TRANSACTIONAL DISSOCIATIVE REDUX
This could be the least significant day of your life.
Build a shuttered cave of clutter;
Dwell inside a freeze frame
Look up, look out from inside a tree hollow
we know now things could have been different.
“You can’t always get what you want.”
Internal walls twist and dissolve.
Homely twitching
At a favourite spot, your monogram your coat of arms.
The tragic rivalry of brothers.
Staying clean; those actions that bring us closer to our dreams ending.
The tattooed hearts that yearn for us.
Delusional thought as self-referential over-interpretations of actual sensory
perceptions.
A pair of Grey Wagtails work their way up stream.
Cold water freezes the hand implant.
This is manifestly not Saigon.
metallic hues of the river flow deep into autumn green, eels of black submerged fronds twist against the current.
Nettles mind the way reaching outwards to stroke a sting.
small talk reveals a draft
notice the ripening cloud scape
in the page layout.
The money has returned to the west end.
sides of solid ripple into humble sound.
They remain resolute.
Ear wax vegetation seeds under a full moon’s glare.
Defend your right to fresh fruit and vegetables.
Live the city under-scape, live in overflow pipes, drag a sofa inside shore up for safety.
Old shop fronts hide a multitude of life times; and oh, shit you left the bath running.
routines run down in houses, keep your hands off my sordid milk.
The routine shove; a hidden children’s playground encased in knotweed and ivy, inaccessible unused forgotten fun.
Clothes in an abandoned doorway.
London, central, abstract.
Faded cans among the nettles old lottery and scratch cards bleached white.
Duck into an alcove heavy with piss; a shit explosion smeared up the wall.
Furtive guilt you’ve got too much you’ve spent too much.
Inauthentic no sex.
A Red Admiral lands on your hand briefly before it is blown away.
pavement screaming objective
Delusional thought as self-referential over-interpretations of actual sensory
perceptions.
Lew Welch disappeared, Weldon Kees walk out; Hart Crane jumped ship.
Come the trolley men with rheumy eyes of wax
clinging to life clutching a cigarette; the family rally round.
There is still no hope!
Is there still no hope?
Launch a spear, the air rings with the rasp of rivets.
offerings on the ends of branches.
It has been decided you are wrong
& Operation Hummingbird.
will be dissolved.
Literally fucking the cannon.
Dissolute wi-fi by doing nothing everything
Started to happen.
flowing with insect’s above the surface
jolts the cold metal.
experience doubled.
More a retreat mossy sun mist adrift, my little furry friend.
Genus loci.
fancy bees saunter
Soaked in humility.
Get on the over-ground.
The smell of quick lime sausage and potato pie.
Wake with a jolt. It’s not time yet.
You.
have expired your usefulness.
Don’t be embarrassed for wanting a good life.
Drum solo.
centenary of the world’s most vibrant horror society
Welcomes you to oak panelled bucolic revere.
Waste deep pushing back against the tide against the
Sunk. Orange and blue flames flick under the door
Sexton’s eyes follow the room sparkling against the clash of
Cutlery.
morning comes heavy and immobile.
Dust motes, zombies; invincible heroes.
that refuse to die.
come protect us
from this blank inspiration fashion a lie.
at night our rooms grow wild
Untended.
Throw back
Violent breath
In towards the ‘whole earth’.
that unbelievably gross photograph of the Earth
Lace maker at post
Moths asleep in the hall.
here, still sifting
Old clothes are all that talk.
each intake of breath.
each morning ritual
can be attained by these words
Intervention with the blood valve
against a crumbling tower.
every disturbance every clamour of metal against metal.
solitude as a powerful muse.
live in the head
life postponed for now
on hold.
