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



nursing home



attics

worn out waves,

“i was someone’s

fingerprints thinks

him in the pulling

down doses, white

as cataracts and dulling,

what is yesterday?

what was i named?


shore leave to elsewhere

balmy as that purple

pill a daily rudder

that isn’t pleasant

or glowing, worried

as the grasp that

can't hold nothing,

chairs filled with

unsightly mutton


lifelines

thin as shoelaces,

pacemakers like

thickets of whining

a slowdown a dive down

thru dire medication,

lives stolen here like

the devil does and

is successful


melodic

angina, melodic reaper

over eyelid quiet, a

monologue of dribble,

sadness wreathes a

copious darning of

tears, a bright door

has a bright comet

shuffle towards it -


with a lung

too written in, if

misery was before

this is purgatory,

inflammation is

today’s headline,

swollen kindness

so fucking patronising,

hazards here old despairs


lazy

like slept woodworm

stuck to a chore of

breathing, wrists

slim as antlers, and

hearts of talkative

splinters, gazes quickly

sung out squeezed

by bereavement


where

the mind is awry

awkward yet disloyal

to its dismantled

countryside, 

euthanise what

the day has out there

it has too much of

everywhere


terrible thursday

another wintry another

impersonal husk,

hollows of them

crouched empty,

like lettuces

that sit there, lives

folded inwards gone to

the parlour of lifeless, hopelessness


old as eyes

we are nostalgic

thrums in awe of

the past that is

mercurial and

forgetful, tornadoes

back then when the

hills were easy, now

curtailed


bad hips

easy to slip from

such calcium puzzles,

memorise chaff and

discordant puddles,

kill me, dispatch me

whilst time outwits

its patience, the dusk

of lifetime reclines


carcass in

an armchair,

jaw agape stale

trying to think flowers,

a tease of gone youth

had an almost flavour

some distance somewhere,

gaze onto lettered broth

resentful and gnawed


themed tuesday

death is a tear thru

someone’s chest,

don’t pity they have

an escape route, here

is homicidal and

comical, a cartoon a

parody of without

muse


am childhood

backwards a

rubble of a person

hardly remembered,

strange tides in

amongst the curtains,

a tooth of a cloud

headaches noise,

rain like piss


staff

weird

facelessness

drifts

like

arctic,

this

is all

wrought wrong-wards 


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