Creature.

Waiting for a Guide.

Written Whilst Showering/Cooking.

Soft and ugly
Lost in Wormwood,
Now orange pips,
Speak with chapped lips
Wrinkled fingertips
Point to mid-afternoon apathy.

Coffee Chocolate.

Being in awe of people
Becomes less fun with age.

Being sad and slobbish
Leapfrogged Hollywood on the back of clockwork and mundaneity.

The world on stilts is far less permeable with each project,
With each cavern eyed admiration
With each hungry whistle
And call with pianissimo for talent.
Ignore perspiration as salt solution
While the fun and age
Sit solid in lumps, keyhole the laws.

The Maladroit Previous.

The space between the dirt on
The mirror and its reflection is unassailable space.
The same space leaves me crushed, voice breaking inside collapsed lung,
The air I breathe amateur
The paleness of my eye sewing into this world
The harboured loss of time and
The floundering lack of string.

The inferiority of my trails is colourless and it's raining needles again.

Codshit.

The boy pushes out vomit onto the floor of the bath,
watches it splatter over the white porcelain
mixing with the water running off his doubled body.
The vomit looks like lentils in olive oil.
It comes up easy.
He turns, lets the pokey jets fill his mouth with warm water,
diluting the bile on his tonsils.
The boy spouts it directly at the vomit to make it scatter further.
The music in the clammy, adolescent, springtime air is a kind reminder of the previous night.
As if he is in some kind of music video,
the boy closes his eyes and
lets his neck creak backwards,
so the water wets his aching desert hair and pressurised skull
as the kick drum walks in.
The boy tries to decide whether to eat something or bring up more oily lentil vomit.
A coat of images superimpose over
A happy swarm.
He stays in the shower for another thirty minutes,
only gets out when the cassette stops playing.
Chewing gum and peppermint tea, feel the goo melt warmish.
Feel your brain go soft.

Fingers Crossed.

Pigswill descent from pubescent woodland, Middle England beckons
Faded alarm in translucent morning loses movie grain
Becomes ITV awful.
Not seen through any other eyes, not considered any other mind
In this working week long memory.
Tree sap sticky makes it hard to clap
Gets harder though when you clap for saplings.
Morning light the sweetest and greenest
The graphite guilt sweeps swan feathers under dusty rugs
Wombs are lined with loquacious
And for the meantime I request fully ignored and unrequited
Requests for the turn to end.
The act will not change,
Not yet.

Big Wing No Balls.

I forgot my poppy.
Umbilical lottery winner won a battle of lucky time,
Though lost in a supermarket of proven time -
Underdeveloped and weak
But lucky.
Seventy years and I forgot to fight.