FRIDGE OF DIPS

in the lurid 

& binocular land

old paranoia 

grows lucid as owls

& 

our skein of civilisation
is tangled

like a rat king

painted flatly

on cheap veneer

&

an 

awful & deliberate

awareness deficit

cosplays a second coming
in

the

street theatre of the dead

& 

freedom 

is a buttery illusion

reaching
all the long way

from the biscuit tin
to the fridge of dips

COBWEB ELBOWS

i worry
that memories
may degrade
with each needy use

like a favourite jumper

already skeined thin

at its cobweb elbows

& i worry i dont 

husband them enough

like maybe

i should be

~

but still

the fallen garden apples

gone sweet with rot 

& all the flies there

conjure crystal 

childhood moments

of paddington ringer t's

& moccasin slippers

gone slippy & shiny underneath

& still 

the supermarket shower gel

of jungle & sport & sage 

mirrors those mornings long ago

when things

were different

enough to count