wires thru' winds

ghosting the same day

this lifetime

feels copied

a sum of

walked in


in the mind it’s

always thursday

repeating every

wrong hour

every rain

the same sullen grey

recognise that


where it


and what

happens fading

can’t quite

recapture what’s meant


mirror exacts itself

re-exerts a self

inflicted copy

echoes of unclear

horizons where

everywhere is walked towards

today is uncertain

and worked by unreason

to feel the circle

again like a foe

a road where

going is returning

the circle waltz

and waking is sleepier

these tiresome days spilt

with weeds encroaching

this sphere we gravitate

upon is sinister in it’s

suffocated sly silence

what circles

you have been

what scenes from

centuries have rooted

the sky today is

blue cellophane

and serenaded

trees appear to have

plentiful songs

many of them nude

about fucking, reproduce

in the nest i’ve borrowed

multiplying complicit fingers

sunshine is bleary

it glares away the

caffeine swallowed daily

seventeen times to be

this upright

awake is like being

opened for perusal

that my heart is vacant

and the red shelves protected,

do not commit grimaces here

not even if honey enhanced

or acquired by disillusionment

letters appear from the slit-

mouth like rectangular spit

let them pile into unreadable


watchers warble their

successes, this cocoon


pastures for walls where

inciteful poetry sprawls

a graffiti larder

dust achieves archives

i molest the past most

making sleek layers of

skin where hidden shrugs

appalled shoulders

how many devils can

fit upon, the last count

was eclectic eleven

i’m in the electric light

snare, in this room

always on dusk

outside does not

consider me nor i it,

out there

only snowflake masked

weathers and deceitful

untamed wearers

inappropriate dreamers

so caught upon their

meniscus opacities

heart shruggers, thin lipped

listeners listening to the grey

monotone boughs creak

mournful in the ache of

nowhere going breezes,

minds are muffled interferences

which seven am i? too extinct

for morning, must be the mosquito

seeped evening

the day’s quiet content not

quite spilled yet not quite

lived, sheer roads are

always tomorrow, and the flat

sphere will continue, a repetitive

soiled sun commits to the same

adoring sky

must i awake from the sway of flint

grey eels taking the body i want

to forget downstream?

and the carcass of the earliest

hours invigorates fresh hours

to participate in the nothingness


stains like stuck aeroplanes on

the light sore inflicted window

pane where clouds agile by

softens the skyscraper horizon

and the populations of thirst,

another day, this eyesore curse

it’s steeper minutes to wake from

to persevere in the troughs of

black opiate petals

and forward is being trodden on,

footsteps abandoned, and clocks


if only now could be erased

to drift thru’ out decomposition

the cots of rotting yesterdays


twists morning

out from cinders

out from the

charcoal hood

there’s a shimmer in the wood

daily is a nutrient that

murmurs thru’ bone,

floors are soaked with

and the boom of furnaces



which road to

unravel upon

to surge with


male percussion

into the yolk, too

many scarecrows

and reapers beside the sac

a bag full of amino’s

decipher myself a

suitable alphabet,

randoms and plentiful bullets

and cathedral the sky

a network nurture of

red nourish a heartbeat


come bell your commands

thru’ muscle thru’ the stained

minerals that align up in


tucked in by stubble and

inquisitive roots, there’s

rooms to perceive and

earthquakes to commit

morning’s sunbeam is

rid of, and gloom hatches

towards windows in creeps,

tho’ spires incline to ignore

and eyes adore in the soar of


in flames breathing pinned

by a wand, come bellow sighs

up to the tawny ceiling, sat there

like snowflakes

there’s a shoulder of rain

don’t be afraid of the ocean

it brings, there’s a copy of

us in each of countless

dna brothers

necessary dying

the kind season is over

it’s flourishes narrow to

quiet n’ perish, footprint

traces on worthy beaches vanish

and calendars are drenched,

where have the wheat and

gold tarnished days gone? slid

quicker than a spider’s ravelled parcel

blows turn to scold, with hard shaped

cloud as if poured with flint, shrug

back under where the crocuses

struggle, and needles of frost thread

wood withstands the need to scarper

because such deep anchors can’t,

imagine ten thousand cadavers about

to rid their wrists of every sunbeam kept

rust announces it’s hinge, and appendages

let their dead fall without ceremony

or vigil or cemetery, lie there obscuring

discarded from this year’s lifetime

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