On the night
At the very early morn
The moon had already risen
Just as a broken gaseous no more sleeps
Somehow, somewhere, a beast trapped, released
No longer is it trapped to the confines of its prison

Eyes that survey
Salivating, wanting,
A prompt to its hunger
Its nostril’s pleasure: my scents
Under a crack of dim, creaming crescent
The uncensored scene of my slumber

The conditions, possibilities, a setting made right for the empty
A glimmer of hope or just the fangs bared for the bark or biting
Once started, the urge, its selfishness to one else, it’ll never lend
The craving has begun; the questionable realism of this game of pretend
A shadowy figure, upon a pair of feet; yours, no, mine, it lurks in the dark

Countless moments to lose the count of, time is held still
Longer and longer, in continuous moments that shows no signs of breaking
Once I had the warming presence of the body of mine besides me, only to be replaced
“A story’s not to be finished without the satisfaction it gives,” is all I find
All we have seen, the sweet smell of lovely dreams still dancing feverously like visions of my mind
Darkness lies beside me, wanting you, cannot be unseen: the ****** features being without a face

What’s gotten is what’s to be deserved: deliberations of the disease that festers the fabric of my thoughts, I pay no mind
At this point, my reality sinks in, run-on sentences roles across the virtual plane called your screen.
Unable to break away from the unrecognizable creature that lies before me, I lose contact with the senses, my nerves have no feeling
The beauty of it all is the art, the science, I love the way how it consumes me, growing over me, light glinting off its fangs still bared
I remember now, I know it, we’ve talked about it before, it calls itself Sherman, our sleep paralysis demon, still I feel the need to be scared
My lovely dreams, he feeds off of, the hunger within, in him, is never satisfied, no matter how many times he tried, he didn’t stop, just enough to make me void, light blinds me, my soul is fleeing.

On the morn,
At the surpassed night
My heartbeat pends
Eternally I sleep, at peace
Those who know me weep
For my plotless reality never ends

To my left a girl
spoke daftly of Charlotte Bronte,
to my right a boy
butchered cantos out of Dante.

I've offered these kids
pieces written to pass the time;
short, plotless fictions
and epigrams that  rhyme.

"Where's your sense of plot?",
cried a free-verse poet in black.
"Form can be a cage",
advised a boy whose eyes screamed Hack!

"My poems occur
cerebrally, " I explained;
"when reading my shorts
think opposites being strained."

They seemed unable
to deal in abstract thought. It was
incredibly sad.
This is what modernity does.

what mind has eye to garden
          in a field of headrests ?
pulling up the tough weeds
          that manage off embalmers fluid
repainting plastic flowers for strangers families
reciting engraved names that amuse
          such as Clutterbuck and Storm Boyle
warden the valve
          that values the last breath
spike the ground with snorkels
           and thicken the atmosphere
           with mans garbage gases
what relief the earth would feel
           deflated of our bizarre bedding...
could we light them
           like the flames of factories ?

A rule of acting:
"Real people lose."
They don't cross everything off the list.
Trophies, good days, and money
require a sacrifice of comfort
somehow already deceased.
It's a slow, steady process.
A long and sometimes plotless movie.
(By the way,
you know who will be talking to themselves
at the end.)

after they send the chapters to bed
the beginning and end slip into each other
plotless with heat.
sweating syntax one
word lying next to another
in beds of metaphor
they make love like similes
and dream only in poems.

Thinking about life;
without love, it is nothing
but a plotless tale.

Some say they can't remember
    the details of their dream.
I think I can.
They might be wrong
    and fuzzy
    and a little plotless.
But I adore them.

They are what my mind
doesn't think
    in waking times.
    They are strange.

They are so beautifully strange.

(20 minute poetry)


I have drunk from too many tin cans,
eaten cold beans.
So
you want to tell me how hard this life is, but
I know what it means
to be plotless, potless, hungry and homeless and you think the answer lies with me, but I see it differently.

Cause and effect.

External forces
Internal urges
where everything ever merges into..I knew a place where I wasn't just a face but the council displaced me, moved me to Rochdale which was a place I could fail in and no one would notice.

Sniffing glue or gas always made the time pass and the marks if defeat is a mark sleep with me on a bench in the park.
And you tell me,
but you only see
a shadow of a man.

but for this letter, the word is silent.

you are not yet
my maker.

his observations
exhibit
decline.  hers

display
animals
that forgive.

everything buried
is buried
in god.

the brain
as it designs
a plotless
thing.