THE OVERTHINKING KNIVES

excessive dwelling 

over your spent calendar

feels like 

stabbing yourself

in your guts soft maze

~

the bread knife

for electrified memories 

of the yellow verbatim sun

& gadolinium skewers

for nowhere evenings

of coldbone whisky flights

HIS SILVER DISH

theres a man in the toilets
& hes not there about drugs
& he offers a folded towel
or a spray of something fragrant
& hes looking well turned out
& look heres his silver dish
& you HAVE to tip something

cos the man 

has a chair 

in the toilets 

for a job

& i have given these blokes
a loose button / a watch battery

a rough disc of pocket matter 

like those roman coins they find
with rough edges from the erosion

but never really on actual purpose

i dont know - 

i never expected 

there to be

a man there
& its difficult 

& its strange

being out there

in the world

even only needing 

a simple slash 

DAYTIME MUDS

the cornered rage

of campsite firelight

makes an old master

of our daytime mud

~

digging the mud

high street lobotomy

they buy time

six main courses

& lobotomy trifle

~

silicone births

ravenous ghosts

ante up

for the old rivers 

dried soul

THERES NO ENGLAND NOW

'another century gone

what will we leave for the young'

dave davies

i
am
listening
to

the kinks

to

the kleptones

to

karen marks
for 

all the vapourised children
who
will
never
hear such feelings

or smile like sunshine

at a small new toy

THATS ALL SHE WROTE

then one bland day
after an average brunchfast
it will actually be

thats all she wrote

but for now anyway
theres black-red wires
coming out my leg

electric veins / electric eels
& pads pulsing like
a hundred pins marching

that i am trying
with all my tomorrows
to not piss on