skinny window



inches before dusk








in amongst


the glisten


faded dukes


and disconcerted pillars





entangle

one another's


fingerprints





a robot bee

attends to the


foxglove bells





a warbler

enthralled by


slivered wing insects





a stoke of roots


ink from the


graceful cripple





i tend your

shimmers, of


sudden tremble





an ache

arcs lightning


thru' the back





in amongst

the glisten,


of spider cotton floors





and the moths

that assemble


there





a view to roam silence







that seagull

soared window

an ease of

slow drifts grey




the solitary i

find in watching

the breeze fingered

grasses




moth appalled

webs are like

some kind of

lung shimmer




a sadness breath




that tree points

from the wind hurried

cliffs, balancing birds

imperfect limbo




you can imagine

waves in mermaid

song, i drift there

often





he'll not know







oh the trip of rain

first sunbeam audiences

then shimmers grey




worse still, thumbprints

of water wields this

sadness further




of all the days

of cold car cuts

refusing footsteps




and unlit spilt

worthless sulks

faces drear in

daily drone




i ran from the rain's

frantic aim, i am

dewdrop glister shoulders

but root down warm




a newspaper chased

by an invisible lung

a gust of fingers

dance it's pages




a coffee dash into

butter decor and

people lipped

gateaux addicts




oh smooth soil beans

with interrupting froth,

tingles throat collars

to suffer acid slopes




stood in front of

cream volumes, sin

and raucous cherry

pastry trousers




a fellow of melted

winter, of perfect

blond whispers, a smile

lit me with voltage




the gaze i borrowed

"of look away" became

magnetic and refused

every other direction




of all the smiles i

sang mine most sweetly

rang and offered

anatomical invitation





metaphor







why is my heart

rook panic?

the sigh is bandaged

then you vanish




low audible mirror

of honey thickened voices

that bees would sting

themselves to visit




circles are joined

to lessen the

holes where spare

swans of want follow




i am sugared blood,

to a spire to

soar from, to think

sexual pictures




amongst the caramel

shards of longing

ruins of butterscotch

and cold christmas cards




when you occupy the

space i belong to

shakes the windows

like cellophane rattles




star the breezes

by being shoulder perfect,

excite butterfly thirsts

on budlea cities




the page of scent

i am your creased ornament

when stood or

vertical dreaming




when the view is vacant

and there are no birds

or trees to be filled

absence is like being killed




and horizons are empty

where planes commit to,

i am clock curdled

to keep you





tonight diminishes







sit beneath a

moonlit hole




waspish traffic

hums beyond




the

silhouetted field in

fake




moonbeam

dashes




bats uncurl like ashes

commit to




insect banquets

such fine glass wings




spoken softly grasses

coerced with drops of

dew




the boughs are

arm gathering stars




a sudden owl

vanishes




watch badgers clown

distinct magpie clones




beneath old fingers

and caramel old spruces




whispers tend to

tide




in cold voiced

caresses




rift gazes

into blank molasses




and far off

spires




glistening keeps

quite still





someone else will fit







i am bone perfect strut

a perfect hole for

the sky to fit, this

mouth is forfeit

until managed

with a kill, stood

around curdled cunts

your dissolved ruin

i do not want but

a cockerel thud

it fits my stomach

way up to

the inch, pause

your words am

orally drunk to

repossess another’s

blood, up to the

neck with red

confetti, an

infected port

corked with a

brackish stain

with copious

intent,

a hummingbird

blaze across

eyelids

unnatural glitter

fits like a wick

and then,

someone else




come.gone







ignite the window

too much daylight

interfering,

clouds wander

across the bored pane




across the

yawning eye,

we are but piles of

dying clocks staggered

for soil, for terrible slumber




time has

pedalled it’s clocks

all of it’s performing

minutes are us

ever diminishing




this is

moribund

i am

someone

gone




people are

confined to

sheets

to the pages

of their sex




inches of

mind try to

widen




but ether

does not

succeed




am breathing

less eager,

compel ordinary

exhale to slow




i am an

exhibit of

dreams

in dust stricken

viewing

in blood rich

cabinets




who is to

illustrate

my sleep

when the

sea i curdle with

are atoms

extinct?




