the blow ins are

exceptional, blows

about the statues,

eyelids agape to


diffuses the stealth

of cobwebs upon stiff

hedges, ramshackles

those considerable

tree hairdos

writes with litter

swirling their corpses

upend only to dive down,

to pause then are

somersaulting again

“have you always been

this dead?” asks the breeze,

i’m always prancing trying

to undo flowers from their

sexual prevalence

trying to annoy those

kept surfaces of water

into anger, undoing birds

from their balances, i’m

unexpected whilst you

are trying to incite circles

to expel straightness

to rid sameness

maelstrom muddle

an insert of gales

the confusion of

being so still, stood

if standing could be

achieved, atoms

refuse from such sleeps

don’t stir, don’t unstitch

pausing, sloth is rushed

at with hurry, rid me of

death’s slow appetite -

however watchful

there’s not sleep enough

to permafrost waking,

bodies are a struggle of

riotous roots compelled trying

unmask atrocious winter that

delves deeply and makes

morgues of us all so easily,

am built of tired yesterdays

and old fingerprints, don’t fade

let the tornado swell within the

heart’s stubborn terrain, blisses

sweep inland sweep into the

shell’s shudder

“complete me”

towards ending

silence has

a sound a

softened noise

of stillness aching

cemetery stances

in-between the heart’s

striding, there’s a

peaceful bower where

the jugular ends and

the jaguar that seethed

once is stoic as a

slow thing pausing

i am so under that sky

worn away by moths,

every lid weather-

scripted to gasp

can’t quite wake can’t

quite sleep, out there

is a strained beam

and in-between rain

suffice the head-quiet is

a vandal constellation

trying to out planet it’s

unsuccessful burst

3.32 and crows have

managed the bough,

shrugged funeral suits

hunched over watching

gloom’s credit grows, there’s

that hollow beyond the pane

it sits like a stiffness as if

anticipating ending

the wall has fastened

to its vertical trying, 3

clocks gnawing, impatient

it seems for absence

dirges circle the past,

those glassy days are

becoming cataracts,

where does time go -

when spent? sunsets

build into draped ashes

into unspoken eulogies

where those daft spires pierce

am i a crowded-atom’s-worth

that requires it’s energy sucked

to drift wasted, broken and


the listener

forsakes voices on

tape, deletes such

cautious vocals

a perfect kind of

falling this, perfected

whilst out grey-gauze


and ether is stalled

no exhale but

scattered letters

in small written fonts

all their tiny heartbreaks


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