A dead nail a totally dead nail

Nailed dead totally 

 

Unaccustomed to the cord tightening; to the belt lashings

Spooky make up minions floating in nylon cobwebs

Inchoate hunger patterns hang over limbless tree dream orange scrub

Take a page before the voices are lost

Our loss

 

Choral elision overlaps harmonics disturbed sleep rupture synapse 

Waffle over omit to wound light break nebulous reflex coffee attire romp resound to sea shore trance 

Breakers flounder storage hangout. Unending imagination suppression life choice virtue face platform exchange. Memo in soft graylight aloft fragile edifice dashed on brain rot resolve. Tedium tremens natch tangled oxygen tentacle pen raw with essential to wit murderous owl’s volley. Water marshes Essex freeway personhood synthetic grief corridor impotent messenger bird recall.

Face towards the grip misdirection trunk knuckle up sloppy switching scratch cards Pleades trinket mucous unloved star glistens. Weeping rust signage scooter mist wings flapping squally luxury words repeat order words. Control lines order ingress run off knees nettle grab the inter-order grease. Chime blue berry overflow peeling paint obstruct swollen suburban glands sports wrought lager gene. 

Head washed up diagnostic obliterate pasta. Fire rehearsing unbecoming nuclear legs head wound agenda. That the corners of the mouth afford nourish pocket wiped memory bent out of shape chip shop wizard comb lemon drizzle porno stash foot prints avocado face time aubergine the other way.

            

 

Life Skills Recovery Worker

 

Hands in trance formation; assume skills are  frozen out at distance of hermetic memory,

 Egregore of cloud-based disruptor sim scam.

Now what? What the fuck now. Memory grift, skin dance, what? 

Read like a prisoner 

Papers float in through the flap; it’s meal time. 

Hunger strike on the wing. 

bind hands submerge them deep in brain swelling hostage classical booze wound again. Tethered  monolith walled garden chains over cooked slabs; courage in the face of religious persecution. to read all 

everything 

at once the face says. 

Heart flutter death knell but it doesn’t change the immediacy of interaction.  still dancing around this swerving around that discreet wounds covered over with leaves.

 “What’s this, a prophylactic wrapper!”[1]

Julian of Norwich  divine  drive backwards strength to carry against winds of rubbish, waste destruction,

God allowed me to look at himself for a considerable time, and, as far as my simple mind could take it, to dwell on all that I had seen, and its significance.[2]

Hand wash back cadence; articulated slack line overtly so. Smoothed over bi-lingual remedies frigid conclusions keep harm from Armageddon.

---

[1] Seinfeld, Season 5, Episode 10, ‘The Cigar Store Indian’

[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, trans: Clifton Wolfers, (Penguin, London, 1966) p.83

 

 

Adrift across the dusk light, at the smoking end of summer. The air is hollowed out, briny, blowing across the palm like so much glitter. Midsummer distilled into a nothingness where even the car drove itself. Sweet harmonics fill these ears. All that is left is blood pressure inside the skull bone. On the corner, domestic and traditional ghost’s hang together inside shrouds of cherry flavoured vapour; their advice is holistic.   

Coming in closer, holding to the sill of crushed shells and random foliage sharp against bare feet. The old place in sight now; perspiring in stillness. Heat haze on the road hums with carrion and a carpet shade of pine cones, pressed under a seedy musk of toilet tissue florets and furtive debris. Tidal worn out faces, peer defeated through laminate windows edged open to ventilate hot nylon atmospheres. Taking hold of the footings we scramble over sandy clays bright orange with jagged shards of flint. Do we know the host that brought us here; what value is it to be worth something to somewhere? 

Out over the ghost town road jab the accelerator to outrun delivery vans. Value and quality collaborate in steel, sweat and then some. The place is artificial now; a memory museum. Old municipal buildings are now castles; rubble islands the nation’s glands; pulse entrails force open networks of sealed errors. 

Past the deserted bus shelters where long slow drones pulse; marrows grow to interminable widths in semi silent greenhouses burdened by hogweed and gamma rays. A voice surfaces through the hovering dust motes ascending into recognisable speech patterns like a jellyfish illuminating from the deep.  The sound of ceremonial gongs; a magpie clacking at the air behind the tree outside my window, “ Do yourself a favour boy, stop lying down all the time things get tough, get up and run, live like your life depended on it, go now, faster!”

 

 

 

 

 

The Krux

(dedicated to D.I.X. everywhere and forever) 

Moving through black landings flicker light possibilities, zoetrope reflection osmosis real fulgent battle worn croak uphill to vent to want. Gather multiples all reflective suggest onyx hope reject played and won on this stage here now, this grassy knoll. 

