Silent stagnant poverty pooled over

 

worn-out macadam smoothed by relentless

 

Feet, bowed at the corner shop entrance.

So far outside of real no need for constant visits the idea

Of ‘socialising’ grates so what is it to be living well?

Anything so disturbed becomes distinguished by habit

The unlovable in turns liveable aged by repetition, complacency

Repetition. And your right wrong aspect of what your told to write and feel: so now that dog 

You taught to love will turn to bite us back.

Greying at the edges another post everything day turns somnolent. 

But what about the soul’s report; the gathering of reproachful wonder often transcribed as bliss? The loving grace of an annoying off-spring that homely hatred nestled in the heart of the homunculus. You remember this more at the end; the middle part is blurred often lost to intoxicating grief.

We must believe in bliss or at least come to understand its legions as a goal. Forms of nobility: constant clatter : interrupted thoughts : insipid nostalgia masquerading as fear of death : your constant companions : old things

                                                Humbled hive jumble sale

     Processed cheese slices                    can’t remember anything good about dad?

                                    Old photographs of school days with you not in them

Flash back to idiots that rendered you speechless over and over again

 

                                                                        Giving up giving in just about ready

Giddy on pharmaceutical serotonin

No there is no time for that

Never has there ever been any time for

That

Because we are mad, because we have been made mad

It is now common for us to hurry through the days

Achieving nothing but spending every molecule on waste matter

Inside a bright shiny cave my laptop gently melts into a substance like liquid mercury

Dripping vertical lanes of luminous ichor

Rotating 360 degrees the birds and butterflies and bees

Tended well to pick the bones clean

His skeleton resting in repose an almost grin is grimaced from the teeth

Fine angular jaw bone burial sump

 

Well socked a soaking up then sliding round

Through hoops and loops to dollop down

Right there; slump in front you roll your eyes

Your legacy was never clean or acted out

But divided into gain so many

Crummy rooms, hallways, shared kitchens are your stock

Dust covered mannequins shuffle to life the listless dead air of 

An inner-city blank holiday a sigh draws dry toast into a death roll

A last rattle before connecting trains lope off  to outer suburbs of 

Further heavy minds. 

 

Meanwhile she continues to hoover. 

The discarded buggy and the broken swing

England is so much faded plastic now

The once bright sheen of future prospects burnt out myopic dystopia

Of fried eggs scratch cards bad skin bloated corpuscles ground up

Lips and arseholes on every corner dragging a shitting dog by the neck is a freedom that must be preserved against invading hordes that would seek to do us down to erode this majestic life of Albion preserved in aspic.

 

In empty low-level bungalows

 

A wardrobe of meagre keep sakes

 

A porcelain Labrador

 

The smell of stagnation

 

Once communal garden now over-grown, cans and carrier bags, long grass browning and burnt

 

Municipal play areas turn into a dog shit zone

 

Magnificent melting eye balls

Shovel food nervously into mouth

Big dumb droopy grin

Happy to be out socializing again

Loving your friends and their cute dogs

Just a couple of pints

But I want a million pints so I can collapse into oblivion

That’s what I desire

One of those knackered fifty something guys that walk with slow methodical defiance

Arms out to the side; a studied pace, you’re not hurrying me sunshine all frosted with a passive aggressive menace. That dog trumps it all.\\\\\\