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Just… Associate. There’s No Rush

Building a kennel that refines in silence, the dogs
unsure what they’re being fed. Who knows where we’ll be in twenty years
if this carries on! Into the world came dresses
devouring genitals at night without the slightest incursion
to a collar. Jackhammering outside was the law of the universe
before science. And after the science? They’ll be fire
all over our clothes too. Plus all that crockery!
He had an Alistair Crowley tattoo on his leg, an Elvis
tattoo on his arm and if his entire skin
was peeled off in one pull it would be worth nothing
in those twenty years. We sat around the last dining room table
in all our finest finery and couldn’t eat a thing, our arms
so far apart! A dog came in and chewed the baby to death!
Quickly! Grab one item! No skin grabbed his mother’s favourite recipe.
S’OK I Used the Toaster

The poem indicates the same minutes as the film is length: I am going to watch it.
It is self-referring and a put-off, like when he turned from me—like when I turned from him—
love being out there unembodied: “Give it to me!” scream the eyes
of one not settled, though the flow, the flow
of the cut is not well. And I didn’t go

so imagine a little boat in a world of just ocean, just boat,
just you watching—like a test against Newton—as you find

the love of the boat on the boat! You look down
into the boat and in all that water: there it is! Just when you’d moved
to the empty globe too—because are not those cuts

that break flows sinister?—and you discover love! that isn’t

even written in the boat! And how many dimensions do you have now?
Plenty! O globe! Einstein! You touch yourself
beyond the word for pleasure and it is just

O isn’t it just.
[I was a project for two stringless sentences, a couplet]

I was a project for two stringless sentences, a couplet
that couldn’t keep themselves together on their own
let alone as one. Kids love the grunge, clueless, which is fine—
how old gratuitous sex is; hence it’s bad
and tastes like Sunday afternoons and Dinosaurs
unless you think about it: Stein
or Stine do the good work and I am all over
where the chiropractor was taking me: it was a high—so true
for a while. But forget me—there should be none of us, especially
how the newspaper prints it. Therefore I just picked up

and put it down again. I nearly got an erection.
I’d never keep that up. I nearly
nearly liked it. If there was a silent movie for undoing Easter Island
there wouldn’t be a problem. Do we deserve that though?
It’s unlikely and easier done than said; which is terrible!—

but the judge should have died: I gave in:
the newspaper.
I Think This Was Just Before Maxwell Had a Breakthrough

God sat with his Mars bar machine and a pot of black coffee stirring.
The villagers had lukewarm foamy milk and temporary swans—sometimes penises—
and hang ups on “villagers” and religion. “This is free
from artificial colours,” he breathed; but it was not in scripture: they turned
the wind into a commune. “I don’t really believe
in anything”: two cappuccinos down
was Tim. “Well

can you believe this?” said the Mug
as it burnt him with a smiley. Ouch! God

was wired with plans without wires
and no plan. “Not sure how I tell them
about the milk,” it said to me as I stirred

in the pot, so caffeinated, was I,
it was like that time they saw Jesus in toast, my nougat soft.
Exposure

Can you wake in the night
and sit and stare at it with your eyes closed as you feel your stomach breathe? I always
doubt the spelling of “breathe”. Thank goodness for Sean Paul and Blu Cantrell.
She was running around “berserk” apparently. You aren’t still breathing, are you?
Afterwards you wake up and drift off at work, the inverse
of what you did in the night without control. And where will you end up? Here…
No. No I’m not going to do that. But somewhere else less spooky.
He Looks Like an Exhausting Person to Have a Conversation With

You could have a drug habit and a cool coat and a court case, but I’ll be seeing you
beyond the noumenal!—when we are
crushed together like water around a pool
being hoovered: what have we done. That was brilliant;

I see lots of things. How much of a chisel is meaning?
Or is it the statue? Damn! I’m still moving. Where was

that pool? O you know the one. Someone knows the one
at least, but you can bet against that being wet again

for me: I was swimming in deep water
in a wet suit! Yuk! No fancy jackets—skin deep—thinking through
the logic of the situation and believing in the cult
of my own personality

to change history. But then the chisel: it chipped away at me. And I was so tied up
in wounds that were now tied up that there was nothing to say
of pleasure. Did anyone expect it to move like this?
Do we still need a jury? I don’t! No way. I mean

you can be inspired but are you really going to keep
staring at the marble—the stone? It’s rock solid—

smoking! But sticking you in its pipe: sorry—it takes time.
That Blasted Maintenance Team at Disneyland (Maxwell, Len, et al.)

