LEAVES OF SPAM

wet meat plants

that grow in the dark

with the moon shining

on our leaves of spam

well what with 

the sun & the people

being the way they are & all

we count our lucky stars

when the clouds blown gossamer thin

~

& no one knows

what happens
every 

half-arsed 

cranberry night

when all our eyes are shut like clams

but it never stops 

the mornings embrasure gaping

PUNCTUAL SUMMER

summer is on time

& unusual because of it

& 

in the heat 

is a hiatus of things
& 

all the muggers 

lie down with the lambs
& 

crane flies come inside

tired of the wild grasses

& 

we have ice cream

& 

nothing is urgent

& 

everything 

is 

simple & still & poised & placed

as a sofa facing

a quiet tv thats on

 

MORNING GOES

distractions
are
a
bad mirror
on 

the 

prowl from 7 AM

a reciprocal breakfast
with your exhaust port out

ON WONDERING WHERE THE GOALPOSTS EVEN ARE

it is 

hard to
carry on
with this writing game
when i could fall face down 

all over the floor instead

& cling to the edges of the rug
swamped by the useless raving

of all the trying things

& the iron & blue & dusty jewel

that is our constant moon 

is gradually backing away

& i cant blame them

~

& on the tightrope

over the panic net 

i am trying not to happen at all

& trying to be like bracken or moss

like deadfall or a railway sleeper

but i do get up again

for my meatsock needs

 

& i see a bird in the garden
all the colours of oil

& i get on with it again

with writing this down

KEEP ON KEEPING ON WITH ALL THE KEEPING ON

 

cradled 

by milk & 

by bricks & 

by habit

a streak of

arch nemesis

hanging on 

the back of the door

skin turning

all the 

colours of

a rose

& a frayed string 

hanging

from the

plastic boats prow