ON WONDERING WHERE THE GOALPOSTS EVEN ARE

it is 

hard to
carry on
with this writing game
when i could fall face down 

all over the floor instead

& cling to the edges of the rug
swamped by the useless raving

of all the trying things

& the iron & blue & dusty jewel

that is our constant moon 

is gradually backing away

& i cant blame them

~

& on the tightrope

over the panic net 

i am trying not to happen at all

& trying to be like bracken or moss

like deadfall or a railway sleeper

but i do get up again

for my meatsock needs

 

& i see a bird in the garden
all the colours of oil

& i get on with it again

with writing this down

ABOUT WRITERS RESIN

i sweated 

raw plasma

writing that

thick like syrup 

like spruce sap

hefty globules of it

my glucose of the soul

~

anyone else 

need to change

their writing shirt

when the morning writing is done ?

DEPENDS IF ITS MALNUTRITION, HYPERTHERMIA OR WONDERFUL LONGEVITY THAT GETS ME

on my deathbed 

will i regret
not worrying more 

about the gas bill ?

or will i 

be thankful 

that i wrote down -

'on my deathbed 

 will i regret 

 not worrying more 

 about the gas bill ?'

as

part

of

some

kind

of

effort

poem

thing

GUILT IS IN THE EYE OF THE SHAREHOLDER

'rolling just to keep on rolling

 i dont want to leave 

 this heaven so soon'

Mark Lanegan

this writing lark

  born of cliche fear

this posey parade

  coming out the chalk pit mire

its guilt-dumping
  in the pleasure cup

its dirty genesis seed
  seeking the right rot

so fling it chimp style
  at the observers glass

& name it something weepy 

  heavy with caveats

in the showground mirror of it all

FOR A MINUTE OR TWO

  after 

  many 

  years
i have found it possible

 s o m e t i m e s

if you watch for it

  to
actually
enjoy
writing

for a minute or two

  or  l o n g e r

if health holds out

& 

the 

knuckle bones read clear

in the divination milk

photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

MILK TRAIN SKY

jack stood in the surf
hands in a plastic bag
writing it down

would that he stood 

in the wifi wind
hands on the splashproof glass

might he burn iphones
ceremoniously
on the back yard bricks ?

an angel still falling
out the milk train sky

photo - Between tech & the Trees from the Dagenham Archive

THE TARGET & THE TARGET MISSED

writing
if it works out right

well
its like a mirror

a mirror with balls


~


i hear cars in the distance
&
i see the birds on the wing

i hear the diesel 
running the post van
& 
the day pigeons sing

im on the daybed
doing nothing -
my thing

BAD ORIGAMI CHRONICLES 1 - ANYONES GUESS

i am writing it

while i am writing it

after that

what ive done ?

anyones guess

bird song

&

wing beats

sound like

( i write )

sound like organic electronica

allowed of course

in my airspace

outdoors

WRITING POST

relegated crowded corners
empty of troubadours and friends

suck it
use it

yellow page overspill
damp with repurposed
crooners and enforcers

a tigress
on a tv morning sofa
calls time out
on the endless night

suck it
use it

receive a writing post
in the crapshoot fallout
of academy failure

standard issue black dog
humps at your leg

suck it
fake it

a coronation crown
of derelict farm mist
laid without ceremony
on your soft tissue fog bank

abandoned mental ward gloom
loams and foams
where heartwood should be

suck it
wear it

rattle your rockets
in your mfi silo
and 
launch a nasa challenge 
into the giddy
mouth-breather wind

and if you find it all 
a stagnant informant pool
with nets and mops and drags 
stacked in veteran formation

suck it
use it

and pin old dirt
like beacons like badges
on
the
new sores
rich vein
within

pic from geography.org.uk

BEFORE DAWN AND AFTER DUSK

its
good
before dawn

pills
coffee

vapour fills the room

and
music
and 
music
and

w r i t i n g

even if its only this
even if its never read

~

and
long
before
noon
i
fall
down

down
the
bricked up fenestration
of the longest day

hours last like 
chinese dynasties

down
into
the
plastic jesus
of
my
groinal chi

~

till after dusk
we batten the hatches down
we build a barricade of order
and
we
all
nest
together
like footnotes