Magic and resistance great pleasure born supplicant notice weary destroyed by cynic flex park-o-meter check basalt weight conjoined pair to incubate stems.  Heart’s weight mortgaged Nintendo horoscope deals in strip mined official stupa plead gallant in striped plain.

New fixity gammon rind flotsam of The Gyre pulps up from below; grief bombing meteor showers of plastic saturated Aurelia amrita glug against the hot tides. Worm hole shaken foxes blubber wave fat bole increasing levity stuck inside holographic seam of crust mantle.

 Exhuming Autumn

Today in a doze

Floating backwards through streets stained in grey drizzled memory,

Splash in puddles of tranquillised silence that merge in the glow light of refrigerated shadows

Where sinister snacks audition for minor parts in today’s feature.

A light misting of rain cools the TV frost

I am not here or there but defy this accuracy by pressure of intensity

Scattered rooms across the east and west of the city contain stashes of memories

Like everyone.

Sash windows panic,

In an old antiques centre the fresh clatter of mossy brown furniture casts damp patches over fried

breakfast in Turnpike Lane; cats thud between rooms, take your best shot

Old crusted heels

But miss

Rubbed hard, summoned into action once more.

 

Good Cheese Dishes.

First comes one then

There are two,

More ultimately will find their way in.

Flung centrifugal against Time; marked by hailstones like golf balls crashing through pine forest fronds herald an encomium that calls the beaten to name.

Island of cargo containers rearranges itself according to weather conditions daily, coming in and out of view; shimmering as it melts over the axis edge. Stopping to hold a conch to the ear; on breathing out a spray of cabbage whites. Flush with pockets bare and sockets sucked where eyes once were. We are worth a fortune.

Away from the waspish lagoon we simmer inland. There is turbulence in the heart of this exotic and bewildering air space; travelling around as if permanently looking out from within at people existing elsewhere. The shingle rolls in folded tributaries to meet the sea. Crystal placid memory haze. In silhouette there you are, collecting shells.

Footprints crunch to flint lined ossuary; a pine dampened furze fizzled burnt out thoughts. 

Carpet of pine cones soiled tissues litter; a seedy furtive musk metres from the roadside; always in shade.

Void. Still. Nothing.   

Sink in suiceaside, disappear or collapse into the earth up to our necks. 

A curved arc of dorsal muscle cuts through perfectly rounding the swell; then disappears off again. 

Harrier hovers, flight line insight to radar station gold teeth clenched, graffiti “Go Home!”

Old and boring songs.

Tap tap tap drift light as dust summer cataclysm days hollow and riney blowing forwards like so much glitter. Midsummer distilled nothingness even the car is driving itself today.

Sweat harmonics come to these ears. All that is left of blood pressure skull bone flying westwards. Closer, hold still against the sill; crushed shells random foliage against bare feet. The old place in sight; holding breath now, perspiring in summer stillness. John Clare close at hand, footings to scramble soils sandy clays bright orange with jagged shards of flint installed to light the way. Do we know the host that brought us here; what value is it to be worth something to somewhere? Value and quality collaborate in steel, sweat and then some. The place is artificial now; a memory museum. Old municipal building now castles; rubble islands, the nation’s glands pulse entrails, networks of sealed errors. Calumny of increased bandwidths, long slow drones where semi silent pulses of voice surface occasionally from the hovering dust motes into actual recognisable speech patterns. Then take the train Brighton, you will be staying in the formerly bombed out section of the Metropole. Look there for clues; remnants of Thatcher’s Britain. “Please be my friend,” a voice beckons from the corridor like the twins from The Shining ; a glimpse and their gone. “Room service!!!!”

 

Musicians, daemons, gather round! 

47 years of crap underneath me, stacked like mount Everest, flowing into undulating vistas of hard encrusted shite. Spiralling off into the distance; forming valleys and canyons as far as the horizon. 

To summon the energy to clamber off this mound of brown is too great so here I sit on my throne of shit. Surveying the landscape with a mixture of pride and remorse. Everyone sits. Everyone shits.

Drizzle drazzle droozle dizzle. Dry liquid forms, corner of the mouth. It’s a hash pipe but we’re calling it a flute. They found it in the bushes. A mystery turd sits malevolently by the roundabout. A cluster of metallic blue shit fly’s shimmer across its surface each one never staying still for more than a second. I want to gag at the sight of it. Children  rush by narrowly avoiding catastrophe. In the shade under the tree line men wrestle on a blue plastic mat. Locked in positions; inaudibly grunting. Rustle buzz hum trains passing; the back and forth of the swings and on we go.