CIRCLES OF ELLIPSES

 now automatic writing
that engine & saviour of expression

     well -

 stationary boatmen

 make circles of ellipses

 in the spring of surface tension

 with coffee scoop feet 

& if i must

fall deep

to hear myself

i will belay the kernmantle ropes

 & light it up 

 & read the shadows
 of the gumbo & diamonds down there

  & fetch them up

  to the suns

  light

  warmth

   & bleachy fade

   & bust like birth

the kitchen counter silence 

in this bad-quiet & still 

     headpan pool

BABY JOHANSEN ASKS #2

 

papa ?

yes son ?

you know carol on the corner 
sold their mobility scooter
to pay bills from thames water ?

that rhymes son ! 

you could be a poet when you grow up

but papa ?

yes son ?

how would that help ?

. . . well . . .

BABY JOHANSEN ASKS

papa ?

yes son ?

this labour party, 

theyre people too, 

right papa ?

yes son 

then why are they doing 

such unpeople things ?

. . . well son . . .

RAW LIKE BACON

i
bathed
in
the triumph
of a cat

exfoliated with sand from the sky

& raw like bacon like headlines
i took to the sleeping bed

& failed there
with
mountain tension

missing the streams of leigh 

PATTI SMITH FRAGPOP

to paraphrase patti smith -

i am so middle aged
so god damn middle aged

& i wish 

   someone 

      would send me

         energy

A DAY IN THE STRIFE (TO THE TUNE OF A DAY IN THE LIFE)

i

saw

the news today oh boy

the government

blew its legitimacy out

in a subsidised ulez car

& tho the news was rather sad

i just stood & stared

as another crowd of people 

were turned away

&

everyone was really sure

he was from the house of shills

SINCERELY NO REGARDS

to; politics

cc; disaster, capitalism, polycrisis

re; throwing the poor & sick again

    to the payday loanshark wolves 
     

to whom it may concern, 

we 'uneconomic units'

are sorry
you cant
see any worth
in our struggling lives

just know 

we too

can see 

even less

in yours

sincerely no regards whatsofuckingever 

NOSTALGIA GLANDS

outside the unkillable bookies

diehard smokers

brace for judgement

& breath their b&h

into my memory portal

& manic nostalgia glands

~

matchboxes &

cubic cellophane

under the thin light

of a streetlight

& night smoke

in the mist of rain

REALITY PROPS

gore on the green lawn

feathers on the garden walk

haikus in red dawn

~

his face is a mountain

the night is screaming

all conversations 

are clipped like wings

~

& the emptiness of right now

is punched out 

on the quiet carpet

of a weekday morning fume

GOOGLING PADLOCKS

on hand-me-down phones
&
library wifi

the sick google 

padlocks & foodbanks

in
the ruins
of
britains stable doors

THE BLISS OF THE WOMB

if you didnt arrive 

keening hard an existential wail

some strange masked woman
beat you till you did

now they expect autofill permission

& adherence 

to the fluid goalposts

mumbled 

out the sanitised egg

& 

to roll over roll over

& 

curl up like a hibernating boy

every unexplainable night

chinos neatly folded 

under crisp polo shirts

photo ID on a company lanyard

next to the rare earth phone

like the blood & terror

& shit & screaming

were never ever there

& you had forgotten

the bliss of the womb

THE FRANKENSTEIN REST OF IT

 

now most days

i cant believe

all this normal stuff 

is happening

you know - 

like eggs 

clever parrots  

& 

our regular surrender to the dark

let alone the frankenstein rest of it

VULCAN FIRES HIS FORGE

among other news

the world is heavy 

on cringe & deflection

ego & projection 

orchestrated diatribe

& racketeering from the egg

& big machines turn

& the moon is thirsty

& innocent mammals

hunt landmines 

in the ivf dirt

i am weak at the shit of it

now heres pinochet

with the weather

where you are

CLOSED THE BIG DOOR

they

wont

let

you

die

in the regular madness
of the chattel lands

where guilt is on tap
like a riot hose
& innocence is vestigial

& theyre proud
of the suicide nets they hung
below the factory windows

to catch & save

the lives they use

to beat down to a dumb nub