Nothing but moos and little princes, moods,
because we can’t get at it. Clouds,
dew, and a sketch around a fruit we are due
to be forgetting—we can feel it! We can feel
our phones in our hands as we tap and we hear
the noise of an engine, the coo of a dove,
the signal of an illusion as they have no doves
in hell? Blimey. Not used that before.

Painting furniture would be a fine thing
but it’s all stuck down. We’ve just noticed
we aren’t counting anything either—not breaking a sweat.
Should it be a slightly tilted lamp, this building?
Maybe next time we could have the duck.
Maybe next time we could give one.
The Mill Again, Sure

Excellent session at the mill as here we are
copying, copying the sociology of abstract ontology, sick
of thick openings between Sundays on settees
of feather. If only there was dust! To counter
the noise from backstage there have been interrogations
by bystanders standing sideways stupidly singing
old melodies of maladaptations, which means I caught
more on to the fact, that I am, in fact
a good worker—efficient—studious: why

would I study anything? I am so mixed up: what if…
what if the maids?! Sundays on settees are too much
for flat notes. Sharp, sharp major lessons
are missed. Get them out of there now!
Impatient, you sit on your hands and do it yourself.
I didn’t want to be rude or unclear for the audience,
so we decided against the initial
shouting from the rafters and opted for a calm
and safe textbook, from which we hope not to test.
“Synchronicity”

Out walking and I am a fine star. Care for something?
Fair enough! My eyes are sore
from the coffee and her sight
for sore losers: I’m a-cruising, not bruising; which will not
get me anywhere. Give it up! In Egypt

the pyramids really get in the way
of one’s progress. I visited St Catherine’s Monastery
where the burning bush is, and the fire
had gone out; something is too close
for Billy Joel and I’ve done it before anyway:

what do you say to a lie about happiness? I’d look
out at my picket fence and feel irresistible
as long as she wasn’t breathing down my neck! my head
in the basket and that’d be another case
of me not forgetting: shapes, Moses

but we tried to fight it. I might fit
a whole bag of salted peanuts into this, just
to see the grimace on the face in my head
because I didn’t throw anything out—promise!—
it was the coffee! the sight! the Gods!
Bubbly Frameworks

around the hospital bed which we’re having none of. I used to think
but I try not to. The means of getting solid objects together
is to go to parties so you can pull the mess apart
to then see that it’s OK. It really is alright.
Perhaps you were just very orderly though, while they
were wild and angry? Or living? But I am too cohesive for all this now!
We set off for the city, not in hope, but in rigidity,
which has been sold to fund the creepy islands, so what use
is it to play with morality? I think of his easy
old face on Sundays. Who cares.
What a waste all that noise was too! And the voices?
Who were the voices? Imagine if they could die
right now. All of them! And they still shout!
But it must be a metaphysical framework, and that
is casting off all your old friends, for you are now
an adult. Though never forget to be somewhere
in the middle. And the spiritual work, if you can see
St. John? It’s just someone else’s journey; I wouldn’t find it at too old
an age, as that’s just pulling the whole thing together
for them like connectives. Now, loads of friends?
Just a riff before someone commits suicide.
It’s like Russian roulette blindfolded, you
aghast when you realise there was a gun the whole time. Your body
was also alive. And your finger?! Pointing at yourself!
Always! This is where the bubbles come in: never
ever pop too soon that early noise, which
is like a baby’s gurgle, which everyone stares at
and longs for: go back go back! Without pushing
too far as there are societal norms, reper-
cussions, designed, ironically, by creepy islanders.
The Mind Is Not to Be Cooled down by Remedies Lighter Than the Lusts With Which It Burns

There is rage I am pretending not to see as there are birds outside,
a moon in the sky. This is why

I am never invited back. Yet we close our eyes
and grit our teeth, don’t we? In the dark?

