The bench by the exit at Tesco piled high with unwanted books
mostly shit but today a wall of faux leather bound black volumes
that threaten to buckle it. On closer inspection they are a full set of Encyclopaedia Britannia and at once I feel sad and nostalgic. Nobody wants these cumbersome volumes anymore. Now you can clarify disputed facts in seconds on phone. I pick up one of these unweildy volumes and flick at random. Precious knowledge once confined to the school library or well healed families that could afford the down payment. Diagrams, etchings and the occasional colour plate. That thistle logo on the spines all signify a long past era of slow learning less pressure more time to breath, perhaps.
WRITE ABOUT WHAT YOU KNOW
They say write about what you know
I choose death, but it could have easily
been life.
What do I know about death?
Is it the reason I’m writing this thing?
Can one know death?
Or is life just getting acquainted with
the idea of death?
What legacy is this
these
small waves
that lap at the edge of the bed
true crime confessionals ecstatic mornings
hurry past the sober sun rise.
Near a pagoda by a lake
bird noise from the bushes
iridescent despair slides under life’s gravity
unless it’s kept in check
chaos will reign
opportunist gulls are investment bankers
they inhabit the air with stucco violence
such alchemy such an assault
the pain strikes three
a black noise is hauled across the sky
we look up.
The banished king returns
each week a new pint of lager
watch the golden bubbles rise
billfolds spill luxury cheese
and onion at your feet resplendent
now that’s bleach for you.
Arrived too late for an unfixed heart
pulmonary in his prime slowed to
a thick trickle on stage hands
formed a cross looks upward
shavasana out through the window
each lateral gestation swipes out
for botanic shade the hothouse ghost
wheeled round demure one leather
had clasps a cane your empire
came this way fruiting delusion
out of book shop vibrations
the rarefied airs career poets
breath so well.
Carved faces no maybe book ends
evaporate make cordial balm
darkening rust crumbs from the table
a black dog grins human like
rough stems recoil from greenhouse
heat hovering moon isle seek
majestic biscuit sift billow roll
turn side extend
and release.
BURN SOME OLD BILLS
Lost it all to some I-cloud brunch
folk devil all twisted up from booze
mangled rotten insides stupendous fork in the road.
that will teach it to think
all sparkled up bruised ripe business
ripe for plucking
let’s go there
no here no there
call up everyone
smack the gin off peak
clean up wipe off
you’re done here
have a piece of paper
sunny day melatonin feast
strike shoes on peeling into winter.
VERY FEW KILLER WHALES HUNT LIKE THIS
“Make it magical”, for God’s sake!
Blood iodine reconfigure the rolled stone. It walks and talks. Free to squander everything from sheer lyrical delivery. Rub ointments over national grief light the litmus paper. Inspired by terrible muses’ dream talk so the day begins.
Hovering while drones wander about filming. What unimaginable reality could we inhabit somewhere else? Talking over diversions we slide laterally into bandit country. Sweating up the gravelled veldt; hoping the tyres will hold out.
It’s all talk of course unless it’s making money talk. Scratch the track of the owl bedridden tourniquets bloom upon new build efficiency. The hotels are fully booked. The grip tightens on the leash, dogs lurch at you every time you pass; suspicious and aggressive. Like the police at the roadblock, don’t run anybody over the say, benevolent gun fingers' twitching.
