They say “Corridor your plans for spring years.
Note the leaves trying hard to lie
low like your bare back on cut grass.
Keep carefully organised by filing away your hands.
Trust the structure, it knows what to do,
never stop blotting ink.”

Scrub your face, skin blue ink.
Morning threatens fall into years
as early dust begins to settle. To always do
the same is a pensioned lie.
Find out if those hands
will clear the mirror – tear the light – grow the grass.

Stop qualifying. Seize mouths, grass
on those naive enough to think that digital ink
would destroy it all. Have them put up their hands.
Regret descends, the span of light years,
when you keep giving yourself the lie.
Whatever the future, if it’s different it will do.

Not a trick – think then do
the thing. Drink the dry grass
of the newest summer lie
to make it memorable and permanent. Ink
in myths of recent fears,
to touch the time which crawls through Air’s hands.

Your numbers on sheet/screen are underhand,
“We cannot be seen to be pressing undo.”
Measure millenia brick-by-day-by-year

but gorgeous thoughts. Have no alibi –
never keep it all “in-hand”.
The rooms in that house to come are invisible ink,
will reveal themselves as we don’t and do,
magical like unmisting glass.
There will be years.

Now is not the time for the long lie or the “I do”.
Wires, tendril hands, are optic grass
Which run – down fingers – as ink – as warmest tears.


Wit, Weather and Grace

Realise I haven’t brushed my teeth in
maybe three days
the slime around the edges
of the gums is hardening into
a little shield against which
the water clanks. What worth
in everything from before?
It was not somnolent I’m sure – years
that were a constant change,
that were a constant
struggling in a gale against some image of
uptown girl
in contrast with  “marry me marry me”
on slate floor, the one which scratched easily.
Still in search of the painting
one I shamefully
tried panting into your breath at the end of each day,
rain water, heaving smoke,
clawing at melting dresses in receding air
always almost
but a bright brilliant never

enacted now in minutes which are not of the same type.
Now there are minutes not of the same type.

A voice grins out of the reflection
translating the grammar of the lonely wet mirror melody,
blue underneath, above and in eye holes
(volume just high enough)
a shimmering guide, an outstretched nail in
quiet light:
evidence suggests we know enough already,
know enough to inhale whiskied cells
and ask only where the next meal will be,
whether or not there is a home here
that will grow granite roots unknown cultures,
be able to explain floating in a sea
at the edge of the eye, yawning
then yearning then bursting on the tips
of each oncoming wave, to drown
the life to come with nectar tomorrow,
dipping brushes into ambrosia making the
symmetry neutral helping shape the foreground,
getting as close as possible in hue
to the handmade white light,
to the shock point
not of no return but eternal recurrence, joy of
misery, soft tornado spiral patterns, again again
again, like a wire frayed and still, still fraying
possibly golden growing off of petty funerals.

Don’t try to make any mistakes can’t
really call it what it is yet – but
ask genuinely “why not?”
Tell even those to whom you would rather not speak:

“Spend your time folding flowers
in the coming months now
spend your time repairing
tying veins together
enjoy the time you spend
months in coming, your
tying now the repairing
in together spend
veins folding in
coming time after
months together now
in flowers enjoy
repairing spend
the time golden
after repairing
growing veins
time folding
the coming now
tying together all
it is and was
it is
and was
all all only
wit, weather and grace.”

Early On

Sometime you’re selected
to make a mythology.
After trying too hard
for not long enough
you develop a coherent
image, pattern, flavour,
the destructive metaphor,
the unifying theme,
a word or two sung,
often by twenty thousand of these newly fluttering people,

in the same tone with
the same look at each
other. Floating chandelier eyes.

Early on it is all
discovered separately, like
the first time you found

that author;
either side of foot-thick glass
with not a top and not a bottom
but layers receding apace.
Glancing amazed through clear atoms –
Look! The reactions are the same!
Carefully. You want to smile
and make sure you don’t
say it all
out of sync.

Later, you learn all the words by rote
and have lost the desire
to fit your mouth around
the syllables. Someone
or something
turns it into a vapid fable or
a dream you never had. And
your single hopeless wonder is
that you’ll ever be amazed again.


Sometimes donations are
made of plasma
in the blood. Without understanding
it is a liquid negative for the cells stringing together
in a cradle
intricate, like
the light from the front room
through glass to outside where
on her face
she repeated the
lines about the
disappearing boy.
A paramedic stare
told off that
adolescent lust of
yours. It was one of the first times you
wanted to be held.

Thickening, yellowing,
behind coloured circles.
Autumn is always a reel of film.
The last time you had thought
without the chain reaction backwards?
It starts you on the old
internal bleeding
for a second or two
in a doorway – and you were weak already
maybe two pints weak
blood/beer –
back of dirty blonde hair as sat down, sticking
and pulling musthavebeen painfully off the dust brick wall,
well it must have been painful
clarity ten year old texture
that dual instance of loneliness old texture
isn’t lost and molten, but seems like an action
you made moments ago, despite

all those cell divisions.
Veins start to spiral out around a new heart.
But, even so, there is a spot  or two.
There is a still red spot     d    or two.


two hands clawing at your
internal organs, apparently
all it takes is
magnificent desire, an
elongated look
reminds you of
inevitable up,
now ridiculous those
hateful glances
in the street.

Wonder that
your heart wasn’t
pantomiming its delicate little way
through dead-sensible-realism
into a space off-stage where supporting
beams laced with eyes of ivy stared
into creaking fissures, spaces between stars,
getting off on the sound of
splinters forming
in darkness unrecognisable,
the raftered bats weren’t quite black and
disembodied lines of dialogue
were ink blots to
misinterpret, a collage
pasted in obsession to the
inside-left wall of the skull.

Wonder at difference and
latch limpet onto gestures.
The fall of their hair
as the raucous chaos
of the episode’s end
decays its way hours
afterwards sorry
sorry forgive me-
I didn’t know any better-
I didn’t know we weren’t
meant to understand one another

The Next Two Years

Whilst there is a lamp light –  
a table for one,

the couple next cover
seem to be four
or five years along,

I take solace in
the words of
persons dead.

Future is slipping
through the lens, panning
into terminals, white noise
contains every world.

Feel some dark, textured destruction.
Tonight – miles of miles away –
rip skin off the map.

Incredible illumination begins
gem-like: she, a thought, or a day
start to transcend. Perhaps
the next two years.