FRAG 21

its a dead world

   or it feels like it . . .

. . . feels like it will be

a world on pause

   so it seems - 

      waiting

or its a pregnant world :

   natures delirious & rife

mushrooms 

   always telling

      the trees what to do

outside our human 

   drek & bomb art

FRAG 25

i like the sound
of those first drops
when we all look up
to confirm the source

it will puddle on the water butt
& feed the moss there
& nourish the seeds sprouting
inside the bird feeders clog

FRAG 29

 

dawn is drawn

in a dark smear

of smudged pencil

a sharp lead edge 

gouging house outlines

as if with a fist

& the bulletins are bleak

& the cats walk cautious

smelling its strange 

THE TEST CONTINUES . . . CELLS INTERLINKED

connectivity
drops out
more than in

soft network
wont finish
its new year reboot

struggling
in the high tide
obituary flood

looking for the baseline
laterbase near capacity
what slo mo voight-kampff is this ?

RUBICON FARTS

change of pace now

(well thats times fault)

& i am fluffing my lines

(thats on me - i am off balance)

so here come the half-poems
& the ambient frags

(blood on the keyboard)

off-cuts make the best cuts

(sometimes)

motivation is the next sandwich . . .

& poems are a bodily function 

too much like gas 

but i know that we all 

farted over the rubicon before

SUCH A SCHEDULED & DEFINITVE & MOURNFUL STOPPING

those tv show ending songs & themes

that played out over the rolling credits
held a deep & impossible sadness

& an intense hope
for a last joke
in a last scene
after the last names ascended

& it didnt really matter 

if the show was good or not

& it didnt really matter
if i understood it or not
only that i could hide there 

inside its scripted cloak

it helped hold back

anxietys electricity slurry

& dooms gloaming worry
of going to school

that fucking zoo

the next poxy day

A CLARIFICATION NOTICE

long time back i was asked to write a piece about my writing process for a university webpage*

it included the statement 'i write poetry waking up'

it has occurred to me this needs clarifying -

i dont literally wake up spouting worthy posey, that sounds pretentious or a medical issue

no thats not what i meant

i meant that to get writing done, i often go straight to the desk with coffee number one & start writing, start looking at phone notes & notebook scribbles & out the window & on the mind-shelves & while i am doing this i wake up

to summarise -

i WAKE UP while working on writing poetry
i dont wake up WRITING poetry

i hope this has settled the issue

*here it is here -
https://unipress.hud.ac.uk/news/57/

 

EQUATIONS JUST OFF THE BOIL

sometimes
its all physics & chemistry
going around about in my head
equations just off the boil

not that i got
much education in it

but

its all
how the coffee
is well on its way
to catching & matching
the ambience of the room

thermodynamics & entropy

stuff like that

its atom magic
you know
i am a reagent

TO A CRITICAL MASS

but too tho the silence

the dense & concrete silence

well it makes gains up around your chair

like its building to a critical mass

& it 

could be
what some
would use
the word
g r a c e 

about

just not me not yet

i call it a screaming pause

FROM A CREMATORIUM GARDEN, RETAIL PARK BEHIND ME

the marsh
looked like the kind of marsh
something should be rolling in from

but theres only wind
blowing on the ragged robin 

the bugle & the horsetail
& on the blackberry brambles

& cows
uncluttered cows

without secrets
bowed & calm

sentinel markers

on the way to the river

to the great canal 

to the puget sound

& all the water in the world

THINK HIROO ONODA MEETS PEACOCK HILL

my lizard brain engages

  in a
    kind of
      reflex rearguard action

  i am sure
    it thinks is
      suitably vainglorious*

  when
    i
      wave
        the white flag of surrender

  in
    the
      battle sleep has become

* think hiroo onoda 

  meets peacock hill 

MICROSCOPE ON IT ALL

you say a word
too much
& its meaning evaporates

it can be like that writing
microscope on it all

i try & let the words fall out
like a shit unseen

but my mind 

is often short 

on fibre & rhythm 

~

outgoing words can be frail
is what i am getting at

their sense seen 

in the reading of them

read words are strong words

are words that arrived

written ones only hopeful 

& greenstick raw

FROM THE BENCHES & FENCES

i wish it was quiet
& i could not hear
the
souls
of
gone
trees
calling
from the benches & fences
we
forced

them

to be

he said
shroom shards showing
in his bruxism smile

TRYING ALWAYS TO BE PART 2

poetry 

is like mugshots 

forced clarity

after the crime

harsh reality buffed 

with a gritty old rag

but

trying always to be

only a heart & pen

TRYING ALWAYS TO BE PART 1

poetry

is coded selfies
layered on the lam
& dense from the doubt

topographical vaseline slathered
over the metaphorical lens

cataract filtered
with the soft mines
heavy metal dust

but

trying always to be

only a heart & pen

HANDS BLUFFING ON THE LAMB

yes

the past has already had you

& some settling of contents
may have happened in transit

but the future is hungry too

& may contain nuts

yes


~


play the long game
in the long dusk
with rainbow lego
& poundshop knives

prophets in your back pocket
hands bluffing on the lamb
until dinner time
& you wash your hands . . .

faux famine panic
in the cats green eyes

IN THE NIGHT WINDS AHOY

1.

the wood fence panels fidget
irritated
in their concrete hold-poles
behind the
wheelie bins hollow flap
&
in the night winds ahoy

grace gone
like the trees they were
are gone

& theres a to & fro about it all
out there

a forced system
a reduced symphony
out there

in the night winds ahoy


2.

& voices that might not be voices
faintly row out there
muddy aggro samples
buried in the techno
of structure & maintenance

plastic gutters
tremble & thrust
baby weak
in their cupping brackets
& against the small screws

in the dark winter of the world
& the night winds ahoy

PROP SATCHEL CLEARLY EMPTY

he wears four maybe five layers
& maybe a cap 

maybe a loose scarf

she wears one layer
& if a cardigan 

then its made of nothing

in the hollywood film tvs

where the funerals

are always autumntime

the rusty leaves blown 

under perennial trees

WITHOUT ANY SATISFACTORY CONCLUSION

& 

if it feels kinda like
my face is detached & floating
off off & away somehow

i can for now
be sure at least
the bathroom mirror 

will catch it again

for me to regard again
in a dumb-numb surprise
that turns every time
into

a

harsh & biased 
critical appraisal

without any satisfactory conclusion

YEARS PLAYING INFANT AGAIN

i start as i mean to go on

start earlier if you want to go faster

raise up your hands if you want to stop

consult the help section 

if you need to

& by that of course i mean books

~

the year is playing infant again

but busted by the baggage

no train station locker

can 

take