Sunday, 1 February 2015


I inch the guyrope forward
The half-delicious pinch of pain
In a sinew brought
cold earth against.
Yet the metal peg upon the skin
I have to admit
Yet scratch the dirt
With a withered fist.
Each evening steals intimate
And I, unaware of its sin
Prepare my skin
Like a canvas.

Emotions do not hold long
Like a madness, the metal ring
Over which the gas jet splutters
And we make crude toasts
Outdoors, to each other.
I hear people sing
If this is their monument
Let them have it

They inhabit
My chest, I mete
Pockets of air, as if drawing breath.
The young girl
With the pastel chalks
Winders as my vastness
Whilst the known girl besides her
Sees only her moment, intransigent.

Hello, hello
I hear myself shrilling from the side room
Recycling words again
Intent, intent
This is ethical, I repeat
Ethical as if it a gas
I am struggling to breathe
Again, again
The chest tightens
The surgical mask
Assumes a whitewash over my lips.
Bloody, bloody
Always material at some stage
Cannot be plastic forever
The voice echoes, like my mother
Out, out
Like pulling veins through tissue
These sentences are liquid
All over my hands
Damn you
This was recycling, now surgical
Now not even surgery
Like the lion breaks the carcass
Ethics honey
Is a human invention
The radio sounds American
My tongue swollen

Please leave your message after the tone

Leave me in pieces
Ah, the clich├ęs are broken
The word recycling, has reversed
In feasting. Is anyone home?
I look at my mouth
I am dribbling vowels
My mother offering soap
Come back. Come now.
The pages are bleeding
Under my fingers, a heart
I was somewhere massaging
Through the ribs of the typeface.
They were words, routed
There is gore on my carpet
Which I thought was moral
Now is offal
And this is part of it
My eyes in a novel.
I break the full stop, the commas
Like blood clots with my nails
The paper increases
Only a blotter
For the deluge, a drain,
Speech later.

Is it murder or sentence
The pen nib remembers
on the forehead
The energy enters.
Bye then .


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