CARDIA, A TUMBLE THOUGHT

&
heart
pounding

at
nothing
cos

its

morning
again

~

no midnight zen survives 

in the rude 7am

where the ghosts of cigarettes howl

& coffee is coffee & again

LEAVES OF SPAM

wet meat plants

that grow in the dark

with the moon shining

on our leaves of spam

well what with 

the sun & the people

being the way they are & all

we count our lucky stars

when the clouds blown gossamer thin

~

& no one knows

what happens
every 

half-arsed 

cranberry night

when all our eyes are shut like clams

but it never stops 

the mornings embrasure gaping

HONEY ROASTED

& i do this here in the mornings
log in / clock in / report for duty
& trawl my notes
& my mind
& my memories 

& hiccupping intention

& the stumbling dance is on
in this early buffet 

of whimsy & effort

& needy blim of creation

till the washing machine
sings its electric finishing tune
& i get into the cheap cuts

of the buffering day
sliced thin but honey roasted

MORNING MADRIGAL

the 

autumn morning sun 

like

by an artists marker

highlights whitely 

the rounded plastic

of 

all the waiting bins 

& the cut-out shape of crows

tolerate our machine parade

from the slanted ridge tiles

of the bungalows

across the way 

OFFCUT POSEY No 10

the absolute morning of the workplace

the medieval rack of it -

its keys & cups 

& trucks & cogs
corralled just so

bright but dull too 

& loaded with overthought precision

only just this side of chaos

yes even the dust -

especially the dust 

~

its too much world
&
pooh sticks race
under the trouble bridge
in 

a 

pink floyd of the mind

THE QUIET TENNIS BALL & THE DERELICT SWINGS

see how quietly
the tennis ball sits

in the fringe
of the lawn
this morning

~

a tier of sadness

arrives 

on the car park air

as you swing wide the door

& another 

washes over you

from the derelict swings

like layers of silt

home now & settling in 

PRESSURE ROSE

i have become age

& my head feels beetlejuice small

& i used to be a child

but i ate him

when the pressure rose

on a hair gel

bus stop

morning

HOSPITAL POP

furious & cold

black swan moments

simple as a singsong hello

simple as a clock on the wall

crash in
upend you

in the early morning wards
wonderful smell of toast

MORNING REPORT 108

a potted remix
of the past

humps my leg
every morning

before 

i even 

pissed

AUTUMNS DARK LID

in

the
morning parks
liminal hinter

the

golden merkin

of

dewy leaves

confer 

into light & colour

just about 

only just enough

strength to wrangle

wrestle & tangle

with the afternoons 

four o clock dark lid 

MORNING REPORT 103

furious
at
whateverthefuck
on
a
beautiful morning

i swallow it / cough it / spit it

& count sets of five
in math zen
on my fingers

~

& i force-accept 

the yellow-white sun

its indifferent majesty

& unheard scream

its warming jazz

& coincident hug

up there 

in the Great Black Hole

MORNING REPORT 102

 

hard morning 

comes gently

in 

an 

off-white 

scalloped bar of light

swelling 

where the curtains fail the ceiling 

SANDWICH FOR THE WIN

the chaos

the mindbend chaos

of 

a 

normal & nothing morning

its layers 

undo me

till brunch

NIGHT WATER POOLS

in the morning
the coffee is there
& then the garden is there

night water is pooling
on the all-weather chairs

& the cat
hes glowing godlike
on a sun drenched bench

~

& the birds all call out
from their soft cloisters
of greens & teal & red & blooms

& the shadows of the leaves 

& the spaces between

are painted in 

just right

TORPID INTERIM

they took it all apart

& 

put it back together 

in the night

while we slept 

~

but no ones 

delivered

my new lines

so i work on emptying my mug

feeling

tightly interfretted 

in the torpid interim

as the morning 

climbs up itself

to a sandwich lunch

HELLO WORLD

when every morning

i go to the window

& i draw the curtains

& i rest my hands on the sill

& i see the houses there

& their cars calmly grazing

i look it all in its glass eyes

& say

hello world

the lack of applause
always disappoints

DIFFERENT DRUMMINGS

walking up our street

theres a woman
at sunrise

out loud saying 

a good morning
to the small people

i assume behind 

the low garden walls

that i cannot see

~

& watching 
i am listening

to my own dawn chorus

of cosmic country

no one else can hear

BLEED THRU THE CRACKS

i keep doing
& if i do hard enough

& dont look
into the morning mirror

then i might
bleed thru the cracks

& stain the stage
& make them see

after the curtains are down

& the lights are up

what it looks like

to keep doing

& the true-crime 

look of it all

OBSOLESCENCE FURY

its wednesday
or thursday
or friday
or whatever

& tho acid blemished 

in the threadbare patches

with pink shapes of sun
morning is a folded stack
of over-washed towels
gone no colour at all

& up in the tv skies
bent wires tremble
with obsolescence fury
in the wifi wind

& the sentinel shingles

& the bitten pointing

who have seen it all

CLOCK IS A MONOGRAM

a mad sprint of abandon
down the bullet train aisle

chasing the quicksilver
in the hard colour fade

& still

its always the morning
of a funeral afternoon

in the go-fast
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