these multitudes, these circles, this pulse

 

 

in my neck these brazen multitudes

slow circles

an honest pulse

I am only lines this pulse

shepherding the traces of you your multitudes

drinking you from the stone your circles

widening with the wind your circles

ravaged like your pulse

wrapped in the arms of your multitudes

these multitudes these circles this pulse

"Picasso, darling"

I saw you sober once

and you were not

             less

or more

lonely by the roundel

talking to air

frustrated gasps

of breath

a point made

with the hand

your shoes

half off your feet

I asked you 

who your favourite poet was

you said

"Picasso, darling"

and danced along the platform

adjusting the edge

of your voice 

making the vowels 

sound thinner

I am a wall

a pivot 

line

I am a dropped

kerb

I've seen you fall

down the station steps

and you bled

in a way we all do

                          quietly

I've seen you bare your arse 

in the bus station on Sundays

I've watched you sleep

in that thick woollen coat

I saw you sober once

and you were not

            less

or more

this train, the elephant

Painting by Borg de Nobel please check out her work

this train, the elephant in the room

the crow

ribs promised into wings, the fog

in his gut

hoops 

hoops double headed days

high rise tower block, the wall

the cull of forward

this train, the elephant 

in the room momentum in three

directions and one

shy 

transfer of weight

is a window

I am a whole

unedited person

I have no chapters

my body

cannot answer your questions

this velocity

                 yours

in a straight line

at a constant speed

context intact 

tacked

to the back wall of instinct

due due duality

she counts

the plastic slats, wraps the cord 

around her fingers 

gently pulling till the window

is a window 

in a straight line

at a constant speed

their gossamer 

logic

tissue paper thin

fundamental 

wishful thinking

drag your fingers across 

this charcoal, smudge 

definition till 

your fingertips are dirty 

and the page a blurring drag

of art

till the window

is a window 

in a straight line

at a constant speed

bus stop sunset

this thistle wind
this
levitating tongue
this carbon
cocoon
this butterfly
alpha
bet
half born type set
this
printing press sky
this lino cut dusk
I decorate this
kitchen
with endless night
I turn the tap
this cold chrome
dog day delta
sun sets
behind the tower block behind the civic slabs of stoic concrete
behind my back
days dim days stack
and I escape or am
escaped from
I queue
to go home
rag doll Aslan on her ruck
sack
my only
horizon

bastard villanelle

this bastard

villanelle

wont let me write about wild flowers on rooftops or

coal loading staithes, absent

grandfathers

so I shrug 

and I sulk

waiting for the bolder to roll

it's territorial teeth

bared and bold

backing me into a corner

a cul

de

sac

this bastard

villanelle

clay feet 

mid air

she's in between

she's almost there

what is unbearable she must bear

the constant now

clay feet mid air

this taciturn communion air

the fallen...fell

she's almost there

this vaudeville unending prayer

his bone dry womb

clay feet mid air

straw men collide with excess flare

a shrug a wink

she's almost there

this bastard villanelle laid bare

a slip of form

clay feet mid air

she's almost

there