heating pipes
click in corners/just like last year.
pens in pots
cast long shadows/plastic pines at dusk.
todays empty quiet sad; this is it . . .
mend a bike in the garage full of bins.
just like last year.
and the joint I smoke
smells of camping/sounds of ripping tent zips.
flash back to gone people; this is it . . .
kitchen radio quiet sitting silent
on a simple chair.
table cluttered
with classic clutch of kipple/a world of worthy things
redundant.
I feel old; this is it, I think, this is it . . .
to plan autumn kills brown nature.
death signals and holes
the air that comes inside
thru open door glass
smeared
with
fat and dust/past piled paper news.
history happened; this is it . . .
TV glass child in soft focus asks me not to smoke
and I yell at him.
yell that he doesn’t know about drugless
ADULT BOREDOM
but hes only a Tshirt government mule.
straight as a die too/straight as dead man.
obviously this is it . . .
obviously too tired
to cook anything at all.
online fingers order
a
flat
bread
circle
of carbs and cheese and meats.
life feels like a repeat.
this is it . . .
house tumbleweeds ball up the skirting
and exposed pipes.
herds of horses stamp hot water around
with tiny hooves.
living room rug teatime memories
of cards
and
TV gameshows
float on warm iron air.
no progress in evidence for the lino to notice.
this is it . . .
fly about the house
arms out
like an aeroplane.
I am drinking now/ignore swelling in my side
and escaping blood.
delta-wing in the narrow hallway. this is it . . .
bulbs shine on black ink held in wet meniscus walls.
these are symbols I learnt
we all understand them.
I
have
become
base.
this is it . . .
blooming winter roses ignore
brittle brown death/unpainted fences/TV grey sky.
I am base and conceptual gin
out on the cold
back step
again.
forgotten cigarette mashed in a mitt.
this is it . . .
flashback; picked a rose for a girl/found it abandoned
on the dirty kitchen floor/she’d gone.
its like
its still
laying there behind me/dead and a rose/died urban scar.
wish I had seen it fall. this is it . . .
door knocked on/happy faced fucker
delivers my carbo slab.
tiny pizza van
outside.
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