DAYTIME MUDS

the cornered rage

of campsite firelight

makes an old master

of our daytime mud

~

digging the mud

high street lobotomy

they buy time

six main courses

& lobotomy trifle

~

silicone births

ravenous ghosts

ante up

for the old rivers 

dried soul

THE REGULAR SWOPPING

aging
is

the regular swopping out

of supermarket brands

on 

the 

same high street corner

where that cub hut was
& the glue deaths were

in your 

extremes
of youth

OST OF THE MIND

the djs gone rogue 

hes looping common people

second hand prams

in the high street wind 

cul-de-sac kettles on

landline in the hall

~

its a soft afternoon 

of hard nostalgia

abnormal & silent & nothing

to the data scrapers ears

REMAINED STARTLINGLY QUAINT

in the
high street
opticians
i am processed

in a sterile cubicle
&
the woman behind the desk there
40 going on 60
whispers with an old school respect & tact

are you on benefits ?

& i am not amused
so much as interested
like being in a museum
or visiting a village
thats remained
startlingly quaint

MASK PARADE

 

the blank muzzles 

create an illusion

of agreement & purpose

fugly highstreet parade

looking almost uniform

faces covered

thank the gods

why didnt we do this

years

ago

?

from sciencefocus.com

CAGE & BONE POPS

what do
the treetops care

if our cement can look elegant as bone

when 
the light
is right


~


the cage is 5g

led & hd 

we are lounge wear canaries

urged out 
into 
the 
shuttered high street coal mine

after the porn bomb zoom

from bloomberg.com

7 PM POPS

7PM

eating from a bag of chips
in a hillside graveyard

7pm

the dirt piled under the turf
creeps
up
the
ivy held walls

theres crumble cracks here
in turrets of pointed cement

and green has collected 
in the flakes
in the corners
of the iron gates

their seams thick and rounded
with a hundred weatherproof coats 

and i find a shallow step 
to sit on
to stretch on

awkward like i fell there

in the 1898 & 1924
headstone shadows
of 
a 
vacant church halls 
yellow window squares



SECRET

the high street is spread
like a map 
below me

and i feel like a secret

up high
eating alone

on ground fat
with the dead



FOXES

and i feel like
an invisible feeder
a retired predator
separate forever 

from the hatchback turnover

and i feel like this
to the baby wails
that night foxes cry
like angels who fell

and cannot climb home



LANDFILL

theyre somewhere off away behind me
on landfill that rolls 
under grass like felt

like muscles under cotton

off
into
the scrappy marsh of quicksands
and
twisting creeks of stranded boats

sat unnatural and stationary 
the colour of allotment sheds 

and dotted like beacons
are teenagers used up 

dirt bike 

skeletons

essex salt marsh from the air by terry whittaker 2020/vision/rex

UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS

its a 
strange kind 
of painful 
isnt it ?
to see 
yourself 
with 
unbearable lightness
d
o
w
n there
as if 
from 
the ceiling
and 
that face 
you live behind
Good Lord
My Days     
you think 
that 
Meat Mask 
is me ?

~

and 
theres that 
Mind Murder
drs calmly call
Social Anxiety
that 
ridiculous 
hyperawareness
that makes
all your
clothes
all wrong
in the 
careless light 
Outside

that 
unbearable lightness 
of a
hot flush
sweat out 
on your 
first job 
bus ride
and
the wet palms 
in the 
newsagent
or in 
effing topman
cos you dont 
want anyone 
to know
which fizzy pop
or leather belt
you want
to buy
cos theyll
judge your need
and theyll
judge your choice
and
its an 
endless examination
and re-eaxmination
and
its panic 
in the 
canteen queue 
holding a
plastic tray
like you
stole an
afterbirth
thinking
how to . . .
and then . . .
but how . . .
and then hunger 
takes its 
back seat
under a 
tightened belt
(from effing
 topman)

its like 
wearing 
ducks feet
in a 
rush hour 
high street
with a 
microscope 
looking thru 
a telescope
in
your
unbearably light 
ptsd mind

image from youtube

SHORT ODES TO OUR LITTLE BRUMM

1. KB04

stretched out
in
the
nights
crazy
soup
i dreamt Star Wars 

light and dark / desert and snow

our 950 Corsa
was
a
droid
rolling round forests
over steel gantries

secret essential blueprints
hidden
on
the
stereo dial
next
to
Radio 2


2. PASSENGER SEAT

i 
sketch out Spain / dreams
and
the PM high street -

  shop lights nuking the dusk
  9 to 5ers
  buying
  supper
  car keys in their phone fists

while
i
sit
in
little brumms 
pushed back
passenger seat

waiting for her train
to
roll
in


3. SENTINEL

out the front

2 tires on the kerb

he
waits
all
night
for 6 AM

like a favourite pair of denims
over
the
back
of
a
chair


4. RESALE

his 
paints peeling
no 
resale value
boot 
full with 100 shopping bags

and
one of the family


5. ROUNDABOUT TOWN

and
she will drive 
little brum
over 1000 mini-roudabouts
to
get
home
for
supper
and
the night

FUCKTOWN HIGHSTREET DUSK

its warm

no chill yet

the
summer
and
the
days late sun
cling
on

bbq takeaway smells
mix
with
the low fine estuary mist
and
the
heat haze from exhaust of parking hatchbacks
is
warm
on my shins

the empty indian resturant
is
scraped bare inside
pillaged 
behind
blacked-out
windows
and
i wonder if memories cling to the naked pillars
of
drunk dance steps
and
cheap
corporate do's

an empty plot
with
a
half rebuilt house
now
abandoned 
layers
new decay 
on 
the 
old

a man with smudged green tattoos
under
thick white arm hair
calls out 
HEY ! 
to a younger man in shorts at the cash-point
while 
still
50 yards away

his face is like a clenched first
he says 
EIGHT QUID
and
indicates
his
white
shoes

the cash-point man
looks like he'd
rather
not
have
been 
seen

i
look
at the shoes
supermarket loafers with afterthought tassels

eight quid 
is 
about 
right

 from metrouk

DAYLIGHT SAVING

when 
the
clocks change

dark comes earlier 
to the 
high street
and

the
5 pm
people
cash up
and 
scuttle home
luminous
grey dusk 
on
their
heels

'its
still noon
when the sun is at its highest'
i
say
to
anyone

twice
a
year