The tower collapsed from where the weeds begun to burst through

the gaps in the concrete life will always find a way

but the men in suits have retreated to their homes

to just cross their fingers and shout VEINLIGHTS

they would be protected by secret pacts and mis-direction

your mum

bless her

thought “furloughed” had something to do with horses

how many hands?

she kept asking

who many hands?

how many hands

to clap

to clasp?

the lights were wolverines

lupine

supine spineless

apparatchiks yes men remove their fingers from the dyke While simultaneously saying their fingers were never there

but the river drained

the remains

were shown

trolleys and discarded corpses from gang related deaths and an online conspiracies that point digital fingers at hedge fund managers from the Home Counties and fake moon landings where the first foot prints showed outlines of a Nike tick

a resignation written in Comic Sans, 10 wasn’t taken seriously

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    Chicken and stuffing breakfast washed down with red bull

    amphetamine  teeth rotting a slow decay 

    a woman kisses  the Torah

    racing past building sites of skeletal homes scaffolding poking out like broken bones 

         human cannonball locust            abortion    technician is soundtracking now 

       past warehouses packed full of stuff 

    loading & 

    unloading 

    repeat repetition and repeat 

    Man opposite: an arm full of shit tattoos 

     praying hand with rosary 

     a pocketwatch 

     some illegible script (forearm)

     childs name in Gothic text on his forearm 

    

      I’m going to build a shopping centre just off the M1 

    

    missed the tube five time just to feel that breeze racing past building sites of skeletal homes scaffolding poking out like broken human bones

a cannonball

locust            abortion    technician is soundtracking now 

The experimental  head sliced open

 

the shopping bag woman

 

at the end of the land

 

ride the death bed

 

quicksilver sleep 

 

Coltrane, slacker & sweaty

 

You heathen shitbox

 

you pointless man

 

off with your head

 

Outside the empty factory

 

Hungry with guns

 

The wedding wound

 

Honeymoon bruises 

 

No pussy blues

 

Pseudonyms used in hotel registers

 

Van Gogh  Lacrosse

 

Skinned knee

 

Slack death and famine

 

Shit 6 and the forgotten hands all over

 

Soviet curves

 

The dead the damaged

 

The missiles fired 

 

Mercy man!!!!

 

the horse crucified on the electric fence

 

Monospaced insults

 

You lost Pangea

 

You murdered the mountains

 

Killed and stuffed them in a suitcase dumped on the river side

 

The ripped lung collapsed

 

The battle for maths

 

Cathode ray headache

 

Dead stations transmitting signals

  

Ripped dollars   

 

Dirty coins   scratching your eyes with metallic fingers

 

Dystopian facts

 

The panopticon                                                           the black cathedral

 

This is not playing out well

 

The death lips of a thousand burning monks

 

Rat biscuits eaten during the siege

 

I will trade you a dead rat for facts

 

The crying man listening to his transistor radio

 

Eating food from a tin

 

Finger cut on sharp edges

Swallowing dust and tuna flakes

 

Buried under a 1000 leaflets for cheap pizza

 

This is how it will end.

 

A hoarders death.

 

The exploding head the president is dead

 

I put my head above the parapet and the Sniper blew the cigarette clean from my lips

 

November 26, 2023

 

after two days in the trench I put my head over the parapet and they clean shot the cigarette straight from my lips

 

mud and grime

 

drying to cement

 

in my head

 

beginning to fade

 

a slow death in a verdant Albion

 

this land full of lottery winners and knife victims

shopping centres and empty swings

 

I still hadn’t written that novel or made it to the edge of the continent

 

why is your shadow longer today?

just weighed down

like a drowning man

in wet clothes

an un-tucked shirt can be a sign of weakness beware

speak now

limited edition free ride

kill the engine flat

seen so many people shrunk by grief

skin hanging on bones

t-shirts like a parachute

ashtray overflowing

the slow demise of Europe

are you the man whispering inside my ear?

there is no military parade today

there is no noise coming through the airwaves today

take the dancing girls to the dead stations

tell them to say their goodbyes

coded messages sent from the bunker

 

the machines doing all the heavy lifting

 

they were fresh clean shaven

 

new meat for the guillotine

 

the dead stations

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Dads clothes

feral children being chased by end of level baddies from 1980’s arcade games

pockets of coins and fingers tasting metallic

a South American meat packing conglomerate is plotting in air conditioned rooms

a filing cabinet contains my recorded life

all my recent dreams are about ex-girlfriends first kiss memory tasted of bubble gum and out teeth clashed

the man who sold me a radio said there was a special frequency where you could hear the word of God and there’s a read up station in America that plays Stairway to Heaven on a 24hr loop

she said her boyfriend looked like a serial killer in her dads clothes

this is not the season to talk of sowing seeds – cold earth & the frustrated gravediggers – nothing can grow now

