WRITING

WITH LEMONADE

CROW BAG

morning is grey and muggy
the sky a clinging old blanket
rough
itchy
sweaty

the road smashed crow is flat
flush with the black top
a 
wing
and
two feathers point up and wave in the traffic breeze
like an indian headdress

but

in the cool grey pm
the sky like a dishrag dripping dirty water
its
a black refuse sack blowing in exhaust gusts
stuck to
the
tarmac
by miserable adhesive waste

but
then

the next morning
sky like gym socks
heavy with the funk of use
i can see the twisted talons
and
a
smashed flash
of
yellow
beak
again

BEYOND THE BLACK BEAT OF WINGS

well
its already a colour photo now
and
we will look at it and remember our clothes

its a story already
told in wonder
and
with hands

cold station and thin snow
we
add
whistles and steam

THING FROM THE CUPBOARD 4

CHILDS YELLO MUSIC

BACK IN THE NEVER DRY DAY

the size of the whisky bottle
would increase
in inverse proportion
to the
decreasing distance between me and the bottle shop

the same can be said of the number of accompanying beers
but
they
were
much
less important

FESTIVAL MUSK

sandalwood sticks and plywood bonfires
smoking 
in
the
solid dark of country
and
the rip of tent zips talking

the
damp air in nettle ditches
old beer
damp shoes
and 
the 
wafting funk of weed and wax flares

it all comes rushing back to me
the Radiohead tragedy . . .

rushing back
on bbq winds of suburbia
where
bmw boys bellow about baps and burnt burgers and bites
on 
white 
legs
on plastic moulded chairs
behind slats of council fences

and
i
remember
counting survivors
in pale yellow mornings
cheap bacon marked up in the buses
when
the
bass
came thru the ground again

A PAINTED GARDEN PICTURE

traffic murmur distant hot breath
and silver plane drone warning 
stalk the weaving tree top wind

garden 5 pm

the summer tries

the cat is a tinsel edged shadow
nose up 
smelling the bird song

behind the rosemary fence
smoking blunt word neighbours scrape patio chairs 
and click and flick cigarette lighters
loud pause before supper

my bare feet/work tired/like dumb hands
stretch and curl and make fists
in long spear grass and sudden daisy forests

. . . wonder if its true that magnetic forces
realign
when bare feet touch the earth
like
the
weird hippies
say

ROSE, SUNDAY

REFLECTIONS IN A BATH MAT

it was a thick year
and
without retreat

i'd felt the mass of the earth
pushing up 
thru the soles of my shoes like a living thing breathing
and
there
were
moments like drugs but without drugs
when
i couldn't tell if something was wet or just cold
and
the world exploded into pure concept and atoms

just bits to pick and choose

i'd been
burnt by optimism
and was
whole with poison

and now all the killer last lines were lined up
like cigarettes in a fresh pack
ordered
and
waiting to paint my breath

AFTER CLOCK-OUT

after clock-out
i wash up at the bungalow like a beached whale
coffee on the stove, i make a list
of
all
the
simple
things
i should be able to remember

DONT NAP YET i write and PLAY MUSIC

and
POETRY

WHY NOT PLANT FLOWERS THERE

the young man died on a sunny summer evening
walking home
on a 60mph hospital back lane

the flowers are browning in rain filled plastic
the framed picture warps like waves 
and
a fresh bouquet is wrapped in a skull and crossbones scarf
at the spot 
on the untrimmed verge
where
theres a short cut across the ditch from MHU

the smokers and security still talk about it 
vicariously
and
undecided
who 
he 
was

GARDEN PAST

the boy bouncing the tennis ball
off the bungalow apex
got tired of chasing it roll down the lawn
and
nervous of hitting some imagined precious thing
he
replaced its brand-less turf in the wooden clothes peg box

he swings on a rusting flaking white pole on the old porch 
the kitchen door is long bricked up
and
the concrete steps still there
go nowhere now

he 
thinks
the dead porch
should be much much more exciting
that
it
is

so slowly he goes back inside

WRITING

ONE SENTENCE IN . . .

BLACK DOG GUTS

discharged myself early from the last talk therapy

tired 
of talking 

man always in the same jumper sinking into his cheap chair

not many sessions left to go . . .
and 
tho i have these moments
moments 
when i am serious as the cold war doomsday clock
or 
when an emptiness like an epoch arrives in a sunny garden evening and 
wipes everything away like a bulldozer in a battlezone
i 
have fallen free of the black dogs guts
and
tho 
his huge shadow blocks out light sometimes
enough glow gets by 
to know theres more
and
he's
dragging his bad smells and disease to hell
alone
now

DINOSAUR

DAB BOTTLE

KITCHEN SUNDAY PM, TIDIED

READING PILE

READING PILE FOR WHEN I STEP AWAY
FROM THE CRIME PULP ANTHOLOGIES

AS I SAID TO THE JUDGE . . .

