ITS IN THE DOING OF IT, IF ITS ANYWHERE PT1

its an
honest jam

if you get on with it

in the morning solitude

coffees by the bakers dozen

or in a kitchen canyon

you carved out the mountains

in the landscape of the day

empties a clutter clog

on the ceramic cistern

blood in your tears

tears in your stool

& squeeze mournful on the player

ROBOT DOBBIN

some days
my own thoughts
bore me to tears

or would

if my parched organs

could spare the saline

~

& stuff i say sometimes

jesus christ its so freaking

default & vanilla & nothing

its like my intellect

was 3d printed yesterday

~

so here i am

a retired robot dobbin

wondering about trepanning

& the myth of good sleep

 

THE POSSIBILITY OF TEARS

i hear the song in my head

so i find the song

& i play the song

& i dont cry to the song
so much as
explore
the possibility of tears
as my skin goes chill all over

& i journey then
inside & out
visiting the happened

the real
the not

& the could be

SCENE

weep into
your cold
dishwater

theres rain up the kitchen window

so the postman
wont see

~

& all the difficult forms

& the liars on the phone

lay their traps of madness

sunshine & love

cant see

SNOT FREE & SINGULAR

 

hollywood tears
are heavier than ours

snot free
&
singular

seemingly felled by gravity

instead of human grief

photo - TV Forest #1 from the Dagenham Archive

THE STRANGE PHILANTHROPY OF AUTOPSY FUN

 

tattoo

blood & sweat & tears

 on my
holy moly
perineum

 laser etch

redux commandments

up my ladder ribs

 & 

ink a yellow hazmat wrangle

over my heart bone

    to

    give 

 the autopsy dr

 a break from the drek

 in their draining lab

 & the jewel

 in the crown ?

 

a toe tag tickle-tattooed

on the sole of one dry foot

    that

   simply

    says

   Tyrell

Photo by Spencer on Unsplash

HEMINGWAY STOLE MY TB HANDKERCHIEF

i pond skate over
those clever depths
that scare me rigid
from 
the 
bolo loaded bookshelves
their ferret rounds
ready 
in paperback disguise


~


the prose like glass
the full metal jackets
& 
the cut of
a 
between-the-wars
wilkinson sword

vonnegut
at least
gives me a shoulder
before
the
bayonets
at
dawn


~


theres no comparison there
theres no inspiration there

that
wont
make
me
bleed
struggle pup tears

& hemingway
he stole my tb handkerchief


~

tears-
their own catalyst 

ferment
in the ennui petri dish

of
the
uks
daily no way

from amazon.com

THE COST OF EXPRESSION IS INCALCULABLE

i hear
a lot
about
people
saying
to
artists

is your art free ?

when dude think about it
its not even free to DO

~

stones leak
blood tears
mix with
cold sweats
warm salt

they run together 
like rust in rain
make a pattern 
like the mekong delta

on
my
fourteen acres 
of 
tsunami debris

rolled up and forced
into 
faulty thin skin -

       pretends to be 
        Lizard  Tough

     in a pigs ear !

and
a
never-white-again
supermarket vest

pic from ethos3.com

SUPERIOR TEARS

i metaphorically plant my efforts
in metaphorical window boxes

not orphaned - its tough love

i 
water 
them 
from liberals 
hand-wringing 
weeping jags

~

they 
struggle
in
the
bad clay

cook in the days sunbake

silhouetted by nights 
hunted harvest moon

pensive 
for
superior tears
to 
accelerate 
their
bloom and fruit 

from simplemost.com

END OF MY TETHER

end of my tether !
end of my tether ?
assuming i have a tether
and if i do have a tether
i most likely made it myself
and bearing that in mind
then if i reached the end of my tether
then
well

words would be 
              shadows
and
i
would
be
              silence

white roses 

and tears

from dudespaper.com

THE CHILDHOOD LANDS

i
remember
our
afternoon empire
of 
the park

an 
unfinished 
pot holed
shithole
of
blood
and
animal ignorance

our
ownership
sometimes
shattered
with
the
calamity of ambulance tears

its gates 
rusted open
then
one day gone

and another day
a great cement circle
was laid down the far end
for
no
reason
anyone
ever
knew

