REPORTS

the
filed
reports
come in 
too frequently
these days

they have their own ideas now
and become directives

i am kept on my toes
unclogging
my
aging
filters

~

and my piss turned grey like slate
like paint water
or
rain running off wet clay

and i worry i may be full of
only red now

and cool veiny blue

~

and
away from the wasted gains
and
away from the gainers gaze 

i am pale and shaved
in the gardens green phantasm

nylon and glass
between its bark twists

an escapee washed up on fertile banks
with
disease
the
price
of
freedom

from gelifesciences.com

HEY !

  hey gone friends -
wine fields 
dry thatch 
left behind
  for 
  new indie youth and goth mp3s
  hippying off the concrete grid
  to
  their VU rediscovery -
    now
    OUR
    growed-up collar has bunkered / buckled under disease . . .
remember
when 
the  
  dealers phone box was a derelict pagoda ?
remember
the
  morning meat bus and puked-on suede
  that 
  stank
  out the hangover beans in KFC ?
and 
all
the backpacks of stolen government hemp
  stashed fruitless in backroom lockers
  when
  the
  mall was our day-place of business and escape ?
remember when
any
greenhouse / caravan / copse between the A roads
  was
  a
small town opium den - the valium at faster-miles-an-hour
  off-road
by the bonfire hole ?
    remember ?
    the
    moon was almost perfect
    every night 
    and the clouds van Gogh paintings
    unreal
    at
    dawn
    when the birds spoke words
    we
    all
    understood

     from the huffingtonpost.com

    

ITS ALRIGHT MA, FLOWERS GROW IN SHIT

so
you wake up on the dead side of the moon
and
you recognise it
because you been there before
and
you puke warm bile
every morning at 3 AM
and
your eyes are empty and cold as ice cream scoops
and
youre rammed in your own sweating stink crack
where
theres
no 
time
or
light
till something clicks or cracks forever
inside your deepest guts 
and
you go on a go-slow
and 
never speed up again ever
and
numbers look like egyptian writing 
all wolf heads and square cats
and
they
call it ME or they call it CFS or they call it suck-it-looser
when
you
feel like one of those dog turds
thats got rubber bands hanging from it
linking
up
shit
clumps
in a horrible convoy
and
you end up at 6.45 AM queueing for more blood tests
with
the 
ordinary ogres 
wishing
they
find
you
a
cooler
disease