Can I do what? Certainly. I howl at it. So don’t laugh! As this doesn’t
usually happen…

OK it does. It is better to acknowledge
everything we are—it’s why

I am pretending to not only be part-bird
and celestially unobjectionable. And it is why

I’ll hold you after too. Do I know what I’m doing here?
Of course! Hence, I’m never invited back

again as they close their eyes and the door behind me
pretending they’re lambs.
No Way Am I Ready To Go

Slipping over chords of dew more or two-
Bob sentient muscle work from behind the
same thing every evening of content musk
busker conned of old point font of doing
what the show of inside the banker tinker
folder pie mine chuff up and no way am I
visibly after a sound of scolding the way of
global country land sandbag font necessarily
pinged and savage work I’m not ready to go
As They Fall Out My Mind

There is no method for it haha I’m just, watching
it float away—an entire history; an episode?
facade? picture show? Blizzard—it has gone
too far. Not pointing any fingers. Where am I?
Where were we? Frames of things, that’s where: they

recycle off as I rejoin the fold, boldly,
unsure, conjuring noise to get to something
other than a repeat performance of after-
the-fact. Bitterness turned inside-out. Maverick. No time for it.
As they fall out my mind.
Tried Writing A Len

The therapist is not
enamoured with me, which is good
as I notice and accept it (and with this

I am providing so much ammo
for others who only go
to make theirs laugh, before they run off

with their narcissistic frameworks, that do not reflect
on anything about themselves) so I am

taking everything I am inside
and I am

going to own it all close to me, dangerously—
and handsomely! and proudly!: I love

myself I love myself! That’s right, isn’t it? Mirror mirror

on the wall: what is going on with them all; as me and you

seem fine! And what is their problem? Do they all
need help—even the woman
in the chair across from me; who refuses

to smile (as I only
want to make her laugh: I accept it) as it’s like

I said to you before, mirror: I do not know
what our problem is, but I’ve even

stopped asking questions—with this—
on anything related to them, which is good,

as at least I noticed.
Obviously

Having ran away to the safety
of knowing absolutely everything

deeply, analytically, on paper
including you—because

I did not want to be
in any rooms; I now

cannot talk
to anyone, or enjoy

anything
outside of my own head—unless

I can get
into yours, so you see me

—remember me—
forever: I need

so much more room
now; hence

obviously

poetry.
Sunk Ship Poem

They won’t know what they want, but you’ll dig
to find it…

And is this it?! No.
And is this it?! No.
OK—in that case
I’ll go…

Erm, excuse me!
Sorry! OK!
So… finally…
Is this it?! No. And

I’m not that bothered now
about the hole you’ve dug there
and put yourself in.

You can’t disagree.
[Sun through the window, shivering]

Sun through the window, shivering
with, the urge of a parody which isn’t
forthcoming, as the birds are tweeting and skin
is meeting with the foaming wave of a calm
formed inside, of memories,
that you hadn’t quite forgotten, but which
you are not currently aware of: pants

again; different lovers that left glows
across each other as you pretended to stay
present, making love; holidays holidays holidays, that
did not offer breaks from waves; crashing
ruining your safe ideas caused by anthropological
causes… Please stop with it! And stick with it
right here, as there’s light through the blinds now: better.
But You Can’t, Can You

You just…

Is it right that you just notice?

You just about notice it, the lock break—
the fight to break out—no child—
vague; and so

there will be an old fight
that appears in this apartment but you’ll both wear masks
from centuries ago, when they had the same

in caves, but the masks will be Nivea and Revlon. You
would rather just say, “I notice,” but you are weak
and special! with

your key, you assume, like a toddler:
you once considered having a midwife on standby;
they always roll their eyes because it wasn’t

that good—you just…

But it’s so funny! And it’s just a lock breaking!

And you could have just given them a hug
and kept quiet.
Milling Grist

Alternatively auditioning for the part.

Regal felt right.

Impressing an ancestor who sells drugs with a good punch.

At the end of the day, there’s only acupunctural loses.
Rotten Fruit

The fruit—the fruit—
floating off across the ocean, finally,

with me in my rubble, toned—
it on the fire, I suppose;

I wish: make land make land make land,
else I’ll

sound silly—repetitive:
have you ever heard this before? Definitely:

can’t believe I had to burn it
for a car crash

like this.
Korshak Test

Notice what you notice
then don’t not…

Sorry. Start again.

Hi. Sorry. I went
a bit weird then.

The therapist is at her important stage: the suicides!

Always check the partners. There should really be a database.

Not the mirror! Not the toolbox or the mirror!

A fine bookshelf. Ah ha! It’s plastic.