and there were places there
unzoned and feral

i would explore there
not allowed to be there
collecting stains

and i brim now
like a pot on a rolling boil
with an understanding
i cant put in words
for
the
me
of
me
then

always looking 
for famous five adventures
in the no mans land
of rubble 
carpet offcuts
and
burst paint tins

the adult throwaways
dirty landmarks
in
the
wild growth
of
pissy nettles
and
white
dog
shits

hoping for a wall
with a door
to
magic
and
mystery
and
escape

but even then i knew 
there was nothing like that
a n y w h e r e 

the biggest question
on the street was 
bikes ?
or on foot ?
and i wanted to be a spy
and i wanted to be a detective
and
hide behind cars
and
sneak thru alleys
so
i
did
alone and weird

kerb stones
concrete 
and tarmac
were my low down
world of worlds

and i would hang it out 
till the last second
before
rushing
breathless 
home 
for 
tea

spam and beans
and the pedos
on the bbc

from thetvroom.com

CSI MY JEANS ( A BLOCKTASM )

used  to  be
time     was
backintheday
i      would 
live and die 
in     jeans

my   uniform
and toolbelt
32    x   32

i  would map
out the last 
n i g h t  s
black  holes

in theirrips
and    their 
b  a r b e d
wire   tears

in theirdirt
in their mud 
and dawnsdew

in the chips
of paint and
c r a c k ed
h e a dlight
p l a s t ic

in theirsick
and    their
b  l  o  o d
bean   juice
andhorsehair
ontheirknees

with   c s i 
f o r e nsic
p r e cision

b e c a u se
it  was  the 
m o r n ings
when i didnt 
know   why i
was    there

it  was  the
the mornings
when i didnt 
know  what i 
was    doing

so  id throw 
myself  deep
intothenight
a  g  a  i n 
d istracting 
myself  into 
the    heart  
of  the  sun
indenimjeans

my   uniform
and toolbelt
32    x   32

from zenithdress.wordpress.com

BUS DRIVER DAVE

  he  
drank every night in the sailors riverside boozer
before everyone fell out
  he 
had a dry week every new year to prove he could
his beard going brown with cokes
  he 
built lighters out of bullets from the munitions dump
underneath his bed
  he 
drove a bus on the catholic school route 
looking up girls skirts 
  and
the last time i saw him
was the first time for ten years
  outside 
  terminal 
  ITU

  he 
didnt recognise me or meet my eyes
  as
  i 
dont look like Catweasle anymore
  and
  i
wasnt shitfaced
waving whisky in the air
  or 
trying to fight him 
on the sawdust floor

  and
his eyes were blinded
with
hospital 
tears

from pinterest.com

MEMORIES AT THE FRONT DOOR

the woman in mismatched sweats
stuffs 
the
phone book 
thru the door

( so slim now
  it
  will
  stay
  forever
  in 
  its 
  plastic coat )

i recognise her from the mall
15 
or 
20
years 
ago

we sold film tie-in plastic tat
and
flat-pack bedroom units

i remember her almost divorce
and
breast cancer scare

her hangovers and her tears

but
i
stay silent behind the front door
when i could have done anything

because

i cannot think of anything
for her
to
remember 
about me 

from justsomething.co phone boook portraits by alex querl

CAR LEAVING

her
tears
lit 
a
hot
fire
in my bellys balls
that
turn
to
ice and horror
as
she
drives
away
up the street

all will mean nothing again now
for
a
long
frozen
week

OF TWINKLEDULL

the shadows tears cast

look
like

the
dense
black
bricks
of sudden arguments
and
the
spiked anxious light
of
the 
cold cold 
danger
of
diecast mindfreeze
all 
twinkledull useless
on 
the 
greasy 
lino
of the deadhand nowhere kitchen
in
the
silent-bland and coffee-nervous
middle
of
a broken broken day