CARDIA, A TUMBLE THOUGHT

&
heart
pounding

at
nothing
cos

its

morning
again

~

no midnight zen survives 

in the rude 7am

where the ghosts of cigarettes howl

& coffee is coffee & again

BY THE GROCERS ARTIFICIAL GRASS

 

parody of a grandmother

veg stall

cigarette

& angry about a hedgerows

suggestive topiary shape

since 1985

TV IN THE AFTERNOON

the
thin
ascetic
face
of the hitman

is english pale
in the spanish bright

& his filter-less cigarette
looks big as bathroom plumbing

under the blankest rayban stare

~

let the camera

linger some

on the afternoon sun

at the seasons end

& on the tea

in the gazebo

& the people sat there

& the flowers

round about too

FRAG 39

yesterday
is
a
heavy drag cigarette cherry
glowing an awful red

in
your
pump-thump pump-thump
thump-thump heart-fist

clenched like something shrunk

MEMORY 101

 

the after-rain fug punch 

  

hot cooking kitchen metal

mid-morning diesel exhaust 
  

the melt burner of cookie wax

  

late afternoon pavement 

    pushing summer heat 

a cigarette on the wind

memory 101

journey

up

the

smells

down in the winds

photo by Agustin Gunawan on Unsplash

BUDAPEST DAYS

burgers for two

outside seating 

wintertime

&

steams rising up off the bath lake

the zoo & magic fox behind us

~

you touched a sloths hand

i had one cigarette a day

your pistol jammed

i learnt the double-tap

~

cafe photo on the wall here now

wrought iron

sun lit

cat dignity

oh those big window

phrase book

old bus

days

from budapestbylocals.com

AUTUMN IS THE SEASON OF THE SOUL

here it comes again
autumn - the big dusk
and
it
grabs
summers broken flip-flops
and
throws
them
in
the recycling bin

here it comes again
autumn - ambient soul
with 
its 
sepia nostalgia stink
and
its 
crumbling golden crown

here it comes again
autumn - annual assassination
and
it
fills me up to bursting
with 
memories of almost anything
  almost 
    anything 
      at 
        all

all bitter sweet brush strokes
of fading fire shades
all washed out watercolours
of dew drop dawns

here come the memories again
memories - uncorruptible RAM
of
a
damp damp damp
low cloud night 
striking matches
under streetlights
smokey mono-chrome

here come the memories again - polaroid loops
of
beautiful scheduled death
of
the shedding of copper camo
till
it
is
stark
and
naked
and
bold
and
bravely 
empty
on the 
bike stop 
hill top
where
i would 
park up
take five
and smoke
in the
special
quiet
counting the silver spiderwebs
in
the
broken bones of giants
and
looking out 
at the
great white stripes of mists
that
lay
across
the
bicep bulges of hinterland
making islands of rootless trees 

here come the memories again - strobing pops
of the DLR
of my shakes 
in the standing room only
before 
      i 
       fell
   in
a long gone
  fall

here come the memories again - filtered in overdrive
of
the
too early AM gag jags
when i couldnt stomach anything
anything at all
and
i fed the squirrels
my breakfast muffin
until
bullying magpies came
out 
in 
the
Greenwich hillside park
where i loved the benches
i really LOVED the benches
and i made a vow then
to sit on more park benches

  in peace
  in quiet
  in nothing

on morning-wet autumn park benches

here come the memories again - stink triggered recall
of
dusk in the afternoon
that says to me
  dont worry about it
  give it up 
  its dark now 
  cant you see ?
  give it up till spring
  and 
  sleep like all the frenchmen
  used to do

here come the memories again - carousels of slides
of
the pipes first run
and the click-clicking metal
in
the afternoon bubble
of childhood after school 
all
the
radiators 
filling up
and
gurgling like well springs
in
the
Simon and Garfunkel silence

here come the memories again - line drawings of you
of
the
cold houses dead rads dead chill
and
the
doom that riots round the skirting boards
and 
up on the cobweb coving
so
you
bleed the rads
with special key and a rag
down
on
the
floor
where your childhood used to be


here come the memories again - clockwork sensations 
of
stumbling round Bank
booze loose and looking
for
the home train
the Borough bus
the St Pauls Starbucks
my
collar
up 
to the girls and the damp
and
hiding
in
a
pool hall 3 storeys underground
and
too
there
were 
long decaff evenings
freshly sober and newly muted
still
in
a
Simon and Garfunkle silence
watching people in a dry trance
in
the 
WC1 museum spaces
my coats and scarves
my winter armour
piled like a thrift store
on the backs
of the colourful 
plastic chairs

so boo fucking hoo i say this year
as
autumn comes in
to compost me again
and
i
make a new memory - HD  
by
farting long and mournful
on the 
back step 
4 AM
smoking the last cigarette in the world

and it is answered !
by 
some 
guy
invisible over the back fence
still awake like me
and
coughing wet and awful
on
the words other last cigarette

and it all mixes in with the foghorns
like 
the very last dinosaur cries
out 
on 
the rivers black mass
under peephole stars 
and slow moving planes
slow
blinking
wing tips
blinking
in
time
with
another sleepless trial
where
all
the
hibernating mammals
steal my slumber
obviously
unrepentant

from the guardian

PERFECT

IT WAS NIGHT THEN IT WAS DAY

it was night
and
before
dawn
the milkman rattled his bottles
and
drove his electric cart
down the hill with an echoing whine
like
a
dying air raid siren
at
the
end of the world

i smoked a pointless cigarette
out
by 
the 
big wheeled bins 
with
thin
patterned frost on their lids
and
was
underwhelmed by the beauty of the stars

when
day was here 
and
breakfast was had
i
tapped my fingers on the table
and
rested my chin on my fist 
thinking about sleep
and
all the art and maintenance
i
wouldnt
do
today

Unscheduled Maintenance by Eric Joyner 

from omgposters.com

NAKED WASTELAND BLOOMS

the garden is noisy with birds 
softly rattling their news
and
the metal thrash of mile high short haul planes
heading into city airport
is
only
a
drone hum
down here

i
sit here for dead-blank timeless hours
still as a burnt-out car
gently buffeted / cleaned / awoken
by
the
noisy quiet 

( my naked wasteland is full of blooms today )

a
chewing roar throttles in - a circular saw grinding roof timber
is
reduced to a soothing balm
by
my
armour
of
hedge and trees

maybe i'll sit here till i die

my
last
cigarette
rolling smoke
up round the brim of my hat
up
up
to
the
vapour trails
pointing to city airport

battle of the bulge vapour trails from library.umkc.edu

AM VS PM

the
good health/tidy/sane/yoga
intentions
that fight for dominance
in my morning work mind
mean
so
little
and struggle for relevance
in
the
evening home
tired
laying
on the dusty carpets
with cigarettes
and
a
warm
soft
cat