Thursday, 12 April 2018

beyond a bird call

A fish swims up stamen. The sound of tills closing, beeping and other supermarket noises. Cold January - is there any other kind? Maybe in some other's vision.
‘We’ve all got it. Well, at least a little.’ says Harry.
A child practices guitar scales. Overcast - in the woods mud pushes past the ankle line. Hazel blossom and alder catkins. A fringe tucked behind ears. To overcome pine trees one must become a cleaning wipe. An oak tree. Out of season mushrooms - scarlet elf cup, wood ear.
‘Well me and Garry have anyway.’ he continues.
Pause. To be so in love with suicide that it rots the brain beyond a songbird’s call - he thinks to himself. Bankers graft themselves into boats. Mulling it over. Who is gonna paint? In the womb they take notes. Chuck chuck. Perceiving and interpreting colour spectrums and graphs they draw up blueprints of the damned. A mulberry bush.

still sky two blackbirds pass into pastry

‘He’s a good manager.’ To be in love with suicide as a tropical fruit - papaya, kiwi, pineapple etc. Spending the winter identifying the shapes of the leaves of those trees. Sun bricks hover over the night as being throws coins.
‘Yeah.’ Tommy agrees.
‘Is he Irish?’ asks Harry.
‘Not sure. He sounds foreign though.’
To be nothing but wishing lost inside a bottle of sun lotion.
‘Wonder where they got him from.’
‘Not sure.’
Another pause. Reduced racks and the whimsy of weight gain and subsequent loss.
‘They bring ‘em in from anywhere and everywhere.’ says Tommy.

rain - the marble asks for a sneeze

The night has become a soup god. Tommy is sat at home. Harry is also sat at home. Highways, nebulas and freeways drenched in pastels roll between them. Heads are a whirl and swirl. The miso concrete to a parked car. Lost in the back pain of president Kennedy. Lost in the fragments of Cobain’s skull.

Wednesday, 4 April 2018

my neighbour might be a disembodied brain

I am scratching my head. I think of pulling or picking my brains out. I think of mummification. I think of class structure. I strike blood. Sticky. Warm. Confused. Fingers feel sticky. I smell them - metal. I look at them - garnet.

bicycle the wind peddles through a small tree

Someone walks by. They are humming a melody from some long lost classic rock radio station that is the same as every other classic rock radio station buried deep deep below atlantis - second left at the atlantic, if youʼre curious. It soothes me. Like a giant dadʼs lullaby - all dadʼs are giants, I suppose. I wonder if they ever struck brains.
I look out the window. The neighbours have a navy blue cat flap on a white door. I think of the neighbours pulling or picking their brains out. The brains then crawl off. Like, leaving for school for the first time. That is, sad, lonely, please come back. Oh well, at least write once in awhile.
The brains crawl into the garden. They shit under an hydrangea. The hydrangea was once blue but now shriveled brown from the winter. Then the brains go back in through the navy blue cat flap. They eat a pack of sausages. They read the newspaper. Everyone awkwardly remains silent.
        out of time giants 
       - a lighthouse 
        gets smaller

Tuesday, 3 April 2018

wood swim

The teacher asks if any of us have ever experienced unrequited love. I am too embarrassed to say or do anything other than lower my head to an appropriate level where I won’t draw attention to the fact that I am lowering my head. I stare into the patterns of the faux wood desk and wish I could swim in them.
          on the other side of a door
         nothing and the moon

Monday, 2 April 2018

a loaf of bread learns to fly

this year’s flowers a solitary swift overhead


a child looks through me sweet display


winter shower
a loaf of bread
learns to fly


resting upside down a fly


Sunday, 1 April 2018

before the warm weather

first child
before the warm weather
a swift


blue sky demolition workers


autumn rain
watching the open-close
of automatic doors


balloon murmur
a bladder blooms
in nomenclature

Saturday, 31 March 2018

your famous blue antediluvianraincoat

catching  the low sun a pigeonʼs breast




watching fireflies
as if they were linen
parents hover
over a wrist watch


cold morning
the washing machine
won’t open

Saturday, 24 March 2018

arizona hymnal

I am 34 years old. At this point of my life I have had 4 teeth removed. Ignoring the termites we point further over the horizon. This is significantly less than my father. He also has less hair but we don’t talk about that. They are also teeth from the back so although my teeth are somewhat crooked at the front there are none visibly missing. I keep pointing to the point of awkwardness to emphasise the distance. Which is good.

an actor moves
into infinity

Early afternoon finds my head full of flies - not where the teeth were but in my sinuses. Fingers move from F, to B minor to A minor. I want to be a military march - like the three four time of some Irish Louisianan Civil war troop fighting just for money. To be the song plus one and now the dna is stale jam on brown bread. The blue bottle forgets the season and buys time shares on some moon off some planet or other - way past our pointing. Phone scams are not real but big foot is. Kinda.

ripe blackberry
a songbird shits away 

In a new font he downloaded last week Jesus types: God’s kiss. The more he thinks about it the more he feels the font is wrong for the message. He goes to the bathroom and soaks a washcloth in cold water. He opens the window and hears the birds in the trees outside. He thinks of signing his name on the bathroom wall. He feels in his robe pocket and finds a rumpled piece of paper he pulls it out and finds an old bus ticket - he throws it in the toilet. He thinks about a meteor.