Thursday, 8 February 2018
All night conversation
The thrill of the bus journey
Drinking till you speak something of the truth
The white noise inside
Vomitting words to 200 beats per minute
Stumbling for a piss
Eyes stinging, borrowed fag unlit.
Loose change and sweat.
Waxen face, painted like a death mask.
You found nowhere.
Slurred words as we cling to each other.
Spinning and breathing great gulps of cold smoky air
by the bus station.
Sunday, 4 February 2018
Spring lies coiled,
taut and waiting
to burst for the light.
clinging to tiny handholds,
its grip thawing, digging, clawing,
Pushing its way through hard ground
Splitting tarmac, forcing it up and out.
Smothering winters work.
Woodcut crisp lines made filthy with green.
Monday, 29 January 2018
Green copper is municipal.
Like great hulking metal radiators
Caked with paint but furnace hot.
the smell of chlorine and lukewarm footbaths.
Doors too heavy to yield to a child's most insistent shove.
Preformed concrete and plastic carpet which will skin your knees.
Yesterday's future is tomorrow's investment opportunity.
Saturday, 27 January 2018
Raindrops cling for a while, pooling on vertical glass
Then running, jagged mad patterns
leaving a wake of spidery trails.
I will walk in the fields.
Stalks of dead corn,
ghosts of a harvest
broken corpses of a summer past.
A patchwork square
divided by hawthorn
ploughed into horizontal submission
revolution suppressed by chemical.
Up and down
a sodden, rutted parade ground.
West to east.
East to west.