sometimes theres a looseness
in the mornings

like the clocks
are unteethered

and it could be anywhere and at anytime
like
an
eternal
classroom
forever

and i MUST hold on tight to someone
so
i
dont
fall
off the world

DIRTY LAUNDRY

DIRTY LAUNDRY ON THE FLOOR, THIS AFTERNOON

SNACK DELAY

i check my phones red light to see if its blinking
and new message symbol to see if its that happy yellow
then
i check my outlook email for the unread bold font

then i check my phone again

then i google paris artists hangouts and book shops
bra's
eating out in leigh on sea
macro photo hints
and
b&w nudes in google images

i have a coffee
i have a smoke

i am at work
and
putting
off
food

THING FROM THE CUPBOARD 3

ROSES

theres a pome that goes
'hitler painted roses'

i have never painted roses

never
ruined
their
tissue flesh into weak water colour turd smears
one 
sunny garden day

but 
i
will

then maybe i wont wake up thinking

'hitler painted roses'

anymore

THING FROM THE CUPBOARD 2

REWRITABLE DATA STORAGE, ROUND

THE SHORT FELINE DEATH OF WINGS

the night was cool enough for a woolly beanie

cats scratch and whine on the block paving 
nosing the weeds that push up sand and ants
and
sniffing under the thick hedge of thistles and red berries
for the 
smell
of the 
birds nesting deep and safe inside

and when the dark was gone
the greens lit up
luminous and amazing

freshly mixed artists paint - an absinthe drunks vision of Venus

the day became full and growling
and the night became a secret - a thing of long ago
a
forgotten
peace - because the day was full and growling
wearing down the earth
in shale and slices and surface oil
fighting over her new/old spaces
and
draining
her
food valleys
for dinosaur coal
and
young island men turned the surf
a vivid whale red

and one bird
black alone armless
is oblivious of the day full and growling
and
nods
and 
pecks
in a green gold field
of hacked
flaxen thatch
for
blind
worms

THING FROM MY CUPBOARD 1

MEMORY CITY OUTSKIRTS 

UNUSED NIGHT

i am calm in a cloud of an unused night

i saw the dusk turn the streets monochrome and orange
i saw the moon light the foxes slender and strolling
and
i
saw
the solid doom of dark before the creeping lid of dawn

soon people will come
in cars and with dogs and rubbing the sleep from their eyes
talking with loud morning voices
bright and busy and ignorant of the still stages of night

i am calm in a cloud of an unused night
but
this white racket will soon expose and tire me
and wear me thin
thru
the
long
day

HARD CANDY

this new anticipation 
is a hard candy to chew all week
i savour the flavours
that NEVER fade

and tho the train is modern electric and too bright inside 
with rush-hour free papers folded and thrown
and all moulded plastic lacking soul -
a
future
mistake
of a hum-rattle-thrum -
its 
all black and white and shrill whistles and past elegance and 
rolling steam and uniformed porters in hats
to us 
when we meet 
in the cold chav station of New Town
where
the
echo swears from the monkey clots
in denim tubes and pastel tops
might as well
be
unicorn farts
to
us

MONKEY TOWN

shaved and inked monkeys
gibbon down iphones
in
kid
run
burger bar too loud like a hip-shit shop
or
under 18 disco

and everyone drinks from a bucket of fizzy brown 

late spring fat-heats a bare friday night
shadows from college square elms
are epic and intricate
on
the
monolith
brown brick of surviving M&S wall

arguments of irritation and separation 
from buggy mums like sticks in fetish denim
are
met
by
a silent ground-stare from boy-men in sportswear 
with colours and patterns screaming at each other 
six paces behind
thumbing
a
touchscreen

and two college girls with night white skin
and black black hair
and black black clothes over mysteries
walk
like
lionesses
on loose zena thighs across the square
they
dont
talk
and eat from styrofoam with their pinkies out

they will walk out of this town
and
never come back

WASHING

the
washed washing
on the garden line
is
an
empty and dismantled me

separated and cleaned and resting
and
playing like bunting

i play too
on the soft garden floor
under a yellow ball of sun

NORMAL DEATH

is death not bound to be
an
anticlimax?

escalated in statue in anticipation and beliefs 
and prose and song
but
really
just
another process like a morning dump;
no ones upset at the loss of a turd
no
matter
how epic in girth or release

or even like birth;
messy 
but we adapt to the change

and
go
on

MORNING IS NOT A DREAM

another morning
i tell myself its not a dream

i've had no rest
i eat nothing
pulling on my shoes now

walk the silent bungalow streets
some still have the original windows
single glaze
metal frame

i listen to a dead poet talk over
modern
muted
beats

at work i am the first in
putting the kettle on now
coffee
only
works
till
noon

HUGO

hugo used to be a sniper in 91
hugo got shot in the arse
said
the
steroids
kept him running flat out

hugos now a hospital cleaner
or he was
hugos covered in ink of his kids
and
a
neck
snake

hugo says wheres the syringes little chicken?

he called me little chicken - its complicated

hugo says big syringe and a needle a green one

hugo helps himself

hugo is biding his time till he can apply to the police
wants
in
to
the armed response unit

i miss the action little chicken he says to me

hugo wants to bulk up
eats
boiled
eggs
all
day
roast chicken for breakfast

hugos wife says hugo you ate the kids dinner for breakfast again

hugo wants the syringe for steroids

hugo helps himself

hugo wants a scalpel
i cant help him there
and 
i 
dont ask

hugo looses his job
he didnt turn up everyday
and
he
lost
his
temper
when he did

goodbye hugo says little chicken

DAILY MAIL

dont read the Daily Mail
and
for
sure
dont BUY it

on the cafe table i read the headline 
and
turn to page five
and
all the problems of popular journalisms
black print hysterical yelling 
where 
editorial opinions leak red over drowning facts
wash me in an instant hopeless darkness
and
make me weak
helpless
and
sad

'britains shadowy secret courts'
'welfare immigrants steal houses prices'
'labour badgers push legal highs'

or similar . . .

i fold it and chuck it to the next table
annoyed with myself and the world
and
instead
concentrate
on the pretty girl with the panini in her knuckle duster paws
opposite 
me
and smiling

a family fill the next table
and
the catalogue shirt and slacks dad 
drops his car keys by his iphone
and
turns to page five
and reads 
with no expression 
at all