MALL POPLING #3

 

wearing the only waxed duster

in the contiguous south east

& with the widest smile 

of the maddest glee

hes marching 

gunslinger style

past Smiths into Boots

finger pistols shooting

all the dr peppers

in the fridge

SMOKE FOR DAYS

you
got
a
rush
of crazy thoughts

in a bottle
in the fridge

but everything
is so of itself
dont you think ?
in these unspooling times 

where towers smoke 

for days & days
on a deconstructed 

hospital plateau 

HAVE YOU A PHOTO OF THEM ?

random points of light
pulled together
in a chemical sheen

are a precious fillip
& nostalgia fuel
for running a dark jag on

& its tacked there handy
in the homey clot
of your refrigerator door

ready for when detectives
knock with nothing & ask
'have you a photo of them ?'

BACKLIT CHEESE QUEST

the fridge saw
my night
was sandpaper

& it

backlit

my cheese quest

its lack of judgement

belied

by portentous design

ACTOR POP

 

ben affleck
stands there
like a fridge
stands there
after you
pulled it out
to get behind
& clean

ROUGH & FUMBLE TETRA PAK TEAR

 

milkfloats
homey rattle
gone now

that dawn 

clink & dink

now a silent 

plastic twist

in the light 

of a fridge

~

& on frosty school mornings

theyd emerge

out the fog

like a friend

by the tree there

on the corner

that later

was almost home

AUDIO POPS FILE 2

 

I AM THE MEAT FORM

  & 

maybe i am

the meat formed
in the calm
before the storm

  or
the tiles & red residue
of the eternal kitchens
breakfast gag & debrief

  where
the fridge 

hum & pop
is a lo-fi 

like techno

soft backing to your skin-pick worry

siren panic to your maintenance dread

STUFF I HEAR NO 8

gardener chips chopped deadfall
into the strimmed grass piles

down there up the road

& 

the fridge plays
call & response 

talking-blues style

with the plumbings
slo-mo hesitant hums

3 x HOME POPS

1.

a blog post a day

keeps the doctor away

tho i do need
professional
medical
advice



2.

i spend all morning implementing
the
trickery
my 
therapists suggested

&
hence
&
thus

there is an afternoon
of sorts
after all



3.

i know this fridge hum

would be louder

would be a warning siren

if
i
knew
no
one
was
coming home to me

from pinterest.com

THE DAYS LOOKING

the day is the face
of a head in a hood

its like a fridge hum with eyes

its an
attentive 
unstable 
streetside
ripple 

and
maybe 
it looks off somewhere else
but
we
never
catch
it

and
maybe its no more pleased about it
than
we
are

i
see
it
as
an unblinking lizard
dancing on hot sand
making
that
noise
like a hoover does
when
its 
next door
or
one floor up
threatening the walls
or
the
whirled artex ceilings

and it sends in 
big black flies
to find us
if we lay our withering bulks down inside
in
a half-arsed attempt
to
hide
in the afternoons
dead fish 
ebb tide

from littlemissteacher.com

EMPTY TICK CLOCK

fridge hums
clock ticks
cat wheezes

and repeat

outside -

flatbed truck rattles 
tracksuit kid rings a hand bell
sky is underfelt or discarded iron

and when i get my boots on
and get myself out there
the
wind
is 
uncertain - it has no nose today
and
only
blows
round
corners

from traceysolomon.wordpress.com

PUSH 2 AROUND THE HOUSE

PUSS PUSH

FLUSH PUSH

 WASH PUSH

 PLUSH PUSH

 MESS PUSH

NOSH PUSH

NURSE POP

two nurses giggle -
have morning sun blonde halos
against
backdrop
of
grim Borg-square multi-story

i eavesdrop / sat on the smoking bench
dead person plaque in my back -
nurses
only laughing out loud
at
how their egg mayo sandwiches 
will 
stink
up
the
fridge / they're high on cameraderie 
and 
vitamin D

from www.stardrivegame.com

CONCRETE OR BIRDSONG

would be easy to say

that
the
day
was dead

and 
that i sat there dead 

  like concrete

and
that
day is a naked and sober stale crust
dead
in
black water

but
instead
i listened and i heard
the
hum and cough of the fridge 
and
the 
whoosh of the pilot light
and
the
tiny splashes of the cat 
  drinking his water

all coming together 
pretty
as
birdsong

 from flutetunes.com

WHERES FORD

wheres ford?
and his yells of mad drunk?

he's here under new crowns
his
delusions
cleaner
and
only
medical - 

from the Hot Pit of Shit
to
Heavens Dumb Cusp
he
digs
sober
in
the predawn
for
Truth Elation
and
the
free
words
in the frost

or for the small bathroom pops
that
stick
reality
to
any gods fridge
like
a
childs
awful
scribble

Guardian Unlimited: Reverent Humour