Sunday, 20 May 2018

the plastic feel of churchill’s face


red mist

hands in pocket

a cherry scented plume

the plastic feel

from a vape pen

of churchill’s face

__________


moonlight

faith healer

the river’s silt points

under a spoon of superstition

to what is

a moving tadpole

______

fluffy white clouds
a small dog humps
a smaller dog

_______

half a second…. 
late autumn becomes
a bee

Tuesday, 15 May 2018

designer stubble

designer stubble 
on the horizon 
returning geese

_______

the moon
taking a break
dinner at a friends

________

the wheat field
and me
the same tongue

_________

cold night
in one rising tower

the steam from my piss

Wednesday, 25 April 2018

two haibun

J is 20 minutes late. It doesnʼt look like he is gonna show. I am in a cafe on union street. The place is in between busy and quiet. I canʼt find the word to describe it - steady flow? They buy rolls, sweet and savoury pastries with hot drinks like tea and coffee. The table facing me is full of empty light boxes. An electrician is fitting new lights in the place. I will wait till half past, I say to no one.
the hierarchy 
of rust 
- silent shadows

Later that same day A has a checkup at the hospital today. Regular stuff - bloods, urine and listening to the babyʼs heart beat. A is nervous about the bloods. I am ok and I tell her it is ok and I mean it. And it is ok. Later while we walk home under a blue winter sky I think about the sound of the babyʼs heart.
________

She smells different. I cut the edamame and dreams into halves. I change my thoughts about the dried apricots sitting in the fridge beside the butter. I spread the sauerkraut best I can - itʼs not exactly ketchup. My mind flits to medicine. She knows.

out of season fruit - 
we watch a documentary about 
french cowboys

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.
      
           weariness
          on the other side of a door
         nothing and the moon