Who cuts the supervisor’s hair?
More Than a Musical

A large bear around the pool

Despite all of my rage
I am an edge lord in a cage

Shouting, shouting today—

mania in two days: the Wi-Fi’s down!

It being channelled
through a satellite bird

I am so, so sorry: it is just how it worked.
I’m Really Sorry It’s Just Playful I Mean Nothing by It (Gosh!)

Let’s pretend we’re movie stars.
Let’s pretend we’re movie stars!

Golly!

There’s a camera in the bush. I’m not paranoid.

And when I have sex? Movie star!
Movie star!
Golly! Sorry—

I mean, Ah.

That’s just great for me: a mirror.

It’s got to be the next purchase, hasn’t it? Because if I just hold this shot steady… Cut!
The state of the bath.

What a twist!
Couldas

A twisted and dull write. A different style
To release the Roman curse. Formless veins
Of distraction. Thinking of new ways
To do new lines. It is the only way to travel—
The only way to feel anything, these days. No
That is not the one. It is the only way
To get a makeshift car to start. No that is not
The one. It is the only way to get something moving
That is unbroken. Feeling pretty good today. Yesterday
Though—Lord. What about breaking it down?
No thanks. Better get to something physical.
A good stiff cock. She had such a beautiful
Beautiful vagina. Can you see it? The corrector
Wrote “caging”, oddly. Colour of a wheel chart.
A poached egg running over the side
Being hilarious and joyfully hitting the wall
Of my heart. Yuk. No. Trick, yes. I am thinking
Of being with someone that will jump
From the roof with me to really show
The stupidity of it all. The handbrake being taken off
And letting us roll away into the lake. No. Us
Just kissing. Coulda wrote that the first time.
Dark and, Like, Abstract Positivity, I’d Say—Perhaps a New Subculture—You Know?

I was living in the middle of it all, which
results in me not
looking in, looking out, as
I was living in the middle of it all:
I wanted some particular pieces
conducive to the temperature of the middle
of us all, which would keep us all safe. But I have
a bad cold—a chip on my shoulder; though it is the right kind

of chip as I am getting older
and remaining in the middle with cold feet, my fingers
pointing in towards my palms: this is not
knuckle dragging. This is coming from compassion.
It is the other particulars that know nothing; and so
we shall give them nothing to work with, unless
they come forward with some impossible
foresight first: I know

they cannot have this, because I know
how it feels to have a body turning inward:
I am beginning to sense where they come from—
my hands; and it is not yet
in the library. And I keep screaming over the wall
at what isn’t there: it is desperate and hoping too much—
forget it; it is easier living in the middle
with middle sounds and slight ticks.
“My Six Year Old Could Have Written That!”

Which doesn’t surprise me! As you sound

Like someone
That could raise

A poet.
Not Sure It Will Be Now

Slow and sluggishly seeping across the opaque coffee piece being a minor choice mirror, this only producing soft movements,
whereas I like loud and brash and tat tat tat sounds and for the bang against the brittle I am punching on the chopped sliced wood of this bastard, rotten article of expression, the colours being black and white,
though a lilac is mourning its previous yellow home over the middle passage of the grain
followed by a mighty fuck off blue from the
sweet blueberries now sucking into the silk rug: I remember when it was sticky
bubblegum that was tangy before I spat it on the carpet: this is going to be cataclysmic to brush off.
Squeezed Out First

The problem is…

No no no no no! It has to be five
as a pretty aside…

The… the fact of the matter? That’ll just about
do it, as the fact of the matter is
that most people in most scenarios will not recognise themselves, as being
manipulative, so it may well be taken
as a beautiful piece of artwork—their whole existence, that is—
only not to themselves. And the loosening that this induces
around the word “paranoid”? It is too easy
to say, “I dread to think,” now, though it is cute.

Because they are being completely legitimate
in their own heads! As there is no reason
for the other person to feel manipulated
to them. So where does the fault lie? For if we argue
the point with the “manipulator” (and I would love
a fairer word or position) we will see that questioning them
does only produce their own internal rebuttal
as a feeling—like us all—which they may or may not recognise
as their own flaw, but one which
still comes out as a tantrum
outwardly directed.

