That’s where it is
just off the middle
of the flat nowhere—
remember the grass.

On the table, chocolate
cake and nuts and melting
ice cream—
salted caramel, likely.

Why so not difficult
and yet devouring—
that I do wonder, tragic.

My wood’s on fire but
trees are standing, fake—
as my skin flakes in scorched
little wings.

The smell of books
I do recall and makes me shiver—
dopamine that is, though I loathe
the word, and pass.

Find some paper again
as all things safe, gone—
though blind and hopless look for more.

Sporadic statics pierce my flesh—
the grace divine of feline bites,
electric next that blew within.

It’s just relentless—
so bloody so, and since so long.

And yet a polished, tortoise frame
(the rumbling furless flock that
penetrates the earthly mud around)
just caught me eye—

will stick with it.

Miniature thoughts and
leviathan scars hardly
disperse in the twilight
of flux—that much I trust,

that much I know, anyway.

If what I seem, and how
I see will ever find a common
pace (perhaps a way remote
and bright beyond the rationale
of things, and so the flares that
commerce lends, if sound)

can’t surely tell but only
wonder, as props I chase wide
eyed and bare—and me myself.

I wish things could
last forever—

or time roll back,
drag me along and
plunge me into that crack
of being where cloulds
had traits of amber.

When I was younger then
my hopes, and met Fellini—

yellow wellies
in summer,
I used to wear.

Straight vinyls to
quite no turntable
make zero sense—

though does feel
right and just.

Cleanse your body, and
mind the daily crap—

or rather, feed your soul
and please agree that orange
strats are too quite something.

Like a bare bulb
flashing
in your eyes,
until it blows—

but just
a fraction
of sigh after said
eyes do, too.

Unrepeatable fragment of
an awry flare, or foolish.

Does that equals
happiness, methinks—
think so.

Faked its victory—
life has, that is

whether cheat or
mother, do wonder—

am now an orphan.

The arcane persistence
of potatoes, idle and pale,
along with the gentle delusion
of acceptance and
control—

can’t but trace
the sole perimeter—

feeble . . . squiggly . . .

around the inherent beauty
of scale.

For once first thing
was heroes, not noises or
vicious sounds that’d pierce
the affected peace of being—
of mine.

At the far end of the place of
ink and signs and scribbles
props lay blurred by hush—

the sexy jug of runners-up,
a chipped cup with one woeful
crack from rim to base—

and all way down to
whispers stale,
of thoughts and threats.

Surely an artifice of sorts
as shaped by monsters—
the sheer putrescence
that fear is, of not
being safe.

If the moon
and four wild thistles in the sand
did not die
at the mistral breath—

or the dust
that rises
from the stones
took higher altitudes, the air
to burn and blaze
again—

and never fall.

Remember
an apron with
a floral pattern—

and white bread
sliced.

The checkered stuff
drawing crumbs of me,
as Mike was sweating
on the telly—

and drugs arse
kicking, those toys
of plastic hard
forever.

Primal soughs
return what was taken
away and blind the
scorching sun, wheat—

I split a stone with
bare hands against
a jagged rock, and
found veins inside
of iron—
the ochre rust, and
red glints like
blood.

Not once did I blink,
I couldn’t miss a single frame—

I let my breathing join the sound
of men and beasts,
the noise of stones
as they were swallowed by the earth.

The electric stillness of a time
remote in summer—

then may
my heart resound with
the eternal pulse of life and death,
and nature.

In the box
made of tin and grease and rubber
people have words—
in their bags
on their laps

in their hands
they hold them tight

while—
what they share
is transported /no wonder
by feral screeches and
the stink
of metal confort.