Silver ghosts

float in on the angry word

stumble rushing to inform the violence

 benevolent priest in funeral garb  

says 
ARE YOU JOKING?

FAT FINGERS FLAILING as the soil pours in

Just ignore

it 
will go away

that’s it now                    
                                         back her up right there. 

Find a parking space for those grinding gears 

                    please !  No more gnashing of teeth you brutes !

honestly  I would not advise you to take these but they might help

more slurping more nothing talk crouch and grunt intimacy displayed in large format

overtones , the whip and slap of sparring

slurp

smoke

pin your heart’s desire on great slab of NOTHING

well done now you’re learning, don’t worry it will all be over soon.

Close your eyes feel the mandalas on the breeze that’s right

Lets undo your tiny fragile tattooed hands while you mumble savage nothingness to your hearts desire

Today the world seems less real than yesterday, will this carry on tomorrow?

Thoughts brim over like the arriving light from a million year old star

tenderness and the barbarism of the moon

you fell away

out of my slippery grip

less than


pulling the tideways to bits

smashing

sending us all mad

smothering in your cold grey light

illuminating rituals

The floating people the mad dog man tense and confronting / giving fatherly advice to his young companion while rolling a joint one handed three lads tops off tattoos in the breeze those dogs are frankly terrifying / seriously unchained master / rotting engine debris hulks rusting / encouraging his dogs to fight each other brown tanned quite insane pit bulls or whatever uncontrollable / slow meander tame herons the boat cafe gateway  to Essex or Hertfordshire / discussion about free access to a well known festival and the smell of bacco / a  young orthodox Jew with wisps of fatial hair flying a remote controlled plane that crashes into a flock of pigeons on the cricket pitch oh the absurdity oh the rapidity of events unfolding while bees buzz under a white blossom canopy / a gypsy encampment by the side of the industrial estate  / the sandwich man on his rounds towing a great big cart of carbs make way or get mown down / dog walkers carrying hot bags of shit / belligerent geese / the accumulation of plastic crud by the sluice gate / the feeling of early summer lightness and now a three legged Rottweiler called Rocky

There goes that old man with shoulders hunched, i've seen him before, faded clothes in grey black and brown, thick long straggly matted hair down to the shoulders , slowly , methodically climbing the steep brushy slope next to the park above the canal. With his head  down he scans around his feet, battered hold all style bag over his shoulder, stuffed with stuff. A hoarder, lost and forgotten.  The trees form a canopy over the  mud track that snakes upwards to the ridge, beyond which he must live, only you can't see over the top, we're just guessing this is where he stockpiles his treasure. Probably doesn't stray very far from this small area.  Beyond the top is a small parade of shops with a launderette and a store for basic items, milk, tinned food and the like. No need to go further afield, maybe for years. Not an unhappy sight, just lonely, disconnected, out of step, forgotten but perhaps likes it this way. This solitary backwoodsman of Springfield Park, hiding in plain sight acting out his morning routine in the morning sun that falls short over the bank of trees where the path winds over the ridge. Taking his time looking around, inhabiting his space, largely unnoticed by the comings and goings on the path below where runners, cyclists and dog walkers compete for space. This guy is camouflaged, you have to look hard to even notice him, his movements so small and slow, like rubbish slowly flapping in the breeze.

Questing for the solar lodge, the white men are mad, extraordinary

Our saviour you have too much too loose of course now

It is the time of the starving freak out moon

Stammered all his life she cried, overbearing grossness like a thistle patch

Water collected in a butt over a lime fired winter

Don’t leave us behind.

Brambles, thorns and the briar patch. Yellowhammer, pied wagtail and goldfinch surrendered to the shadow of the lunar, eclipsed by necessity of course.

Of gorse and bulrush and horse fly, flayed, withering, paint peeling, that feeling of closeness, lights around the bay

A dray horse a dragonfly and a damsel in distress

Please turn out the lights when you leave.

Burn stronger now, honeysuckle, red rose and smell of camphor

Summer storm, electrically charged moisture, micro density, low pressure, sea swells.

Twines, galleons, the forgotten

Branch line, load stone, provincial treasure hunt, moss covered caravan

Toadstool tenements, broken artefacts rusting for decades not moving

These are your friends; this is where your power lies.

M.R.I

star faced teeth in darkness

"once we paid off the mortgage we stopped selling
booze to the drunks, they'd come in at ten on the dot, practically throw they're money at me they were shaking so bad"

warm glowing excrescence, unperturbed in over our heads
pliant in amber surrounded by new buds, blow bubbles at the cortex the levantine advises, distracts from the sound of the magnets.

Field gradients advance the knotty flame that asks the opprobrium of the fat and fluid response
data achieved by our binding to this endeavour

Granite Redoubt  

Waiting for the gasman
the centrifugal force of parenting, the wow and flutter
stars forlorn in the waxy ochre of the crescents gases
underground fissures open up to receive the washed away poor
funnelled under on plumes of brown scum
star analytical, don't think about grace, dominate with effervescent energy, a clap of the hands can puncture the intolerable claustrophobia in the room caused by your pain body crowding out everything
broken metrics, cornerstone integral to the journey south via airport, yes we are flying this time, it should be by definition a holiday of course.  Look down at myths below then clay, shale and gasses possibly. Gulls wheel over the dump , to the north east Forest Island where it is the tradition to briefly embalm courtesans before flinging them without ceremony into the brine.