
inside
with eight purple arms spread on either side
of two large wings
and two tongues coming forward
after all this
that look just like

how you
think

tongues

*look.