— take from this what you will —
feed me something,
even -
if it’s the stars from
your soul,
feed me
your oxygen-atoms
for hands
for insatiable
to grow
wider
———
i become
a dragon
inside of your
mouth, mauve
caves both
mauve into
oneness
into
scarlet
eruptions
———
you
could have been
the moon
across my
fern swayed
hillside, could
have held me
upon starry breath
could have
submerged
in my
liquid bracelets
———
in darkly
written skies
feint voices
rise, names
of, their initials
shall fade and
fade, old trees
seem stubborn
to time, but your
kiss of once
fragile as smoke
makes into
broken shaped
———
when ghosts
become clear
become glass
i see you on the forgotten hillsides
in the scant,
in such emptiness
———
i gaze you
dead
in that past
that house
of voices
now collapses
rubble of
frames half torn
pictures, and dust mauled photographs
i was then
a motorway shimmered-
with what blazes you gave me
desire
upwards
flourished and bled its out
raw into
molten tigers
dash their sugarless cages
i was caramel
lazed there, upon
swollen words
capsized in
the deep dunes
in the waves of a silver spent smile
———
what made room
for the root and
grew itself into
a tongue, into
love, into tension
absurd as a head-spun-dive a rollercoaster’s swan upwards then veering in hell’s ocean, a conversation words thrown onto mirrors
there are seeds
that own pale
speeches, can
necklace or be
groans of a tide
my
everywhere
convinced
and
swallowed
———
i found out love,
a carving of a
precipice, had
many, many
throats, hallways
of lost names,
discarded crushes
rubbles of
filled eyes, they had
been dosed tarnished
with, and
what was swans
pulled apart milk
from their dowsed
feathers, i set aside
love like it was
cutlery broken, it
had a mantlepiece
a museum of their
sucked out heads,
a door that closes
backwards where
failure labyrinths
———
memories are
seized moments,
catches of, a person
kept as a picture
or a touch remembered
as dew adrift upon a
slope, i museum ghosts
quick as glass their
light creases thru went
had is what life is
reels of, circles as
we have met twice,
i re-memorise your
taste, immortalise
each thought’s smell
make them apple
into sunbeam bursts, the
dapple of, try not forget
———
half of the other not found. searched the pale blue scenery, moats of clouds, trees whispering each other hello, haven’t met the mirror to find clues or to undo the puzzle of lonely, there up there a cloud shaped as a fierce pike, an umbrella is another, those emptied as persons have painted glass for stares and are often faraway with gazing, i am coffee marooned on my second then third dive into its caffeine illusion, words thrive about my silence, god resits at a nearby table recites from a book of deep pages, relearning a river’s line, would you ensure my world stays glowed? soar me, trip the volcano? he straightens and leaves by the least near exit, who is to roam my want now?
———
adolescent crouches
trying, trying to navigate
its opaque something
filling out into unknown
shapelessness, crayon in the
ideas to an almost discolour-
full landscape
tears drawn from darkened
places, now to choose my
face, whoever i am

whilst
days fell their
edges away
whilst
afternoons
cease and pass
life
still as
glass, still as a gaze reflected back as the loneliest gaze
waits, waits like a glued mantis, like a stiffened pillow under a coffin’s lid, like fatigued wings in a spider’s formal grasp
friendships
had, now
pale, beyond renewal and going paler
the platform is empty where childhood and all its fluttering, all its kaleidoscopes, taken, and the kites downed
and the beaches bare
having loved
when summer
made its bones older
and clocks sank
back to lonelier, as
adulthood fell, utter canyons
———
interrupts my
senses,
nearness in all
rubescent blushes
mycelial meshes
reroute, re-tangles
song from its hum,
nearly the moon entirely globes
careful colours exceed
coral kaleidoscopes in
such reefs, blisses all,
and drowning completes
———
careful as ink
recites its own blood
onto snowiness
onto disinterested pages
i
rebury
you
there
make mortal of
the strangle of,
you fastened
there
keeps
like
a bulb
of its limitless sun
memories
molten, none
will or can
form their land or their scapes
again
———
planetary hopelessness -
the mind’s awkward orbit
into down-ness where each constellation rubbles
this late autumn of us
the throwing down of aged
hands, used to count each
finger’s touch each ruby
blissfulness, every compliance
head’s a hole for the moon
to shrug, and coldness unsettles
words, they opinionate finite pages
autumn of our brokenness
has spirits fled, the lake
mirrors deadness mirrors
our separate gazes, in
opaque worlds farther away from one another’s lightning
let us carry the corpse
of sullen november
carry it to the bled horizon, onwards and gone
———
he is
he is
honeycomb
where
the lie is
re-caged
i
aged
there
for ages
until
the black
constellations -
ripped,
sex
darkened
its
scripted
hiding
the
tides of
your
struggle
i conform
as still un-supple coral
