3 x GARDEN SNACKLINGS

the fire pit 

is brimming with 

summer trimmings & 

honey & rust

& bramble thorns

~

i see the sky
in the samsung black

& a bird on a tv wire

~

like it always does

the grass has recovered

fat & chartreuse 
rangy & butterscotch

& the robin singing

ABOUT THE ESTATE #2

on all the island triangles of grass

on the corners of the t bone streets

wild high until suddenly mowed

& 

on the wide high plateau of green

behind the squat crouching flats

there to mask the bin sheds

& the washing in the courtyard

there were council signs

in a clear beginners font 

that said - No Ball Games

it was just so mean
& i couldnt understand

would the police come ?

it seemed a very hard blow

for all the kids to weather

tho i found out

no one gave a shit

PADDED OUT WITH DEJA VU

forever has lost its reach
&

is padded out with deja vu

& 

i 

repeat myself

repeat myself

repeat myself

going round
like a clock
goes round

bloody allergy nostrils

flaring again

in spring again

at the redolence of murdered grass

& IN HINDSIGHT FREE

the
fresh & glorious
summer funk
of just-cut-grass

ballooooned

across the school field
in the lie of the sunshine glee

~

water fountain running warm
in the demountable shadow

we ran in plimsoles
kicking straw
&
in hindsight
free

COLD & NAKED WERE YOU THERE ?

those hymns
& odd songs
we
sang
at
school

i hear them still
in the smell of mowed grass

~

& the spaces between
the liminal sheds
source essential ballast
from the tender stash
of
the child-minds
soft chaos
braving school

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

MO PLASTIC ZEN

the gardens triangular 

& falls away north

i am barefoot on the grass

hoping for magnetic defrag

trees nod - they KNOW

i am between the meat here

&

the motherboard motherload

mad with sobriety

&

quieted by worry

& 

alert from the advertising underground

SOME MONDAY POPS

HIGH STREET MARKET

cardboard empire
stacked & packed

coffee loading
fingerless gloves
take a break
to
dig inside money aprons

refolding the float
shaking the shrapnel

in 
the
6 AM refinery glare 

& yell-

POUND FORRA POUND

mildly psycho
at the old 
& 
the supermarket wary

come 
opening 
time



IN HIS OWN WAY

hes fucked come dawn 
nervous
norovirus
again 

he fucks the dawn
in his own way . . . 

then calls the day
to say

hes too tired now

to
come
outside
&
play

in that awful streetside 
gone
sweatbox
gray




SO SCATTERED

what can i write now
that better have said ?

( child
  sat
  on the empty 
  autumn back lawn
  sad
  gaze
  on the empty 
  kitchen window

  he has a toy car
  thats not quite right

  wondering 
  what 11 AM
  is for )

what to write now
in
these
times
so . . . so . . . scattered

( too OUT of touch
  too IN touch
  facetime
  plastic hacked )

what to write now
but
an
ode again
to
the
timeless trees
timeless lessons

rooted but reaching



ODE TO TIMELESS TREES

the springwinter wind
blows
early 
apple
blossom

like spontaneous confetti

over
the
marriage
of
the
birdshit onion grass
&
cracked
rutted
english lawn

from quirkyscienece.com

WAITING ON ANOTHER ELVIS DAWN

that cut grass smell
is
a
sip from yesterdays rainbow

and
next door
they
all
gone
out

taking their racket elsewhere

and all our doors and windows
are
open

and the peace is palpable

an elephant on the lawn

~

time was
summer nights
falling sun
felt like magic

or magics shadow

it was like watching a cats tail
sliding away
thru the door

and it left the hint of a spell
on the warm cement
to
drink
to

and
id
drink
to 
it

spilling my brain all over the black

waiting  
on
another
crystal dawn

that wasnt so much magic
as a reward

or red cross relief

and
there
was
elvis
on the radio

singing like he did
like he still does

elvis in 1973 from picmonkey.com