todayer







under deep narcissi

clouded, momentary

sparse and thicken




manta ray eclipses

survey their ink

clones roaming




up to the sky

stares are fallen,

weak statues in

gossamer prisms




root first murder

molecular killer,

thumbs are innermost walls




where frayed dandelions

sprawl, thistle my

heart worn wonder




subdue the window

suppress the sun's stride,

undo newborns into

abortions




unravel petals into

pulled apartness, of all

the strangled stems

the thirst is wasp full




this eyesore city

of cruel fingers,

my stillness is exact




exact as slumber

or a corpse ridden

collapse





left







if over

then let the

echo know




for i found

the shrunken note

it spoke shrill




few words

were deep

but made hurt exposed





whilst waiting for arrival







felt melted to my clothes

usurped with honey wanting

to mix within

other holes




i am candle shy of

superficial showing

my heart of coveted

fingerprints




you are here in

audible traces

i am whispered at

with noise




allow me to

happen in yours

allow me to

unfurl rampant buds





the whelming







how high will

sighs pile?

two men tall




or




one laid on

grey edges?




of sleep

burying himself

in deep subdued

inks




precipices

allow

falling,

continue

swoon first




an atom

about to burst it’s

fragile hinges




or rehearsal

for a dusk that

will oppose light




the hearse will

line up soon enough

gaping it’s doors




how high will

tears toil if enough

rain will let them?




too much too

many stricken

by grief’s thickening

scarves




sunshine in a

blacked out hospice

narrating it’s

own death




consider the

burdens of

being stood where

winter can refuse lungs




no bough is

bright enough

now, no bough has

reach towards the




paused horizon





inevitable composition







i'm not going older anymore

minutes are stood to stick

adhere their sixty seconds worth

remove their forward yearning




returned all birthday cards and

blanked calendar apparel, ignore

the hurtle of days eager to

thread into archives




refuse time as it has to pass

undo the clocks from electric

juices, keep the day stuck

in extra strong molasses




i'll not sour nor fade in among

the greying senile masses,

my bones sing upright and

gleam calcium torches




blindfold the breaking of

others watching old breezes

skirmish dust, they become

themselves antique atoms

re-sung in decomposition




i will not belong to that

stiff alert bed, i've paused

even the sun and hold back

it's withering beam




become the virgin page yet

written or smudged or scattered

upon, entry back into seed

there to perform youth




until

all people

are ruins and gone





this poem’s pointless







pointless poem

insecure with dripped words,

collect myself broke moonbeams

upon lunacy try advancing,

under is silhouetted and

dead of everything meaning




a grey table where

the head is vapour

idle is the gaze

upon bottomless floors

where wasp corpses settle

and continued massacres




pointless letters sprawl

from imprecise ink,

a jumble of tangle shouts

exhibit lines of explicit

fragmentation,

i belong to an expectant page wanting




a removed sun

without a sky to challenge

stream before river before sea

gleam before steel before rust

this cascade of before actual yesterday,

nowhere has too many indifferent shoulders




am i roaring into what’s already

been blown? there’s no amount

of shaken spleen or ire to make

the mountain dependable, the

stewing of the mind’s storm

certainly is expendable




this infuriating snowflake

nothingness, this sty of a poet’s

wasteful written, when the blood

is full of near bust turbines, there’s

nothing for the irises to glow worthwhile,

a spider with crippled ankles could




scribe better




am fluent as a stumped stem, ideas

won’t glisten, i’m hooked to an edge

i don’t want to be upon, a stunned

fly in web about to have it’s wrists

caricatured, butchered and rewritten,

i’m three raindrops short of doing





atomiser







the glance is looking less

this nursery of root dwindle

where images of you alter

residues

atoms

and final

molecules




finite whispers

hold finite breath

of silent going,

atmospheres

almost spent




no returning footprints

no gossamer inserts,

black pillows

existence





softly silence falls







fades the evening

as it bleeds, comes

a hush like aphids

trace upon a stem




and the whisper

will be once more

as she in her still

porcelain gown soars




as if the soil’s turned

to gleam by frost, where

the silhouettes pry

open intimate darks




i am a sculpt of grey

in this obsolete bed,

abundant beams are

outside trying to whiten flesh




all those autumns i took

time to collect, the clocks

that had wrist a plenty

have startled into slow dying




there comes a soot deepness

a page once written now a

tide of obscuring ink, where

shall i stray now, i cannot think




that view of walkable hills has

gone, and that path that took

me, coveted and disappeared from,

now the storm has no energy to pass




come to me thru’ wintry blast

no window acknowledges at

it’s glance, come like deletion

of spring, turning heartbeats into glass

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