She cut loose over the copse

The morning bird:Singing into the fog of early dew, cutting the dullDank clouds with velvet wings, sharp as knives.I watch her between the long, easy breaths of branchesAnd their leafy veils, following her flight throughA tunnel of clear dry air until all begins to soakWith mourning tears whilst the fields

This is the Place I go to When I do not Want to Understand

I don’t have a clear picture today. There’s a lino kitchen floor like beige wood. It feels as though the window is open but it’s the fridge, vapour pouring out like in the movies going to see the man who makes eyes. I curl up inside. I am on the

A man for all seasons

First there was a grey room and colour of midnightAnd the same beer he would drink for the next nine yearsWith different stickers – I never heard him complain –I liked him immediately this spectator reading his booksIt was apparent there were lots of conversations we’d never haveSo there I

farewell the bottle

Off-blue wall light and standing lamps that don’t standA single magazine on the table advertising crochetThe abyssal antechamber hangs off an endlessThe kind of corridor you find in pyramidsOr don’t findWe waited for nothing and then someone cameTo announce it was ready and read about crochetInstruments could not play or

We Are the Dead

We are the dead Short days ago we lived And scraped life off the concrete Our children draw pictures of Flowers in crayon and the daisies grow By the gutters in the heat Your boot crushed our neck As you opined on the beauty and equality Of the natural order

Watch the blinding light as theatre

Those movements in shimmer and Flicker and the glow like plot rolled Into actor and spread across the eye Shut eyes too tired to turn away or While blinking scorch a hole through This play this life this appreciation Of light too bold in its purpose but It’s warm still

I know the end will come which

Makes a mess of my soul’s Bedroom all littered with bottles And half-filled condoms bleeding out Lying on the stained carpet this heart Crying or staring at the ceiling wide Empty sight of understanding Mortality does strange things to a mind And acceptance the slow process of Cleaning the room

Sometimes it’s just the tragedy

Having nothing to say Or if there’s a pleasure catching in My throat too hard to speak On and so I’m sitting and Staring at this picture The glass a life I want and The more I stare The less I breathe and The glass stays glass Even while my

You might want me in a bar sometime

And that’s okay I think that’s good I can see us discussing strategy who Will go to the toilet first we wouldn’t Go together and we’d linger awkwardly Or if no-one was there hold close and Kissing push into a cubicle and untying The door opens and we wait but

The feeding of the instinct in the eye

And in the hand the adrenaline need Meanwhile seated and curled some Clicks in bones some sores the ache Of the eye meanwhile backward this Head focus gone or stayed sleepless Such a casual feed apparently easy Stressless except on the emaciating Body these games these hands this Warped mind

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