nostalgia-ruins - that sprawl of afterwards

random awakening

startled me once, a

nearby motorway

hums with what

can only be bees

thought myself once

upon the koi coloured

cotton sheets this

graveyard of swallowed

footsteps, where is my -

lifetime? deep in the armour

of rotting words? in the cradle

of rocking rust? sadness for

pillows, there’s a canyon there

of trodden petals

ruins say the shadows that try

to stride there but remain in one

place only, where clocks are stuck

at lonely, there’s falling, everyone

is falling, apostrophes from eyes

an atmosphere of don’t live your

life there, buildings are shoulders

for changeable skies, my head doesn’t

fit the lightning that casts its theatre

there, my zeus bolt can exert a planet -

then become absolutely nowhere, where

the signposts are inverted and the maps

drunk, back to the dot that made me from

love and honeysuckle-hip-action, now i’m

a person with thirsts, several winters of them

they drift, and i drift to, the wind’s alphabet

is trying to explain scratching itself dead

upon the pane, shows me a leaf so old

held there brief as a hiccup, like most are

i conclude, like we are

another fading

yet another

gone without

waving, down

dirge lane where

darkness recollects

scared that my face will be there in amongst the broken brambles and that eerie forgetfulness

another i, middle

named as latin

you gave me the

coastline of exotic

flowers and where -

to touch them

it made me spill

worded, but goodbye

was never spoken,

i took your sigh and

grew it thru myself

we would never encounter again, i often think of your hips as tides, they brought me salt-wards in

now this spring of

deep crocuses has

been reached where

i find my footsteps

buried, the clock is fast now

and decided

looking thru as older evenings

tend to do, thru old silhouettes,

some read as scars in

scrutinised labyrinths

try oh try staying there

how i wander thru such outlines like moving thru red rich cinemas, a jar of bad kisses mainly

perhaps soon the dark

will come out from

concealment, from its hangar

with a word filled museum

to browse my life as it sleeps on

at the edge of anywhere in

particular, fragments from

the canvas are falling, death

row'd and white worried

nursing home

gazes i keep, i kept them all, tho gnaw is upon their fading, resistance of such pictures are losing

i see myself dark-lane’d

someone is coming out

from remembering, like

a greeting, we walk downwards

darkened heeled

behind us

deletes

the entire

sun and everyone