and summon unconsciousness

please

the emotionmachine.com

THE DAYS WATCHING

the day 
all the days
i dont know what to do with them
theyre like tambourines 
in the snow

i got my colour tv 
and my dylan lps
i grind up fresh coffee beans
breathing new stainless 
electric vapour
up at the same ceiling whirls
where my grandfather
blew his yellow pipe smoke

the days well theyre like
one of those portraits 
in a gallery
or on a wood paneled wall 
in a horror films 
creaking mansion
where the painted eyes 
seem to follow you
which ever chair arm
you perch on dubious
and sipping at a drink

the days well theyre like 
i been flagged up
and all the teachers
and all the policeman know
and now theyre ready
to bear down
and bite at my ear
angry with agendas
angry with the writing
and the unmowed lawn

from wikipedia.org

WHA? POP TRILOGY

i got suckered 
into
reading news online

instead
of
Writing
the
world
Right

now i am FULL
and
have
to
go shit it all out quick

~

under a crossrail brexit junkie moon
i 
wonder - 

what of all those misc objects
from
my
past ?
all those plastic things
i 
touched and held ?

landfill

theyre in landfill baby

under a crossrail brexit junkie moon

~

it bothers me now

ill and sick and a shadow

that i am in no condition
to
tackle endtimes
or
weather the apocalypse 

like
i
always
thought
i
would

from www.thischristianjourney.com

NEXT DOORS DRILLING

HOME HAIKU

flopping about indoors

passing the cat in the hall

writing
when
i
can

from wired.com

THE PHONE RINGS

the phone rings
i
am
absorbed 
in some shit
in some small writing 
in the dream behind the structure 

and
i
am
surprised
when i make spoke-words understandable
into
the
living
plastic 

THE DUMPS AND THE GLORY

anyway
i hope i'm not boring you?
with 
my 
under-tales scribbled with a clean pen and nano claw
i
am
only
filing
reports
of
one
day
relevance - a baby opus raid
to
empty
stressed lobes of their tickles
and
to
show and tell of the dumps and glory
before
the
timed
exit

TS-2T "Push To Exit" Button with adjustable 2 to 45 second timer by Alarm Controls

DAY OFF MORNING EFFORTS

dull with hologram rest
but
fat
with
creative
need
i line up cigs and the coffee pot
scoffed
toast
crumbs
fall
to mix with scattered cat litter 
windows open - cold! to bust me awake
as 
the 
binmen 
rattle and huff the wheelies to the truck outside my window
my
shaking digits hover over notes and keys
but
my mind is crammed with dream images
of the factory terrorists
who blocked
the
roads
with piles of white sludge and laid out huge guns
i
did
my
best
to unwire the walls
hiding the screws and the broken cubes under mattresses
but
while
every one worked hard with the mudgaurds and masonry
and
families
tried
to escape
over window cleaners ladder
the
terrorists stole my boots
and
made
me
skip
like
a
schoolgirl inside a spinning firemans hose

BREAKDOWN RESCUE

sometimes i have no voice

or
i
do
but its bland
without vim or backfire or balls

time to READ!

read sweet fruit of great voices work
and
hear
simple lines sing perfect by the bookcase 
with a pot of bitter herbs
and steaming dirty favourite mug
the cat comes and goes across the ruffled rugs
like a spirit
a god
an omen
or a warning
smelling of fresh outdoors and shed musk
and
my 
wick is lit - a tiny motor revs a new quiet monologue 
a
VOICE
again

at last

DUTCH OVEN

brain stuffed with dumb silence

I wish

was teeming

with

sentence science

and the scheming warm fart of Werds.

my Dutch Oven of art;

empty.

attempts;

stale loaves lumpen

on

ignored pm market shelves.

the single alcohol tin I allow myself 10pm

is

Soft Sentient Lightning

flooding

cold insides

with chaotic jabbing sparks of orphan prose.

hands so tired now I try now

to record

the glow of late dough

bursting in the dark of bedroom-

nightstand notepad unreadable scribble in the sudden am.