bled satchels

gasp at the gate

lungs won’t take further,

this stitch hurts hellish

the world bent over

at least monday is

shoved, and that

ritual of being chased


tuesday tho’, crashed,

caught by the uniform and

pummelled against railings,

insignias of bruises shan’t last

which way safely tomorrow?

be it elbowed behind the

back? or if minutes are sadistic,

stripped and excruciated

over into pen-nib-scratches

brambles sharp as hooligans

by the railway line where

freight is too tired to trundle

smothers keen and quick,

ridicule tho’ severe was

completed, had the defeated

sprawled like a dead kitten

i’m pee soaked y-fronts

and grunted with that

metallic taste among spit

humiliation certainly at its limit

quite slain and grass stained

scruffy as a corpse not found

for a week, there’s glass beneath

where i dare not uncurl from

there isn’t lucky but misfortune,

before the bell cowers and the

dash homewards considers, “which

plight shall be unobserved stealth?”

“which lane should be fled down?”

assured dusk will hide you but

dusk often lies, prey will always be sought

to do another’s homework

home is where fearful grows

insipid and doubting, these

teenage years often grenades

and glands, fast oils happening

succinct and cruel as a headline

the mirror is slick with laughter

knowing difference will be picked

on, hatred always likes nudging

as sure as rats in their congenital

sewers, sons are about like

magpies, mobile phones sharp

as cleavers

copied to a voyeuristic population

post its spiteful degradation,

why can’t this curse point

elsewhere or not at all?

it’s murder by tiny slices

that uncomfortable bite,

why is unnecessary torture

gleeful? some still have the

boot marks to prove it,

still that shivers alienation

and not quite fitted to be

ordinarily dull

so do not bluster that those

damned days were inherent

kindness and lenient, it

was hellish and not the route

to be better sorted, i’m now

lacklustre and thwarted,

audacious predators thieved

devoured the only time i had


i will fly

to you

when the

soul pleases

there’s a prison

called life here

it succeeds at failure

reaching everyone

sincere as hatred

passed gene to gene,

or congenital protests

roaring their black sails

i will fly

to you

when the tired

soul passes

when it


from from the husk

that dispossesses

sooner than a vindictive

headline which is daily

and metes out particular


there is a cell here

called depression

successful at


accountable no-one

achieves the daydream-

slum thinking their

peak’s facedown

and graffiti art, trite wit

succinct and unfunny

eyefuls, comments upon

the fat way we stride

mine happens to be

downwards and fooled

into thinking that wasting

is sublime

doldrums, confetti bored rain

laziness as it drips,

like wet epidemics, most

heads are full of it

i’m waiting in the sore of a view

a legless pram half a doll’s head

for company whilst strangers

keep to their noise and drift on

how many zero’s are in empty?

how many hours have eaten me

thru? ask the countdown to

quicken the pistol to be wrung

an hourglass of elbows stiff as

discordant striving, watching the

last arriving smudged evening, the

finale always falls as disappointment

knowing that tomorrow has an

appointment, unsuccessful sheets

haven’t pulled, windows aren’t for

escape, their habits too blandly grey

clock appalled silence as each

“now” perishes, at least grease

its goodbye, it’s stubborn waiting

for occurrence to happen

ensure the road has been packed

with all the blunders belonged to,

few successes gave up their hidden

mountains, applause? there was none

readying the finishing horizon, that final

absurd moon shape, it dances like a hole

on the upturned floor, that minute lingers

quite fascinated, a grasp let’s drip a note -

that has sighs upon it

will you admit me

once i leave this gaol

of ligaments, this shell

of ordinary corduroy?

sinew may struggle and the

lungs should want to renew,

there’s a whine in blood that

shouts “don’t”

discontinue the rot of here and

soar towards the elsewhere that

poets try to detail with wonderful

lines but somehow fail

loneliness fell away, an outline

now a filled in statue for insects

to browse before my sleep is

found and made into fanfare

Make a free website with Yola