THE RECREATION GROUNDS GREEN SCOOP

all my memories
will fit inside
a dog walkers morning 

~

& the recs green scoop

& its cistern sky

i gimp past

at tea time

well its there

isnt it

like death is

or a flat tyre

& JUST BREATHE

 

what strained-ego vanity

are these coded expositions ?

& writing that

is kinda like

thinking about thinking

gin & sawdust 

the jukebox rats 

whats their names ?

& milk trains 

& spur lines

& wild roses 

browned edges crumbling 

& the trees 

all the trees 

& just breathe

THE OVERTHINKING KNIVES

excessive dwelling 

over your spent calendar

feels like 

stabbing yourself

in your guts soft maze

~

the bread knife

for electrified memories 

of the yellow verbatim sun

& gadolinium skewers

for nowhere evenings

of coldbone whisky flights

HIS SILVER DISH

theres a man in the toilets
& hes not there about drugs
& he offers a folded towel
or a spray of something fragrant
& hes looking well turned out
& look heres his silver dish
& you HAVE to tip something

cos the man 

has a chair 

in the toilets 

for a job

& i have given these blokes
a loose button / a watch battery

a rough disc of pocket matter 

like those roman coins they find
with rough edges from the erosion

but never really on actual purpose

i dont know - 

i never expected 

there to be

a man there
& its difficult 

& its strange

being out there

in the world

even only needing 

a simple slash 

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