exit to alzheimer

bowed-swollen-cripple-

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

apprentice

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

“repeat-literary-hinges”

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

sad-eyed-whispering-persona

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

drone

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

all-my-calcium-scribbbles

all-my-deep-durables

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

watching over 9am reawakens

grey lidless over,

stooped cherry less tree

maternal with a million buds

some are phantoms and yet

borne but definitely thought

of in the deep bark

morose buildings

where the sick and antique

slumber

this weird balcony

of sorts, a curtain-less eye

surveys monotone folk

the car park on which

the bones i used to work upon

multiples its full spaces

soon explicit rain from

shy a whisper will, like

tiny glass deluges

funereal mood, the air

about is dragged scarves,

people drag their strides

some are only eyes

watching the pavement’s

discolouration

grief shuffles near but

never quite moistens,

cars ferry like hearses

shoulders too bouldered

upon, this is what bereavement

does, undoes its gravity

listen to the mid morning

unfurl, to the insipid beams

that are non committal

there is toil in most of

lit rooms, exhibits for

none to notice

i museum in mine

shadow copy

not quite the genius-

anticipated, successful

horizons ahead full of

others, for me seldom, there’s

crooked and disintegration

“my mind awkward”

sheer glass doesn’t like

the ink i pretend with,

antigens of self loathing

won’t allow the foetus its glisten

rainy-always-eye-made, how

can the bonfire soar? make

bones rub themselves into

ether-burst-workings into adoring

pages, rascal of inspiration -

flits, then hid, rewrite, re-risen,

my adult nectar magmas upward

then snatched away spark rid, of

all the pioneers i found myself

drowned in, quite owned and

full of tiger prowl refurbishment

makes my heart inconsolable a

tiny shriek from over twenty thousand

mouths, make dark of myself make

un-worthwhile, what cannot roar

what stays in the dirge is broken

of him, i cannot concern, i am insipid

and cannot stare long onto the slope’s

brilliance, it’s the way of the gleamed

river against the tired, twisted stream,

her, I cannot gauge, a constellation even

thorough in her death

remorseful palaces held by splinters

there’s keats by an injured vase of nude

horsemen looking vague as lipid, a paler

woman by writes in stitches, tightrope

balances the oven’s gases

oh what am i in this backward ditch trying

to make swill into polished roses?

worded waterfall, “nearly bathed in clamour”

at least gift me carbon from your silhouette or

a part of the sky you grew in, i am few from the

summit i dig myself under, why is far full of

dead quills and sore nibs to inflict?

oh pablo, how murdered, thrives in the blood

i most like, isn’t still or mirrored, but rushes,

calamity holds most endings, warfare in

amongst the honeysuckle blazes, held half

there whilst elsewhere suicidal and sizzles

could have been born into applause, could

have named myself winter, could the shell

have gone further? hasten perhaps upwards

and into cellophane's stickier adoration? sticky

as obsession trying to outdo itself better

there to be lorded to be overly fruitful, ripened

reign across each width of gnawing dusk, what

indeed achieves us? mine isn’t what people

think or consist of, but failure loves disappointment

i am in thorough correspondence with the devil

there’s a seethe out there a tease of being

brilliant, few are incandescent, nerves here

intent on cages and can’t be other

that of a universe, limited whilst tethered,

scroll thru the stars i say

antique poets in re-broken, reorganised petals,

take their tiny worded arms, copier of old, old

written muscle, a rebirth thru dismantling, making

their silence your own, cherish the lie that will ferment

like maggots upon several rotten faces

plagiarised planet, no idea is electron fresh, make

the idea of someone else’s bones selfish and

re-homed, can you borrow rain? can you copy

the wet slackness into desire, into skeletal poems?

i try to be fluent, deceive the pen, i can no more -

influence god to turn over mid infinite sleep than make my words influenced