hell in a way i understand 

lets make gypsies of our days
the ways that they’re bred from
nd the way you wrap a towel around your arse
fast concubines and changes in love
like the stiller love of race
where i am under a father who likes poems
although the fella she knows
writes ’em
and this mile has a pile of beers
all soaked in ghosts
like a new cocktail made in black

just black ‘cos it’s what we wear
we don’t follow no one and it’s no time to go
maybe there’s too much sunshine said on my limbs
already, and i’ll see those ghosts too
knuckle and luck brother, but
no blood

we’ll dance all that storm away, and
while i dance i’ll always be near
that dress you wore
i’m the happiest damn bug ever made chandelier
and i grow, nearly busting all that love up

what would we call
each other
that were just us, alone.

in the office

We spend more time with the tongue of vermin
than we do in parlay with the waterfall of life
sleep is half the battering brute, that half
that lets us be with lovers, unawake, and alarmed.

Then the buzz of work howls and howls
disseminating what we’ve done, in circular gold
which is where i see you too
that same buggered life inside a gut.

Which is when we sneer at the clock
my ugly years and your hips and my shave
your stockings your jokes my lives
and the story we must make up, to bark.

Maybe it’ll all be gone if we go at it
again, and the clock will melt, allowing
only the beers and gin & tonics to pass through
where of that, we know


the place was small
and only allowed for one
to drink
some days
there was two
and then they explored many days
and all grey rainbows on fire
how paying the rent
was the last satellite
a very dead star.

A girl with a deep voice

it wasn’t so deep
more like your own personal version, of
whatever you dream of.

Have you ever?

just choking along and dancing, sitting
and all the shops were oblivion, and I spoke to my love
although the wall required few police
lasses and lads all padded, I’ll say-

oh, and the booming punk that really writes a poem
feeling that withered hand bash you on the back
since no ears can hear: flesh, and
the scoundrels had collected!
so i just unrolled the choke and rolled backwards

off and on the ground where they were flat
spirited, failing to look lively! one would say
all that banter chimes through my heart, like a river on fire
whenever i walk through that evening.

If I was to vote

I would only vote for the autumn cellar dogs
those dogs which have been tamed and not
those animals which fill the sun and moon with bone.

When these dogs are in the iris of a leader
you can tell by the verse and posture
we have not had any in a long long while
although… it is always unfashionable to be human.

Along, and along ago

Near thirty eighteen, there
are still poets, these
deciding what year it is
how much
has been drunk
how much
there is still left.

River of dusk

i am your devouring hour, although
do not say that i must do this alone
i am your solid day – – – so many lucid lives in the river & wine

i wasn’t allowed up your back yard until i was insane
drunk and drunk again, give me an excuse and a flag
so it flowed from there, in that light from your eyes

that made us both forget family and the taming dune
where you will always remember mine in the north
and my work will always be in the south

where i tempt every pint to forget you, then relax as the night
comes, and devours such thoughts, where my flat
rumbles under the beat of poems

which i share with you in the long river
my kin mostly mongrel, and yours
that which the morning brings.

rivers and hills

its a long walk
and the night has no matter for the morning
since there is always laughter amongst us, we
wave at the red faced dog walker walking, just as we
do and the particular stir of the swampy clouds
silk inside a fist, and rain inside a river

the otters are tomorrow
these half water beating things, that are never
caring small bobbing heads in this sun, and
today is when i sign on, to the compressing light
heavy in my eyes as the poems made legs
and i am carried along easy

where in the baboon love
of my travels i come home to a humble stroll
since i am walking no where years on, and
the suppleness of Pluto is something
that never troubles birds as they swear across the sky
an easy beam of lossless morning

where along the hills
as it bounces god back his red blood
it’s a day for drinking the skyline down to mind
as if such things were a seasonal pew, black birds
whistling when i wake up
their damn sea of song better than the last chime

my organs now easily made from iron
the place for my flesh being under a few tonne
where i make the bad sounds
and send this sky back to hell
a bird making more noise than life
wilder than my old ears

i ask the forest
as i pass into them, what they think
about it all
and the perch of darkness lifts from me
chuckling with my feet, and the places

i wish i was drinking with my friends
which is where i roar in the random chopped wood
scattered around in this place, and
the scent of wild garlic is awful
yet, badgers, deers, and wood pigeons

say: raffle raffle raffle
no recoiling from this long walker
so far off-beat, so far into your land
is there anything
that we could offer you?

and I say aye, in a walking
watching way
just aye
the half orange appears across the land

all my horns and thitsles are knocked out
into a set of silent eyes
that look around at the forest
and bring you back to me

in damn
strange ways
me lassy.

in moving

Fire moves in the office, as my eyes
and my gut, are fed and knackered
my eyes are full off soot, and
would have said years
ago: go to hell easy
unless you leave
only rarely
does my gut make sense.


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