narrow sky

cold wind
rushing bold between buildings
teaching the city how how

hard edged

accumulating shadows

on the floor

leaves like forgotten cornflakes

like tissues
stuffed in her pinafore

that 

one 

green 

leaf

this season 

confesses to the kerb

to the demi god grotesque
ness
of shopping centre chivalry 

on the altar
an eyebrow bar cappuccino 

double skinny latte buy one 

get one free Disney 

Princess
prays on her knees
for more
more

more

gathered in intricate dusk

light complex
compelled

into winters momentum

cars collide meta

phorically
impatient cocoons
moon a mountain

in the narrow sky of I

I

I 

I was meant to tell you

me

me

me

just a slither

severed

into sentences

blind sky

she hangs monocles
carefully on the dawn's
thin skin
three hundred
and three
at the pit head winding drums
turn
endless rotations
hoists
freshly greased
with pig fat
pull fish hook
rock
out of w i d e
mountain mouths
vast loads
of sharp
stone
endless bullets
soon to be hung
from crinoline cathedrals
shards of jet
laid in white sand
almost
blind
the sky
demands
a world
it can understand
demands
her fingers
her
femur
augmented into connecting rods
bones
her bones
cranking the shaft
hanging
from a pivot
part
of the machine
osseous tissue
turning axles as
sheave wheels cackle
into dark mists

no pyres

for how long

for how much longer

Tuesday quietly
on her knees
breeze softening
the edge the edges
of of
softening the edges
of of 

gone is the old bark
gone is our skin
thin and meaningless

my carcass
kissing your carcass
dead mouths 

feeding new roots
up and out and in and through

the layers
layers
dissonant filigrees 

casting off light
using the dark 

paper of our skin
to wrap these words
in layers
layers 

lost geographies converge
along ley lines and hard words
our fence post choices
this wild
wild garden

eating apples with Žižek

into the casthouse 

eating apples with Žižek

cleansing substance 

licking the bone

clean

pouring ourselves into actuality

melting a hundred thalers

to Kant's dismay

swallowing pig ore as we are made

in the up flow

our slow

declining difference

in Machynlleth

water bailiffs beg the riverbed

to bleed

just colour

when there are no words

pink ribbon

wrapped around the school gate

view point A and view point B

ricocheting endlessly 

across the ache 

of a missing child

parallax

my finger 

falls down the map

tracing A roads 

through the Brecon Beacons 

down

to the stingray shape of home

twice removed 

where Burnyeat & Brown 

sank the pit 

along with part of her heart

and part of his




a little context if you want it, just click on the line you are interested in :


stingray shape of home
missing child/Machynlleth
Žižek(my current read)
a hundred thalers 
casthouse

time irreverent

different depths of the lung
how it climbs
out
dear god brother
in the twisted knots of our years
lets wear our hair
dreadlocked and loud
we are all of our ingredients
your children will be all of theirs
let's clean the halls of our youth
with similarly greasy hands
I can't undo
time and what it took
or the arms length gasp of breath
as I released myself into
the sharpest edges of the truth
I remember fig trees
the smell of them
and the chunk of skin
missing between your toes
I was 7
years old
just as I am
now

tip of it

sold
to the gut of my myth
roundabouts make strange compasses
steering the ship of my mind
around a concrete sea without
noticing
the illusion
in the desert of this city
left hand lane
indicator throbbing like a thin
alphabet a slow
pulse
two thirds full
the glass
on an empty table
if its inside out it's
outside in
Hebraic alterations
unstitching the language
we used we
used
concentrating on the magma
airborne ash and shattered rock
broken fire
I levitate
around the Greek root
as it pollinates through time into
the word that's on my tongue
the tip of it

sometimes

sometimes

the boy you wrote a poem for

dies anyway

sometimes

the homeless man

sleeping in a car park

the one you rang about

the one that was placed

in a shelter near Shepherds Bush

ends up two weeks later

sleeping in an alleyway the other side

of the building

sometimes

you wait with someone as they die

and they go

in the middle of the night

when you are not there

and you say

you say to a friend

"these rivers 

must lead somewhere"
sometimes

the fairy tale ending

is a fairy tale

sometimes
your on the 09:39 from Waterloo
non stop between Clapham and Farnborough
and your late

because the train hit the boy or the boy hit the train

and you try to make sense

of all the things that ended

and began again

sometimes 

you smile when nothing is comfortable

violating symmetry

and you hope

into the empty dark you made

until the sky

laughs at you 

with fistfuls of rain