I keep forgetting to mention I moved my blog here:

http://somehowconstant.wordpress.com/

a month

a middle name 

a young god 

a curve

one revolution

one circuit

one edge 
overlapping the groove

the gone
the ghost
the last train home

tonight

I am a graveyard

if I cant dance

so I do and I do 

and I eat 

the night 

with ambivalence and yen 

kissing both cheeks using no words
kin of old queens
kin of queer
kin of sharing
your last cigarette 

in the ask
in the hips
of hello
and the abstract
sense of time
it's nice to meet you
in the grey
ocean of your mouth
and the history
of your skin
in the tide
of your tongue
it's nice to meet you

you multiplied

into your skin 

into the concrete hymn of the bend

it was data

it was tender as the bite

it was an arrow 

it was blood

it was an outline

a calm

circumference that coiled

into the meta

morphosis

swallow the swelled 

sense of rage

the pinch points 

the punch

ease 

the context

through the needle

into the wider 

mouth of us

draw blood

  sign the waiver

eat the wind

the fragrance of jest

the realness of skin

eat life

in its own hardness

unpick the myth

of potency

the sickness

of stars

                                                                                                                                                             and

                                                                                                                                                      then

                                                                                                                                                 that

                                                                                                                                             one

                                                                                                                              exception

I think it was you

that long Friday night

flat out on the platform

puking blood

I had to roll you over

hold your hair

out of the way

now your walking through the station

Monday catching in your throat

like a bookmark

tepid

and tired

 

how the shadow stills falls  

at the same time of day

slanted like the skin

of the margin 

I made

          clean 

                 slate

weight of the knot

and the why

not

cost of a tongue

in a fat blue sky

46
and it's not eloquent
years
your wife
wears her best top
not to  overdress but
to ricochet the expectation
you put £500 quid
behind the bar
so we drink to your time and your
gentle way of being
your sisters in their soothing
irish tongue
sit at the table and talk
about their drive here and the food
I wish
I knew the bones of you
better

the fog 
of a cut out moon

the bloodline

the road

blending with the bend

a square

on a square on a square

roots splitting truth

into roof top hues

border

lines

fists that aren't

really there

Ricardo 

you are made of ink

of hospitals 

of home

your breath is like a fist

made of sleep

you sit like silt

like a border

like a line

deciding where to bend

your pulse

belongs to doctors

to machines

you are made of half the story
your the end of my shift
your my bus ride home
your this thought now
 

the stalled train the anger the rage 
that crawls into your face 
in through the eyes the teeth the feet 
the way your body 
is an instrument you play you play you play 
until the strings are worn the question 
old 
and sliding 
down the perspex 
onto the ragged heap
of rush hour blues that accrued before it
before your minor key spit 
added to the blend
of I wanna get home and all the wanna get homes that came before it

 

broken like the light like the pulse

the walls are walls are walls are walls

incessant how the curtains

still need ironing

after the wash the wash 

the wash they hang 

in the only lick of sun

on the line the line the line

 

  I washed the dishes with fingernails full of poems

  I watched the cut lip sunset turn truck stop pale

  unfolding the crow the crow

  unfolding me

  he said to me that winter is the way you breathe

  I kicked the gravel and his dark

  heart

  and washed the dishes 

  with fingernails 

  full of poems

                like origami

                folded through the I 

                the we

                and why not

                this low tide of slices

                over

                    lapping

                bent and grooved into

                the old

                into the old

                sense of self

                foetal bar code bliss

                illusion and her skin

                illusion and the strong

                wet grip of theory

                like origami

                folded through the I

      scraped into the hue
      whole
      forked split staggered
      into the apex
      into nothing
      neglecting a quiet smile
      kissing all the synonyms
      and antonyms
      as if I mean it
      just in case
      just
      in case
     

  on closing my mouth

  self 

  similarity

  the constant angle

  of an alphabet 

  a coastline 

  of words

  of punctuation

  between the teeth

  marking the omission