poem for dead love

mourns the tireless sea-searching-

winds across the strangled shrugged


mortuary damp hairdo grasses

at the whim of aggressive-air-met-


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


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


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


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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