chasing yesterday, now can never be



morning has the

gleam of old chrome,

hedgerows

drenched with

illustrated snares


why don’t you catch

me there

amongst the

aphid dead?

undo the pages -


i won’t offer


stood up to the neck

with yesterday’s dusk

heckled by impatient

breezes,

chasing their fingerprints


i want all over


the morning of

another archive,

grey hedgerows

persist with

glistened murder


traces emerge snowdrop phantoms


edges where

voltages quicken,

hedgerows laced

with loneliness, bring

out their theatrical dead


the buds i thought were spring proceed with rust


morning brings

me no further.

hedgerows are

pure empty

no bee would fumble over


put time under


won’t this minute

be over soon?

i hate all clocks

their passion for wasting,

taking me atom by

atom


i’ve worsened thru’

daylight, only sleep

has the empire

i roam, how i

stride it well


almost submerged

from day lit self

chasing itself into

corpses



put time under



won’t this minute

be over soon?

i hate all clocks their

passion for wasting

takes me sliced atom by atom


the yellowing of old daily traces they

are submerged with older frantic

grasps that cripple with all the

pictures they hold, most are faded

now and can’t be retouched


the sum of, aren’t you the

sum of time’s dead? collateral

of what has been lived thru? a

collection of mismanaged photos

that change when gone thru


detritus of most days piling up

cellophane thin rusty wreckage

that lean disquiet against memory,

i reconsidered you once but fell

apart, so the constellations got rid


got the blank page restarted, and dropped

inch by inch, my precise precipice, all

swallows, there’s a damaged comet

trying to commit the head, thoughts are

handing out roots, such subtle anchors


i am too calendar rotted!


a borrowed someone in that same

sleepless shell, that repetition of

daylight hinders dreaming i cannot

roam with, people are too full of

teeming holes, terrible tho, i am-


crumpled down a well of my own-


where worsening is vast as a crashed

mountainside, where time unkindly

takes its time nourishing off slow grown

bones, that would be the last remaining

clue were someone to revisit


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