chasing yesterday, now can never be

morning has the

gleam of old chrome,


drenched with

illustrated snares

why don’t you catch

me there

amongst the

aphid dead?

undo the pages -

i won’t offer

stood up to the neck

with yesterday’s dusk

heckled by impatient


chasing their fingerprints

i want all over

the morning of

another archive,

grey hedgerows

persist with

glistened murder

traces emerge snowdrop phantoms

edges where

voltages quicken,

hedgerows laced

with loneliness, bring

out their theatrical dead

the buds i thought were spring proceed with rust

morning brings

me no further.

hedgerows are

pure empty

no bee would fumble over

put time under

won’t this minute

be over soon?

i hate all clocks

their passion for wasting,

taking me atom by


i’ve worsened thru’

daylight, only sleep

has the empire

i roam, how i

stride it well

almost submerged

from day lit self

chasing itself into


put time under

won’t this minute

be over soon?

i hate all clocks their

passion for wasting

takes me sliced atom by atom

the yellowing of old daily traces they

are submerged with older frantic

grasps that cripple with all the

pictures they hold, most are faded

now and can’t be retouched

the sum of, aren’t you the

sum of time’s dead? collateral

of what has been lived thru? a

collection of mismanaged photos

that change when gone thru

detritus of most days piling up

cellophane thin rusty wreckage

that lean disquiet against memory,

i reconsidered you once but fell

apart, so the constellations got rid

got the blank page restarted, and dropped

inch by inch, my precise precipice, all

swallows, there’s a damaged comet

trying to commit the head, thoughts are

handing out roots, such subtle anchors

i am too calendar rotted!

a borrowed someone in that same

sleepless shell, that repetition of

daylight hinders dreaming i cannot

roam with, people are too full of

teeming holes, terrible tho, i am-

crumpled down a well of my own-

where worsening is vast as a crashed

mountainside, where time unkindly

takes its time nourishing off slow grown

bones, that would be the last remaining

clue were someone to revisit

nursing home


worn out waves,

“i was someone’s

fingerprints thinks

him in the pulling

down doses, white

as cataracts and dulling,

what is yesterday?

what was i named?

shore leave to elsewhere

balmy as that purple

pill a daily rudder

that isn’t pleasant

or glowing, worried

as the grasp that

can't hold nothing,

chairs filled with

unsightly mutton


thin as shoelaces,

pacemakers like

thickets of whining

a slowdown a dive down

thru dire medication,

lives stolen here like

the devil does and

is successful


angina, melodic reaper

over eyelid quiet, a

monologue of dribble,

sadness wreathes a

copious darning of

tears, a bright door

has a bright comet

shuffle towards it -

with a lung

too written in, if

misery was before

this is purgatory,

inflammation is

today’s headline,

swollen kindness

so fucking patronising,

hazards here old despairs


like slept woodworm

stuck to a chore of

breathing, wrists

slim as antlers, and

hearts of talkative

splinters, gazes quickly

sung out squeezed

by bereavement


the mind is awry

awkward yet disloyal

to its dismantled


euthanise what

the day has out there

it has too much of


terrible thursday

another wintry another

impersonal husk,

hollows of them

crouched empty,

like lettuces

that sit there, lives

folded inwards gone to

the parlour of lifeless, hopelessness

old as eyes

we are nostalgic

thrums in awe of

the past that is

mercurial and

forgetful, tornadoes

back then when the

hills were easy, now


bad hips

easy to slip from

such calcium puzzles,

memorise chaff and

discordant puddles,

kill me, dispatch me

whilst time outwits

its patience, the dusk

of lifetime reclines

carcass in

an armchair,

jaw agape stale

trying to think flowers,

a tease of gone youth

had an almost flavour

some distance somewhere,

gaze onto lettered broth

resentful and gnawed

themed tuesday

death is a tear thru

someone’s chest,

don’t pity they have

an escape route, here

is homicidal and

comical, a cartoon a

parody of without


am childhood

backwards a

rubble of a person

hardly remembered,

strange tides in

amongst the curtains,

a tooth of a cloud

headaches noise,

rain like piss








is all

wrought wrong-wards

whispering world

when all’s about and

abroad with such noise

who notices underneath?

where rain often discomforts

muzzle cacophony, take

the sap out from words,

quiet engages round the

cried statue, lichen-proud

hear what is under? no-one

does, there are entire cities

of soil, an entire wealth of

unheard voices

hearse worriers stride what

they do not notice, daylight

murders happen upon webs,

a body is ripped thru’ its life

ignore elsewhere as everyone

does in their inward fatigued masks,

there’s a newborn fox that writes

itself red upon the road, who notices?

thankfully dusk ties up the light

and that severely sun hisses whilst

being taken below to flame

elsewhere, wordage immerses

in-between half-mask-objects

become unrecognisable, uncertain,

uncertain eyes wait for what will completely

be hidden, assured of stealth

ghost if you will

silhouetted dreamers

some are cold lovers

seeped with habitual roses

there are soft voices

in doors and in hinges,

mushroom vocals

underneath floorboards

worlds slide down

mist enamelled panes

like pulled dewdrops or

the inside becoming rain

there in half edges

the pillow’s assassin

drags the sleeper

wrapped in sentences

what gnarls and thwarts

in graveyard solemn

discos, twisted and

uneventful, rots

can’t hear but they

are there without

fingerprints, histories

of them whilst the worm sulks

all around is wreathed,

underpasses watchfulness

eerie, listens, boughs and

bark striding restlessness


slovenly as road kill, red-graffiti-

weird-corpse-written, the

unbelievably dead don’t

notice their own, they are

unsettled, flighty even

flitting thru disagreeable living

staying until remains are

recognised as wooden, “i’ve

rotted into the brickwork", doors

are full of jerking

town’s filled yawning and

hardly moveable statues, paralysed

pigeons on filthy shoulders, there’s

a piss coloured sky as if excitement,

don’t bother glowing

stupor crammed mouths, aren’t

you that daft guru of suicide?

dirges in the body count reading

repeat blank pages, a crow with

a moth headache buries itself

listless as lovers spent hang

themselves in morose magnolia

gardens or in the head of another’s

slow spittle, phlegm-wise-days-dead

more of such hearses to come

haven’t the urge to shake lungs out,

waking becomes deception, nothing

round here has impetus or hurtle,

waiting for the dusk of someone

taken bit by bit irrelevant by erosion

eldritch cafe existence, bored as stale

cake, stiff as the song that sticks chewing

annoyance, robust flies surf cappuccino

lacklustre, climbing the froth peaks,

where are all those dreamed exits?

such coffee gazing yet another serial

precipice, attrition has time’s menace,

can’t get much slower, death is surely

a slow crooner, takes shadow from the

back of the mind, waiting for a coroner

windows all of them are obese with grey

satirical staring, there’s grey hanging in

the grey moisture, maudlin as the trees

that hold such tears, grey is monochrome

dying, the stride in which we roam

drunk are the days to get thinly thru losing

words, losing what seem to be you, this

counterfeit box has too many hours, and

lit with a wrongness stuffed-doll-mentors

pane sitters all of them glued as if their

anchors cannot be blown, sadly counting

what’s about to fall, that’s everything, mostly

found gassed at ground zero of a deep glass

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