SOLAR LENTIGINES

the small blemishes

of oil splatter burns

from when i cooked steaks

gives me a glimpse
of my hands aged
with liver spots

& solar lentigines  

~

now my hands

creep me out
like sudden spiders

magritte big
wild with potential
& Unmine

& i clamp them shut

& pick three real things

against the ennui 

& marrow angst 

ABOUT A CLASSIC POSE

well i dont
but want to

salute the smokers
lighting up

backs bent
cupped hands

heads down
outside b&m

& that first billow
steam train size

of chugged fumes
eddy tugged

spirals wraith like
on the grey-white wind

ONLY TABASCO

ignoring 

the surge 

of carolina reaper

they wax weak 

rhetoric
in my tv glass

over a possible spread

of only 

tabasco

~

off camera

they are wringing 

their gesturing hands
in the champagne bathrooms

abdication high on the list

& then a jet 

to a billionaires compound

DIRT OF NEED

as 

comparison inoculation

you 

count your blessings

    but remember  

 keep  hands  clean

so 

to not tarnish them

with 

the dirt of your need

ON THE MATRIX CUSP

strike the machine

a hulk smash

in 

its 

gordian knot

for time / for life / for play

before we find out
what is there

after it all

would that i could 

hold your hands there

& ease your leap

with quiet company

there on the matrix cusp

ALIVE LIKE A GUN IS ALIVE

to be
an electric guitar
raw
from the last show
keen

for the next

alive like a gun is alive

wating

backstage
in the calm

before the rock

almost not even needing any hands

MAINLY GEOPOLITICAL BUT LOOKING FOR MAGIC

the disadjuster

uber-unmensched

whos hands are these . . . 

world
gone
2d

like a waldo / wally foldout

a quiet crisis
matrix-like
in
its
glitching

~

i take off my glasses

& there it all is

its impressionistic
with drunken clarity
& undeniably real

longshadow me longcasts
across the lawn & cat

& the shrill grunt
of a 
handbrake streetside
wedged 
itself
inside
a
crack in time

postman i thought
or
the stepsons 
who visit
across the road

~

& 
i 
travelled around the world 100 times
in
that
single smudge / one planck unit
of
afternoon sun

mainly geopolitical
but
looking for magic

from bl.uk/events

ISNT THE SUMMING UP OF A MANS LIFE A SORT OF PRAYER

FIND ME A MANTRA 2/3

what to write
when your mind is set
like
front
drive
cement
punched
and
ribbed
with
the
streetside 
shorthand
of the
starlike
shapes 
of bmx kids
blunt hands
telling
one old
one line
graffiti
story
of a date
one day
in
1985
?

~

then theres this bird
in the bush
out the front

its pink flowers
fell out last week

well he sings minimalism chirps
in
pretty good time
with
iggy pops american valhalla

its like he practiced all night
to
debut
it
for me
today

and
i
feel
weak 
with gratitude 
and sickness mist

~

well theres no tickboxes 
on govmnt forms 
for 
my
current
hydraulic 
leaks . . . is there for yours ?

and the bird 
off he goes now

to
find
what
he
needs
for
the
day

from land.allears.net

FICTION POP 5 GUNNY

MURDER

A BUZZ THAT TURNED TO BOOZE

1. BRIGHT FRAME BENCH HANDS

home town small town bright frame -
almost-men 
walk across 
blank flat field / they hung out there
in
school
year
weekends

walk ? no - march !

marching
with
beer purpose in blue college break sunshine
open minds hungry / buzzing

a buzz that turns to booze
and
never
back

now i sit out there
on a bench of twisted metal
with
hands
that
could be anybodys / but too - 
could 
only
be 
mine 

2.BRIGHT FRAME CEMETERY HANDS

big city big cool bright frame - 
i
jumped
off
the cheap coach early / THRILLED to get out THERE
and
buzzed on NOTHING

OUT !  i was so OUT !

looking for anything to look at
Trafalgar Square / late summer PM / sparks on my heels
fairy dust in heated air

a buzz that turned to booze
and
never
back

now i walk thru the cemetery trees
with
my
hands - My Hands 

with
my
own 
hands 

SOGGY STICK MAN

now 

more 
than 
ever

i am full of blood and bones

drilled teeth 
  in
  a
archaeologists skull

and a mystery brain

but theres more
  of 
    course 
      there 
        is 
          more


i am what my hands touch 
i am what my hands change - aching and grinding
cantilever cranes 
wave and direct
five digit flippers
  to
  shape
  a
  life
from fucktowns hard clay

i sum up this life 

    for 
    reassurance

not here not now

but
during the flat light of afternoons
  i
  list
  and
  bullet point

activities / achievements / geographical location
  and
  the
  journey
  that
  delivered
  my
  soft flesh here

drinking coffee
  and
listening to jazz
  at
  9.43
wednesday morning

from myweb.tiscali.co.uk

SELF PORTRAIT

ash flakes onto the desk like dirty snow from days first smoke
lit and pulled deep
he blows it away to collect and become dust
and
coffee steams out the round cup like ghosts of ground beans 
and field labour
from 
the 
first 
pot

he rubs sleep from tired eyes

he'll do this all day

he squints eyes tight shut fingers still over keys
trying
to
remember
the
words
he thought on waking
or just
from seconds ago

them he rattles them out/eyes unfocused - 
or something close anyways
and of course they seem weak and his face shows displeasure

its quiet - this effort day task one
a challenge on waking
a discipline in the unwashed dressing gown 
dry night sweat itching
a determination born of coldfire breakdowns 
and drunken wasted time

he SAYS something and launches its small creation
into 
electronic ether

the cat passes by - sits back-to-him on the wide window sill
watching
the
silent street and birds in the red berry bush

he sips coffee - opens new tabs - closes new tabs
checks the time

sometimes i control his hands

sometimes

from Hospice Matters wordpress