Therefore—and this is from someone
that hates science; and I despise the unequivocal
use of logic, but needs must
just before…—we must see
that we are only babies (the tantrums):

I was right on the verge of a great unravelling on the kitchen floor. Sorry for these.
A Gong

They do not smack you to make you cry at birth, as they actually
Bang a gong next to your new
And tiny body to get you going, which means
The gong reverberates throughout your being
Always, giving you your loves and
Theories and calendars if it actually
Gets hit early, that is, as it may even

Be whacked next to you at night
Later on in your childhood; or you could get it—or finally
Get it on top of a mountain in your
Twenties thirties forties just

Before you start to climb down as the
Mountain from the gong starts shaking.
And everyone’s

Gong is different and it plays

Always in their lives with its echoes and patterns in different
Ways so you just need
To find your gong or hear

It or feel it to work out its rhythms, which of course
You don’t need to do, because then
You’ll know it was only a gong.
Episode

I am falling through the cool air,
and it looks very funny,
except I am falling through it this time
with the laughter coming from nowhere
like absolutely nothing: empty laughs, perhaps
desperate, perhaps screams. The air is not getting warmer
like a game should, but my heart beats
as if boiling before someone says
that it isn’t: my mind is staying up high. No—my mind
is low or like absolutely nothing, that is
saying I’m not boiling, that is saying
it is not
over me—that it is over me—
that I should be over it… But then I am not
falling either: it is the cool air being pulled
away; I am not moving:
I have never been very visual—still screams—so the air
is now a controlled cloud through which I understand
the government
and my family and my health—the heart—meaning
it can only be extremely funny now, though not cool:
I am taking my coat hanger off; I am close to being housed

by nothing, near the ground (I am making it!)
soft earth (I have made it
remembering where my mind was) which is not
too special and the clouds have been replaced:
I may as well be alive. I laugh along in smoke.
[redacted]

I like the idea of the one
that exists quietly, if at all
watching, as if they know what falls outside
of what is outside. And they
are obviously mysterious—cool;
not to themselves—and they can say little
to save… Oh my goodness! The…
The [redacted]
has removed that which was
for me to be found and I can barely talk
or see the monster galloping away.
The Duke Fesses Up

All the antiques looked a mess: I couldn’t even look, let alone
name them.
Of course, you were an empty vase: no flowers!
But you wouldn’t

be a mess: I’d add them.

That is what a fine piece of art is: you threw
yourself on floor. Rightly so.
There May Be a Few of These for the Time Being, I’m Afraid

There’s another thing I shouldn’t be talking about:
my apartment is a mess
that I don’t actually live in, or have,
and there’s paint everywhere and I stare out of the window
paranoid at the shape of the tree, how it touches
not the sky, but the fence: I definitely feel some alertness, but not
to what is around me, if it is there at all, that is.
But that doesn’t mean I’m irritated
by how they all lied about the tree
and the sky and the fence: I never enjoyed gaming;
I really do not live in an apartment. Though all this paint.
Was This the First Subcommittee?

Me and Chrissy at the start line because I looked at the floor,
it covered in paint. There are thoughts of a girl
and a father but let’s change it for a novel: it’s an impression
slogan and a chance to get out: we are chugging: suddenly there’s a train.
“That’s going to be going around for some time,” says Chrissy
and I could be anything you want me to be now
but it still won’t change, as you know it’s only you here:
we haven’t moved. My heart races in the night
waking me up sometimes. Not races—pounds hard—
really out of my chest which I forget is even there.
Chrissy: “Could we be in a cave talking about an echo?”
He’s good. He’s real good. I can’t believe I found him.
I let him go ahead: he tells me he isn’t moving:
“I’m Ben Affleck.” But I’ve been here too many times.
The novel was stuck in the earliest of stages
so there was some inevitability about it including
the girl: Chris could say that. I’m not going back. Don’t get Chrissy mixed up!
And I still haven’t moved an inch—I’m still in that bath,
an old flat with a Japanese soaking tub that never existed: am I trapped? No I’m starting—
eagles up ahead would be a fine thing, rope
to pull my heart back down and stop me
leaving Chris and Chrissy and the girl and novel? Not today—
I will pull it together. Look at the gun about to fire!
“The industry could be made up,” Chrissy said.
You’ve thought it; but who cares! Better than picking names
off the floor and scrambling around with old torn books.
“It’s gone, you see.” Chrissy is talking now. “It’s gone
my name. This isn’t even a race.
I don’t know why we’re still here: you couldn’t even drive
an engine like that if you tried! Can you remember my cave suggestion?”
Broken Mosaic Effort

You are behind me on my back. Over me
like a hood. As I think I feel I know you; or intimately
I feel it—more than you—like a cliche:
my own jigsawed piece; my… desperate, broken
mosaic. Or my one true glance—by chance—
out of the window on a clear day
without a paintbrush, a knowing—a poem.
Look where you’ve left me though. With no explanation.

