compendium


poem for dead love




mourns the tireless sea-searching-

winds across the strangled shrugged

moor



mortuary damp hairdo grasses

at the whim of aggressive-air-met-

fingers



hear the creak of a sign’s stubborn

hip where the words have almost

been taken



yawns from windows a sunset cornered,

baffles nocturnal watchers, silhouettes endure

tales



and stitch together laughter



ale wise lips stained by nicotine wretches

that weft and wear, bodies buRning always

thru’ their wicks



crackling wood capers



a stiff fox observant from the elderly mantlepiece

it’s seen so many rum scenes, wolf listening

for one so dead



fate is pulling at the hourglass of everyone

one is a car crash at three-in-the-morning

the headlights catch rabbit-eye-mirrors



that crippled tree grope where petrol now

seeps, cranial stars out of their skull’s hinge

tiny bursts of, then fades



back where dusk continually inhabits alcoves

sits with hands tight around a glass, it’s been

empty since last orders



he is eyesight thru’ that window pane wandering

where the crocuses comatose under, where



battalions of rooks are suits of soot bough and

branch, he is where initials were carved and



announced love, the wheat-less fields where

secrecy sometimes hid where the foliage



nudged, scarecrow brothers watching from a

distant hedge hard as crosses



often moonbeams spilt, often the other gave

serious thistle tremble where the gristle of



the heart sang out, has done so for a

calendar’s worth of troubled days



medicinal nowhere, and the rust sleeves

announce further crumble, like a tired



ruin upright trying



onlookers don't perceive the husk, hollows

full of un-returnable echoes acquire mountains



towards that shadow called home tho’

the night is filled with holes where the

stars are plugged into



like the holes that bury him so, bury

him oh so slow



hears the heavy breeze follow, cars

are being swallowed into



into the dark of another he wishes

into the bones of raw past



like being shivered upon, like being

ripped by thuggish tides, all eyes inward



there’s a ditch with an empty paraffin

can, a silent shoe, where the blackberry

pickers missed bruised globes



pieces of someone missing that wasn’t

or isn’t entirely him



pitch of a slid owl from twig into

uncertainty, into aim and howl



“i am” he thinks “not enough numb”

“nowhere gone enough”



lets rid these footsteps, their stride is

quite tired, sit awhile in the stench of ink



verges are being courted by cold, wants

to whiten him perfect stillness



breath excels out, it’s best to keep lonely



tomorrow has been had already and leans

ten minutes after midnight stale and stood



what is there to inflict in this time so future

given? are vacuoles for sharing? how

about no one and nothing is a road



for being nowhere upon, the blood

knows no direction and wants to

stall, to pause it’s pale rubble



what is a day to filled with? broken

bits of experience, piles of

minutes will horde them



tho’ the drone of a breeze unsettles

bramble stiffness, unsettles yearning

that only wants sleeping



daylight begins it’s startling swords

shrieks at the shadows that only

want to swill further and swarm



sees himself start to vanish

 



the whispering tree’s sudden, sullen hinge



i shall fray until memory

and your taint has gone,

daily in, daily out you

still drift the mind’s mouth



pushed thru’ the minutes that

grimace flavourless months, a

tourniquet of sutured clocks

a definite watch where the

tide won’t change



it’s thru’ waking, thru’ the

nourish of sleep’s inverted

mountains, comes like

stubbornness, like a shouted

thru’ eyelid unflinching



tear the spires you conspired

me thru’, burn the furniture

i became most, the blood

table, the witless chair,

dismantle everywhere i began



soon






perishes everywhere, everyone

expiry is upon every atom,

even the sun is tired hauling

it’s obese flame




whilst we are only dots in

entirely absurd vastness

we manage ourselves like

suicidal vests




days are diminishing quicker

than imagined, cot gazing

planets, childhood becomes

faster, exchanging proteins




then stood whilst mother is

being buried, all about grey

flags, escarpments looming

grief, pressing inward




middle aged crow can’t achieve

the bough, there’s no such

escalator towards the mistletoe

infected branch




sky’s are deader now, more

inclined to be thick and sturdy

muslin, greyer than a cough

the air is in a hospice




mornings are more stiffening

yet upright we go from the

stickiness that adheres such

dreams, wishing won’t let go




my pretend my surrogate

rainbow, pretty little mind

swarm when each glass

of clearness is drunk




nearing aren’t i? when the

clock heart chooses, when?

soon, when shall the clock’s

soul decide? when?




when shall rust be oiled anew?

soon comes that moment

when lonely thru’ shadow

soon is soon enough





not wonderful






days filled endless nothing wondering-theft-lost-bereft-love

whose to achieve me now? whose to glisten the summit?




“no one” shrieks the breeze at it frequently passes




fewer still will offer up their glances, none shall comfort

the empty bed sheets clean as their ironed arctic




“you’re on your own to count the creases”




days will drip from unturned calendar pages, that

yellow slow stain creeps from january’s corner




window unchanging has blades thru’, purely irritating

daylight shows dust in full on airborne dances




tomorrow’s bottles of sustained oblivion have been

drunk whilst afternoons are going over into dusk




this tattoo’s stealth is spreading blindfold bondage

seeps unseeing into all plausible rooms




i’m on the floor where it’s ink dark finds me,

fingerprints and limbs devoured




that final cave that deep deep deep hollow

excuse for a mouth takes the entire body




once beneath all those grimy atoms, lids

like tiny tombstones where quiet narrates




it’s corpse




i’m least understanding or caring where the next

breath will come from, hoping it doesn’t




daggers of traffic glutton what seems to be outside,

who would have thought such vehicles possessed




lightning




beams of, grenade their moonshine and reveal where

i am vaguely silhouetted, like something pinned




awaiting a surgeon’s casual dissection




there’s an audience, i can make out their rustling

throats and headfuls of accosted weather




assume the dye about is thick with rapist fingers

they attend to my stillness, reaching into with




black icy fingernails




a rag doll an emaciated scarecrow, scratch away

the harm that other’s have done, i’m far from




being numb




dig with vigour, expose charcoal inebriated secrets

spill their furled guts, all are clear white messages




i cannot manage hiding further as each ripped silence

is expelled




march deletes itself, later july tries summer




days entirely dissolve their lived in contents

and clocks are clawed with rigorous mortis




whose to find me sleeping now?

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