good intentions count for nothing

she wrote all the questions down that gnawed away

“Oh Captain”…she often murmured – the cold fear of mutineers – go look out the window,

move the curtain and have a look

the mountains are getting smaller and that tree is dead the clouds no longer resemble anything you’ve said

night is coming to cloak us and it sets as we walk away

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people are losing track of time

literally it’s falling down the back of the cosmic sofa along with breadcrumbs

hair clips and coins

a burnt out remote control

a family heirloom

a pen lid

all that shit that ends up in the bottom of the vacuum cleaner

the calendar is just a series of numbers and pictures

melding into others like

paint on a palette the

chalk on the floor

lockdown hop scotch boxes & the snake like lines leading to the bottom of ladders

but the pylons will still stand

like the iron man

transmitting pictures of your favourite seven albums no one wants to see

can I get a hallelujah?

can I get a hand clap?

this fat fingered cherub

a ghoulish gargoyle

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after two days in the trench I put my head over the parapet and they clean shot the cigarette straight from my lips

mud and grime

drying to cement

in my head

I returned home at night my wife said I’d changed

I was beginning to fade

to a grey facsimile of the person she fell in love with

— drained and washed of colour

a slow death in a verdant Albion

full of lottery winners and knife victims

I still hadn’t written that novel

or made it to the edge of the continent

and in this new landscape

it was so easy to get lost like the blind tourist who feels his way around the world

finds his way back home by following the smell of cinnamon

the roar of traffic won’t put him off

the Doppler wail of the red fire engine moves around him

easy

like flowing water

milky ovaries and we smoked autumn leaves in those days that failed to appear on a calendar

and the lunch time barber found a secret door in the back of my head

unlocked and looking in

he advised me of what he saw:

50 forgotten families

memories filed away

and Iron Maiden poster

I paid and left and made an appointment to return in a month

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why is your shadow longer today?

just weighted down

like a drowning man

in wet clothes

an un-tucked shirt can be a sign of weakness beware

speak now

limited edition free ride

kill the engine flat

seen so many people shrunk by grief

skin hanging on bones

t-shirts like a parachute

ashtray overflowing

the slow demise of Europe

are you the man whispering inside my ear?

there is no military parade today

there is no noise coming through the airwaves today

take the dancing girls to the dead stations

tell them to say their goodbyes

Continue reading →

basketball shoes

Your sense of smell went west

Stuffed crust pizza stained

your vest

More paracetamol (just in case)

that telephone doesn’t stop ringing

23 and

I counting

all the passenger on the side of a dead three lane motorway

carved through a landscapes of buried children dead trees trodden down amongst swine bone

we sit and wait for the blowback

cut price geometry

in the garden where we’ll plant the flowers

stuck in the mud with the burning man

the old buildings have all decided to collapse today

on a train with a basketball team

all long legs and size 12 feet

To

I write bad poetry to a man in Florida

who nurses the sick and thinks about

recidivists siblings and military memories

we’ve seen ghostly figures of Mike Jagger

scuttle across the page

caressing space age cutlery

made in a factory of assembly lines that never stop moving where the tannoys play white noise

and at the edge of town there is a pile of dead TV’s all empty and hollow

they told me the fillings in my teeth were satellites and I was being tracked by men in bunkers somewhere underground

I’ve always like word silo and have dreams

of fake names in hotel registers

the bruised knee of that honeymoon couple the burnt tourist asleep On the beach

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I dreamt of death by spider bites

chemistry experiments that went wrong

acid burn

clowns in suits in a town where everyone had Beatle haircuts

no one wanted to be a marionette

one half of a magnet

and your neighbours dogs barks a secret language while advertisers tell you

their shampoo will give you stronger hair and you imagine everything you see is an hallucination induced by breathing in bad oxygen

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at a time, we’ll just agree it’s now, when the weather can’t make up its mindand the animals outside just know somethings coming,
a static in the air,


a taste, metallic?

when the grey ground gives way to the brown crunch of dry leaves


I hear they talk about conspiracies

Nazi gold stored inside a Swiss mountain,

moon landings filmed in a downtown warehouse,


aliens living amongst us, and when waking up becomes a reenactment of the previous day and the day before that


I knew we’d never run out of things to talk aboutshe kept a diary of political slogans and propaganda posters


“ALL POWER TO THE SOVIETS”


she mumbled in her sleep

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He painted a whole town in black and white

the row of shops

the post office

the launderette

the butcher and his bloodied butchers block

I spend days waiting on that email

I checked my spam daily messages about people in my area looking for sex

money scams

girth enlargement pills

out of the fire

head first

into the frying pan

in days before computers

they spammed walls with petroglyphs

which no one could decipher

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