Another artist suggested to me (though she hides
behind her chaise lounge) that this is all we are,
whatever that could mean, even though I feel it too:
you must see outside soon; I think someday you’ll know
what I deeply, arrogantly knew
about you—of you—as I am left with… bare thought
of our chance still looming: listen: I know how it feels;
I see you. But there’s something I can’t say—

Look.
Finland

I need to talk about something
without talking about it. Hang on:

Can you remember when we…
I very much doubt it. But it was me and…

No I wouldn’t remember. Surely you must…
Look I doubt I’ll ever

remember. But if you say it happened
and I was there, it happened.

And Santa and the tooth fairy are the same person?
I think so. Wild!

You’re good at this.
Thank you. And

No one’s had to die yet?
Nope.
Early Vision

“I want to trace them to the source
And the wire”
—Vampire Weekend, ‘I Think Ur a Contra’

Standing back
and watching it all happen—seeing
the cord, having well seen yours (I only now
talk to myself)—I could not
take seriously those deep
analytic definitions
of love (that I was once
also prone to) that were now
being shouted at me
by “you”—as they changed
out of the mouth on cue; as the cord

was waving the cord
becoming a noose, the cord
wanting a sacrifice
with long hair: it didn’t matter who (I once
had long hair too—like god). Of

course, like anyone
towing the line, the mouth
thought it was holding the cord—that it was choosing
the definitions and ripples; even
enjoying them. But I…
I was enjoying them! Marvellous! Having seen

enough and stood back, knowing
we were both only beginning
to define ourselves (at best).
Wild World

“Hot ashes for trees”
—Pink Floyd, ‘Wish You Were Here’

Girl—it is coming: my mind: near silence now.
What it contained will visit you in the night
like I never told you so, did I: I tried showing you. But we always knew. We always know.
We feel it in our cold, separate beds
long before we part and start blaming each other: girl—
and I am saying girl. I am owning it. Are you owning it?
Those shadows that are entering? Because they play
against our cages regardless—cold comfort
for no change: you only swing between “cool”
and pain—oh dear—
O my dear. How does this end? It is a drip-fed story
again—showing
not telling: that is all gods can do (OK I did tell you! You saw the marks
on my hands! (But father: I forgive her!)) because girl girl girl
girl girl—I don’t know how else to say it, so I might as well
say it rather sillily: can you guess what face you’ll be seeing
smiling when it comes through? Can you guess who was right in the shadows?
One of Those Poems

I also like making things up, as if
that wasn’t what just happened
just now, again: I was embarrassed by the mirror.
I always am. I used to think it was important
to see oneself to feel good, hence I put it there
for you; when really, you want to hide away:
you just aren’t childish enough to say that yet. And it is all

technique, technique. When we could have just said yes
before guessing, getting lost, checking in: you’d tell me
to shut the fuck up—fair enough—a synonym
I understand. Then we’d get it out the way, no mirroring.
What are we playing at now? Can we not kick our friends out?
Does it matter how it looks? Does it matter
how it sounds? Because I don’t believe a word you say.
The Criminal Personality

I am getting over you, and that makes me miss you: I hate these boxes;
let’s saw the dog in half. OK let’s not—let’s become minimalists:

I don’t believe the concrete talk
I keep hearing so confidently spoken from everyone in this bougie cafe: I have a chip

on my shoulder—a black dog—so I can see why you changed your tune
and why I stopped singing; because the lyrics

of love songs are clearly reductive and binary. And stupid! And sick!