he is
places
where
solace
cannot
try
the
home you
left me
in is
bored
of its own skin
———
sadly
the fire has
worn out its
flame
and
quiet simply
observes
simply builds -
itself
into
graveyards,
i know -
i am named
there, its
stone already
a tooth
sadly
myself
where the
hollows are
time is
passing its
life, constellations
leaving the mind
———
still now
quiet now,
sleeping -
colours, hid now
silhouetted tree
handshakes the
still stillness that
is in reach
garden cocooned by
fences with shadow
that stretches, that occupy
minnows of clouds
taper in starriness, in
vastness of its gaze
lost there
unable there
follow there
traces of where
a moon should
exhibit white emulsion
i
museum
here
i
am where
i breathe
there is music
trying to be
thru some near-
by window
this night
unable to
catch its dream
a frost gown
is settling out
its dead dress
italics stiffen
written on the outside
edges of plants,
already or almost corpses
i
borrow
myself there
still now
quiet now,
sleeping -
colours, hid now
———
at edges
at the field’s
emptiness
aloneness is wrapping itself heart wise, deeply in the bandages that cannot be told to anyone
complicit
lightning
nerve endings,
masked with, make the river hidden, the tongue ties itself into quiet into oyster, like
flames
trying to
lick outwards
to wear further oxygen, pull back their magenta red limbs, make their cots cold, eerie and icy
———
imagined how the spires would be, would they fit into my new way of thinking or be upturned slow as sinking? drowned there for foes to collect to make my skull empty? the city tho black shouldered is agape, it has tales, all are strangers and do not let go of their hellos, sardines in obese buses have us swapping breathing, people constant in their unravel chase perfect pictures that are never in reach, a boy i feel flames from glances with a message, i try but cannot take root in his gaze, too many widened faces are chalk watching each other containing blazes, one is built of touches who will later be beaten, rain now pursues
windows, outside grey as pigeon backs, an aged person rattles their conscience then leaves, it is what thought carved out, everyone is nameless, passersby cloudy, few have lay-bys in their hearts for rest to occur, some a skies hollered at, a few are graves already, imagine myself less lonely in this city of unachievable domes
———
over as
an eyelid shuts
as a building’s
mouth condemned
enormous as
goodbye, or a
hotel of lost faces falls,
ghost of fragments in its mirror copy of a lake
like mine its glance said
over
like the grasses
receded with blows,
the shore upon itself holds wrecks and tired skulls, all had cranial butterflies once
the scar is
known and will
never be whole, it
houses such sad, sad cold paintings
hurtful as a thorn
———
head is
low,
it is cold
for
march
and its
entrails
of hope
my
anniversary
of
repetitiveness
its suitcase
of old
black leathery
skies
went
the way of
superb stars,
that was back
when past hadn’t
grown itself, over-
head is dark
now, its binocular
brilliance i’d be a
gaze amongst all of them
now is
glared
bright as a
word
that only stays
deep in its
goodbye, most
of having is
lost, i had
my father in
a gather of
dewdrops -
held him
that last once,
this is how
loss is a falling
of air off a high
granite cliff where
the seagulls eddy,
alone is -
a coast all of its
own a flint deep
path, it has skeletons
in calendar jumpers
old birthdays, cakes
full of weather,
now is broke and
pours itself out until
what was plenty
upwards i so dreamed
about, is empty
here
nearly has you -
faded, rhizome and all
decades of
now the hourglass is
slipping its last fine rain
tuesday into monday’s sameness
sat there for memories to tire
for their stars to slowly puncture
to slowly jade or pass away in jars
minutes thoughtful falling towards disappearance, it’s where we all go, to the grey to the deeps of shadow named as home
———
pale woods pale boy
crouches then sits among
the fallen ferns - lies there
as ages stretch, awhile of
clouds appear and seem
then ghost
hears noise separate and
alone, chases with a finger
a pale leaf that flutters down,
castles upwards in their
slow flailing, a bird from its
old beak says something
pale hands are yet to bud
yet to describe the sun which
is still pale in mind, paths
tripped with brambles and
undecided smiles, sketches
of people some are deception
———
i am in a ghost again, its pale journey of disheveled touches, maps that can’t be glanced at, has no breath only revisited museums again and again, that memory keeps on darkening, it unsettles the hills and bends all trees at will, it’ll snap those too stiff, i try and bend until it is ultimately coming to an end, all this for clocks i pace like a straggler in amongst them, trying to find find stillness but the landscapes of you don’t tire, i am in its death again trying to make sense of the sketches that i been in, of a smile that wraps its snake, there i grew a jaded house and separated myself from my mouth, i have travelled the bones of mosaic emptied lanes, split apart pictures in their hanging photograph frames, an angel in a cot of buried flames, i try to smudge its spark but it relights again and again
