chasing yesterday, now can never be
morning has the
gleam of old chrome,
hedgerows
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
breezes,
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
atom
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
corpses
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
attics
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
lifelines
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
melodic
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
lazy
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
where
the mind is awry
awkward yet disloyal
to its dismantled
countryside,
euthanise what
the day has out there
it has too much of
everywhere
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
curtailed
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
muse
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
staff
weird
facelessness
drifts
like
arctic,
this
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
king-coloured-greyness
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