We are asking all members of the public / to be on the lookout for / a bluff, chuffed eager geezer / who’s got the unearned charm of a stolen hotel towel…
Once You Have Chosen a Headstone for the Last of Each Species of Rosa Please Choose from the Following Inscriptions and Symbols: …
Three girls at a table in the Market Bar with an overpriced jug of sangria. / Sometimes words are enough. Sometimes memory isn’t.
I will outline a light switch / in black so you won’t miss it. How / the pendulum swings with the / sun in your eyes. The hung crystal / in the window refracts faint greys, / blues, yellows.
…we’re playing parts, but i wouldn’t act / in any other bullshit play.
My new formula for grief: who might survive, who, with hammer, might crucify.
My favourite podcast is about the end of the world / It’s the big new thing happening. / It is already happening.
I could come closer to tickling / the neurons, pulling them a // part, making connections / between the benevolence of a // bright summer’s day and my inability / to perceive reality accurately . . .
how can i / keep eating / popcorn when / i’m going / out of fashion / been going / been going / been going . . .
and the oily rainbow aura on the spirit cluster flakes off / as the treatment fades while I still alone and addicted // to new knowledge in my liquid crystal display
Humility / Taken on the rocks / With double shot and / Uber driver waiting. . .
a weighty jewel of a sun-bound / harkening, reaches (again) the memory / & malady of a doubtable god, part- / unseen, emergent. // On kite wings, we qualify.
Your hands are like fists all the time now. Lick the webbing / between your cats’ toes and wish they could set you right. / Know that they never can.
They say that one day, powerful star-gazers will be able to detect American tidal waves from the centre of Germany…
This is my ambered sarcasm. / This is my garden’s rough / cut blossom my / bitter jewel with veins of pearl / and the hard-edge glow of the / indigestible.
by friday / i am 50% used up / tho i’m tired / i make my weekly pilgrimage / taking foodscraps up to the compost bins at the innermost gardens
They build a cardboard shell to become larger, and paint a white stripe down the centre of the face.
watch me disappear. live / & never let but i’m / fine. for it’s not / a thing of bitterness / but love / demolished, set against itself, / not a thing to stir
into the ship’s side the over her lowered we ,after days four and ,calms of / belt been had we as soon as suddenly give-way to seemed
do you feel the quiet? / it’s you. // do you see the quiet? / nah, you.