———
havent
quite managed
to re-word my
world yet
words aren’t built
they are fragments
of a love that
couldn’t
unreachable as
ever is, may as
well try a held
ghost
or a breeze thar
does not want to
be kept, or a pebble’s
dance upon water -
before it sinks
to an underneath
of dark and roaming
swirls
where nothingness
is ever said, but its
emptiness large as
a lake is meant
———
i am oyster i am hid, i am a garden with no path to decide in, it is where chasing is fled, there is a flame to try and rebury it, accomplice i have none, only a clandestine winter in ruined red, in the heart’s kept secret width, out there, there are lions, rip-aparts, and people with kisses smashed into faces, a foe of a church with very dld language, a book of lightning, and a throe of priest throwing about hate, i am delicate in the blood of being young, my sex isn’t initialled but has a glow for shame, you broke me, you gave out lies until i am nowadays un-lived in really and time only wasting
———
been chasing the moon for awhile
tonight it stabs over and across the
silhouetted scape, a below of, silvery
lighting details of cages
i dream there wide awake in the sum
of my stone house, under the sliver of
its beams under its weight, i feel then
i don’t, am a castle stood amongst waves
i have chased for a lifetime but grasping
keeps being rewritten, a man bursts out
of a boy, its childhood’s mouth lay out
its dead voice there, deleting its static
———
days are losing
volume
minuted by what
we perceive as
dead
i dwindle here whilst blank, rereading the same verse repetitive as gnarled outward spring, calendar being gnawed and less is written upon, less friends resume their traces
details becoming
absent, mispronounced
weather is on its
way like a disruptive
guest
loneliness fleshes me
so, has tough scaffold
where nearby tries to
erode, i talk to the breath
upon a window’s pane
same clothes as yesterday
stubble trying to be gorse,
that hearse of a thought
keeps its grey wheels
wet
moaning clock tells me i
have been home far too
long, i am becoming a
print in a chair shaped
like a cough
the hills haven’t cleared
their sulk, tree upon tree
drips its morose-hanging-
damp like drowned moths,
worded with moss
easy evenings back-
seated with quiet i am
trying to be a listener
but nothing is that
particular
the letterbox has tongues
unopened, a certain type
of dust likes to collapse in
dances, i compile everything
that has gone
———
crawl, it is only towards death
the trees are bowed low and
hollows for the wind to find a
tune in
rooks sit iced like gloves, jewel-
dark where eyes should be lit
crawl with the past dragging its hoarded
hole, that familiar flame of knowing
someone, they are dusk now upon
walls
———
i am up there with the dead
roaming about its grey estate,
mind a state of wires and whirs
like a gear adding to a constant
wheel, it spins like a crash has
a revolver with a suck at its end
i have kept this heart worded
with lightning, worded with
comets, they shriek before
silenced, before they outdo
and die from light, i am sung
with lovers and their deadened touches
there are knives in a cup beside
a bright blood sink, where the taps
cry into, leashed there for the sun
to drag across the pane, the same
pane i am lost onto, a shark of a bruised
cloud smothers the beams that were allowed
i am stuck there with winter forming its
pastry white bones, hole is inside hole
where it’s mandatory to fall to lie like
a book’s frayed spine, and wish the well
deeply around like a snug lumen, hope
has no coin, maw above my head about to gulp
there are faces in their drowned selves
part sellotaped screamed part stiff as
bark, a hello from a ghost that has a
suitcase of broken babies each a steal
hard daydream, plenty are thorns to
taste, peculiar as thought twists its aneurism
i am nought, less than crouched dust,
an image that keeps on damaging
itself, a thrown look onto a mirror’s
tiger’s teeth, bad place bad as gone
off words takes my terrible head
downwards with all other rotted eclipses
———
unwell,
god is dead,
spirits and their
light bulbs hasten
outwards yet
deleted themselves
instead
outside is
warfare for the
damned, the
constellation fell
broke itself, smiles
are obsolete, corpses
of the lonely swell
———
all
that there
is, “was” is engraved, the past in its swollen waves
a contemplation
about nothing,
everywhere in flux of going, another grows pale
i have lost myself in the year that will bury me
a reentry of
falling, where cold
faces bleed in silent amphitheatres, in silence of
becoming slate in all greys
all about to fade
i have days of
worsened roots
they grow into
enamelled months,
a music without song
careful as the
clouds come, i
watch myself slip thru the gate of its mouth
ghost of an evening
unsure of being recent,
here is uncertain