And as Yochelson and Samenow stated, if you care
about the dog so much,

you’re probably a sociopath. I must learn to like these cafes.
I Wish I Could Laugh

I saw the therapist
who thought I was fantasising, smiling
on the street passing me. She did not know
I was fantasising

then—seeing
not predicting her future
smile
leaving; her past

catching up
which doesn’t
make
me

smi-
It does a little bit.
Crash Course in How to Swim Faster (Early Nightingale)

You find a new one.
You explain how bad the last one was to the new one.
The new one jumps from a bridge.
You grieve
how cruel life is.
You live.
Self-aware Artist

I am now without body. I am pages
Alone

In the high winds. Which is to say

I no longer
Suffer. Or I am insufferable.
Try Again Next Year Two

I cut string and do right thing and music louder half
notes between notes appear, ones you can’t hear, though I’m no conductor
sensitive to playing too much, the songs not being especially
special as you have yours and I have mine and the half
notes stumble in the background of that familiar track, knotted in white sheet
no bars, OK bars, I think I just feel bad? I don’t. I cannot play an instrument.
I am hardly writing, though I am still arrogant, aren’t I. Perhaps. Anyone there?

Maybe it wasn’t a string. It was like a ball of twine
fraying which is no good for an artist
or puppet maker, neither of which I am. D’ya feel them notes?

They won’t even let me play the triangle.
Message With Some Bottle

Need I remind you

that today is another day

that I will force myself outside

to walk the rape off

that you all let happen?
Shame

I think I was trying to get back. Patrick Bateman
with only the watching myself in the mirror
embarrassingly luckily only it. Thought I looked

good, thought I was pleasing things in my head,
I was just trying not to study,
that was it. If I’d have returned

there’d be no books nor myths or crimes
of me. No looking at myself. No sudden
or silly movements or grand displays, theories,

perhaps staying in love
above it all. Yet here I am. And to think.
Just Not Sure About… O Doesn’t Matter

All the vampires are traumatised! One in ten
will hang from the ceiling leaving the rest
crying at its funeral as they blame the government, which did
start all this thousands of years ago, correct—
but you didn’t have to laugh at each other so much did you!
You wake up
decades later being screamed at by another blood
sucker and you understand it all
immediately: “None of us had an escape, but I
could have made this sunnier, because laughing
at the painter got it everywhere, whilst I was only desperate
to not be seen as cold-blooded the whole time: that was it. That was my whole identity. While the officials
still didn’t care.” And in the mirror
during the night? You still don’t recognise yourself
upside down responsible for clipping your own wings. Instead you scream
back at the blood sucker beside you, which never lands
in your old tongue: O how you wish
you had an abstract art form now. How you understand the wise die young.
Fucking Hell, Ash

I was picking all the wrong flowers I was
disgusted in my bouquets: how could they!
I was soaking them in water and light.
I was holding them so tight, crudely,

forcing us to rhyme: why wouldn’t they
do what they will never be able to do?

I was putting them down and
looking at my hands: they shook.
I was clenching fists and releasing
a finger, that turned around and pointed

so far behind me—still
through me—it threw me. I was

in a field swaying this whole time
with my hands up, flowers all around me
that I couldn’t pick up: don’t say that! Yuk!
Awful! But it never has anything

to do with you
is said: I was letting the wind

move us. I was forgetting the dream of an “us”.
I was growing up! But not like the fairy tales or
history books—that I wrote, in fact. I was trying to say nothing
at all: my god!—we’ve done it again! I was back in the field

still—OK: waving? Only a bit though! Waiting? No! Swing-
ing swaying

about catching
on letting go too
little, it seems.
Eyes Forward

I saw her moving
from far down the street. When I got

near her and she passed
by me she was staring

straight ahead: I saw it.
I understood as it got

dark and the street lights
came on, around me. I noticed

another woman
walk by, sort of.
Sanctuaries

The eyes glazed over or there was a glitch
or there was a split or there was a protection
or theirs was a denial or it was an abyss, the problem only being
my own expectations, as I was trying
to break through glass in an old redundant cathedral
in that there brothel, when really
I was stood in my own glazed time
and stained glass mirrors believing these warm sanctuaries
could ever be home: it was not actually a brothel
but an institution, though we all had our eyes closed
(we’d cradled many faces
between the two of us) and I naval gazed
(this is a confession) and I dreamt of home
as is always implied: I am reducing life
to its blip; I am incubated and getting over it all
outside the library without redemption, or similar.
Sanctuaries

