PILL BOX POP No65

 

&

in

a

circus

that generously

gives

sparkle monkeys

 

brave wings

&

extraordinary

things

to

just

breath

 

 

takes

a

dream of courage

 

RERUNS & WRITTEN RESIDUE

always 
i am
explaining
myself

fictitiously
like practice

to gone friends from out the past
&
to next months never / maybe meets


~


if only my mind could RACE
id be done by now

but 
its 
some kind of swamp in there
some kind of slo-mo mordor

all spiked retinoids
&
between-station underwater tv 


~


i must clarify again
those corner hook-ups
the cracked cement & moss banks

&
i
got
to
dwell on

the shouted almost chat
from the dub weekenders

i am rerun central
meat tube hdd only


~


i feel 
it is ALL 
still happening to me

linear time
is 
only outside
my
untanned leather


~


so 
i
go read new poetry

go on the old toilet

trying
to dump
the ALL out

& fill up the space
with 
someone elses 
written residue

for a change
& to breath

from eobdtool.co.uk

REPORT FILING THESE DAYS

the
dust is filed
by
caretakers
now

curaters
forever
out
of
town

i can feel the sky
holding back
its greif
&
the earth
breath in
to gasp

& 
i accept
all the 
small gifts
that come

from ebay.com

DIAMOND MINE 1

every
breath
was
an
act
of
faith . . . then

           Science 
           Named 
           The 
           Invisible

so heaven - 

why not 
    why not 
        why not ?

all
fingers 
crossed
here

in the fracking dust
on the shopping berm
all of us blind
in the
diamond mine

from nbharbinger.wordpress.com

THAT LAUGH

come get me
says the day
in latin

i take a deep breath 
i nod ok yes ok 

but 
glance 
behind 
me

like you do you know

&
realise
its 
not 
talking to me

& then i hear that laugh

from cafepress.com

MAYBE IN BOLD - A POEM POME

  these Werds are inadequate 
  just a scribbled attempt . . .

moans the Poet over his breakfast eggs

  they come out so quiet
  might
  as
  well
  be
  a
  silent yell of breath

the Poet looks at the uneven prongs on his fork

  but such breath 
      such yelling would only
                         invite
                         dull
                         questions . . .

and the Poets eyes widen in fear  questions . . . but

  they can question the Poet
  but they cant ask the Poem

the Poet cries in victory  in vanity  (?)

  and the Werds had purpose once again
  like distance
  like stone

and freed the poet Wrote of animals ;

     now  these quiet animals 
   naked and woolly 
    have the dignity of weather green statues
     in  their living silence
  in their unattempted poise
   
   and
    there is mystery enough
         i think 
  in their multipurpose bleats
  
    they speak hard with their huge eyes
  and with 
       honest  and easy
   and  unapologetic
    habit
  and appetite 
      and action

and the Poet laughed all the way to brunch

from www.tvtropes.org

SKY POPTASM

the sky is full of fish scales

the day is empty
and
a
renegade
somehow

i sit still

breathing just breathing
as
my
cv

of all things

fades
away
in
front
of
me

from thedailymail

SOIL OF THE WORLD

i can feel it
under my boots
up my calves 

like scaffolding 

feel being perched
like a storybook owl
                 on
                 the
                 deep
                 eternal
                 soil
anchored like a bouy
on the soft rock of the world

i can feel its noise 
           its dry breath
           and
           maybe
           i
           feel
           kind 
           of
           sad
     for not being a beautiful bird
                or a manticore treecat
                or a dragon fly
                     forever 
                     sat
                     on 
                     the 
                     rosebush pole
  and
  being
  just
  a
  me 

perched on the soil of the world

  feeling it
  clear 
  as
  hunger or pain

  feeling
  the rich urban peat
  the poor salted earth 
  out
    in 
      the 
        kfc sticks

up to my chin in excess packaging
and
the
silent
countdown

from forcechange.com

SPRING COCK

the spring air
holds
a
taste somehow
of
all
the
seasons
on
its
quiet
backdoor breath 
and
in
the
sounds of birds

still tho
the
world
is
a
cock in my ear
dry-fingering
any
tender
hole
in the funeral of monday morning

from dreamatico.com

OUR BREATH IS NOT NEW

our discoveries stand in old old footsteps
stamped
into ice

and
our
breath is not new - it came out in clouds
before
the old horned lizards
cracked
their
eggs
and mammals were made as slaves from dew and stardust

our old
breath is with arrogant and sick from invisible cables
that
tie
our mother and confuse her bees

and now 
we make particles cheat their rules
and
catch them on a concrete wall of xray film in paris
BEFORE
they 
leave 
sweden