dream number 4

Another night of recurring dreams
tonight # 14,

a deadline where my computer won’t work and,
or am I’m writing with invisible ink?

“Martin Luther King vs Malcolm X:
Equality but by any means necessary”?

Another one,
#6
with
brittle teeth

loosening and moving
in gums
like door frames shaking in hurricanes.

And sometimes I can’t sleep,
the constant phone calls late at night,

“Hello, is that Control?”

“Hello is that Control?”

Always the same questions & dead air,
always static fizzle,
just like when the TV is
turned off.

automatic writing #55

the song was set on a space station orbiting earth
the astronauts were eating powdered food and trying to remember what
ice cream tasted of they couldn’t find the words to describe vanilla

in Russian Stalin banned jazz

he ordered all trumpets to be buried 300 miles from Stalingrad

yesterday was national poetry day and no one knew

outside hailstones have been falling on and off for an hour or so
spring now, but possibly still winter
the calendars could be lying

the washing machine is gurgling in another room

my cat ate my fish

my cat died when I was on a school trip

my bird fell off his perch and never knew he hit the ground

the news is on the radio and
words are jumping from its belly
something about a murder
Russian involvement

she told me this morning she dreams of dead children

I’ll leave this here
I’ll finish my tea then I’ll be off

automatic writing: #27

        flapping butterfly wings inside the wardrobe with the skeletons

fireflies circle the bulb

a low wattage casts small shadows over this thing
                         over this everything 
of empty petrol station forecourts

wastelands of concrete where shoes hang from telegraph wires
all the stereotypes I know

(but how many of them are true?)
she frantically searches the book shelves for the answers and writes angry letters to the council about the lack of WI-FI at the local library 
she sits on the roof to get a better view of the constellations which she can’t see from here 

Keaton 

listen to yourself burp and gurgle and burble and 

when you shake your head

side to side 

your eyes can’t focus 

and you get a headache 

and passersby offer help 

and words of support

or commiseration 
(it’s hard to differentiate

 sometimes

a helping hand

 or a fist in the face)
– and you think of buster Keaton and the falling house…

the way he stood perfectly poised while the house fell 

and he knew he wouldn’t come to harm 

but you thought the whole edifice would collapse on his little head –