exit to alzheimer


creak-woe accepts

broken, tans furnish

stood corpses well

abundant oxides

retire. all excelled

burnish become capillary

archives, skeleton apparel

chlorophyll taken theatres

bleed at the wind’s taking,

a separate sigh for each groan

this pigmented museum

weed proud over bee

empire, thistle stranglers

such purple importance

stiffen upon skinny wither

chaffinch abode dark-

as crows where the

phantom foetuses roam,

shrill silence expects no-one

where breezes deny

wakefulness, far gone

residues of honey

are deep, deep inches

a pronounced slumber

cemetery nurture,

a quiet bell sits

like a launched tongue,

gossamer prowlers between

each sat up headstone

a grey so stooped

a mercenary yawned suit,

bramble thick planets

such berry pursued ink

a dead architect falls,

callouses have gone over,

pantries of alert fungus

exact dissolving cities

rot has a script

a stealth unseen

thumbs, an incentive

to squabble stagnant

those pregnant ponds are

now bereft cots for

the reeds to chafe

in emptied whispering

quit this medley of cadavers

seeped with indistinct edges,

quit their melancholic song

that undoes sutures and hinges

to death with you all

those curled in stasis

or lazed in rotten bandages

of awkward summer


softly worked atoms until

the bland shore increases width

richly worded and unfolding

from creamy sea cartons of surf

grey occasional poets seethe,

how do you copy a nerve

in prose? your pen usurps

its ink, a-reef-sudden-aneurysm

all out pages become

servants rid of blank

rectangles filled with

tenderly meant scratches

deep stars everywhere

for voyeurs to exact upon,

a voltage to sait

and fulfil gazes

i turn your pages like years


no rust or boredom can offend

fresh off the finger when written

wants to get into your bones,

persevere with those molecules

the idea hums until convincing

each axis to explode

about to read what made

your protein exhibit such

strict nectar, such a

strangled uniform

a lament illustrator or a

bee crooked home, an

intrusive stranger or


all sadnesses about to be roamed

can you fill the sky with enough holes?

yes, a honeycomb of rain

dusk upon every word-pour-out

who will buy your successful angst?

anyone? corpse people in

gothic ashtrays? the swan necked

beautiful? those who repeat tears? perhaps


a drone’s worth

the entirety of

words give to

the tide’s failure

masculine hollow

filled to the eyelids

with fullstops and

the equivalent of rain

“i’m dug up old

poet bones”

my boring

epitaph is bored

trying to be that

applauded someone,

busy witches

admire such ruin



didn’t birth quite right

uncertain and incurable

pathetic ink won’t adhere

to the mind that thought them,

let the constellation cripple

fold its photons inward as elbows

i’ve droned and

strode the circle

of mundane and existence

trying to be starry

my poetry assassin

quite favourable with

each idea’s killing,

formidable as a coastline

have i succeeded the hole’s

requirement to brim with

the corpses i’ve left unfinished

like bent pauses and sad dirges?

i’m rooted to rouse another fitful

sky, believable lightening and the

odd genius meteorite, knowing

nothing comes from page-dead-gazes

they are snow deep and albino

deception, excuses and interrogating 

diagrams of distraction, losing energies

from their synapse passes

I’m collared to a sea that won’t

give ideas out freely, “you have to

drown first and then no breathable

promises”, gargle too many verbs

no writer is redeemable but a

constant, constant traveller

pursuing beams

chasing none

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