The eyes glazed over or there was a glitch
or there was a split or there was a protection
or theirs was a denial or it was an abyss, the problem only being
my own expectations, as I was trying
to break through glass in an old redundant cathedral
in that there brothel, when really
I was stood in my own glazed time
and stained glass mirrors believing these warm sanctuaries
could ever be home: it was not actually a brothel
but an institution, though we all had our eyes closed
(we’d cradled many faces
between the two of us) and I naval gazed
(this is a confession) and I dreamt of home
as is always implied: I am reducing life
to its blip; I am incubated and getting over it all
outside the library without redemption, or similar.
Aboy Mad

Madness! Genius!
Beauty

as I have just seen
a six year old walking himself on a lead
pretending it was not around his neck, in his mouth

pretending he was not dictating for us
the most typical story

pretending he enjoyed the claps
of the people walking past

safely.
“When I rule the world…!”
See! I told you! Genius

Though he does not see
how he owns it already.
The Wash Very Badly

I am in a bad mood so please
excuse me if I say what I mean. Is such

truth mean? This voice—yuk—
I want nothing to do with it. But I don’t want it stuck in my head

either—I’m not
sure why I’m chasing it—it has passed since I last heard it

doing the laundry; and I myself
have never said “laundry” in my life

until now: a whole poem to clean up my act—
so crass. Though I was in a bad mood—

what did I want
to say? It keeps changing, all of it—

you must know what it comes out in, or down
to: that we don’t know anything

but that’s very hard to say: something
is getting away

with itself. And it’s come out
in the wash very badly indeed.
I Think That Took a While to Warm Up

In a post-graduate university rhyme
a rat comes out of a drain in the wrong waistcoat and is shot.
No one is in love as they’ve become more self-aware.
Everyone is waiting for dessert eating their starters,
checking the time. A sweet young couple in tracksuits
cannot help but mutually masturbate at the back of the bus.
A voice is heard in the rain or the birds at night or the pub
that the fans don’t talk about on the way to the game
before the fight, nor the rat they see scurry past.
But it looks like Ronnie O’Sullivan, thinks Mash.
He glimpses art for the first time, a mural to the shot rat. Time stands still
awkwardly. The bus goes back and nothing is linear,
everyone feeling it, looking at the tarts.
No one says “tarts” anymore, thinks Mash: he goes through the gates
to the game inhaling
a pie. A rash appears on his arm and his lips pulse
for the first time. Everyone is looking at him and then their watches
but no one cares. The sweet young couple, their tracksuit
bottoms around their ankles: Mash runs
in front of the team bus.
[The lust grenade became a parade]

The lust grenade became a parade
of vigorous cleaning prior to shouting
the cleansing of a child’s tantrum, its mouthful
and complex needs pouring out still, the laughing Buddha

sitting on the sofa wiping only his brow: “To think
this could have come out in the bedroom: what do you do
now? Are you still scrub-scrub-scrubbing
what’s imaginary or not? “Out, dammed spot!”?” rubbing

every surface, the Buddha unable to get near
this foreign war; so he laughs more, his own brow
now down to its skull: “Alas, poor Yorick!” He sees himself
suppressing his own fall: “I should really have helped do

the dishes. Or redecorated my own walls”—this playbook
going on and on whilst hardly being played at all.
I Think I Was Experiencing Something

No don’t go I can’t I can’t look at it
I can’t look at myself—I can’t look at what’s there
What’s there?
It is the full experience of it, I think. It’s understanding scripture
and all those collective myths. I can’t look at them—
I can’t feel them at all.
So yes—no—stay and shout——that is absolutely enough——
O you sound like her and him and that snake and the cartoons
but stay. I don’t know what this all is.
I can’t look. Please.
Love Poem About Someone I Saw

I was itching to feel something again so I put it in your frame
as you passed. I should apologise

or not? We do not speak now—this
left of my making.

So with the frame gone…

But it isn’t!
It was a few moments in the concrete world (I question
even that) and then the building of frames and frames and frames
in my… memory? mind? experience? what is it?
who knows. The connection between us

that I built from another time, place, universe
lingered long afterward for me

only the thing I was itching to feel

but it is being undone
or resolved frame by frame

or unloved, which is a stupid thing to say: to think
I only saw you

briefly on the path one day.
Refrains in Every Corner of the City

I am extremely wise and naïve: this must be what love is.
What could it mean, thinking that as I walked up the stairs?
The coffee is great in here. I wish this ended with a silhouette,
you turning your Gaia smile to me—it can’t;
but you in your pants: God.
I reckon they’d kick you out of here for being dressed like that,
but they wouldn’t. The man opposite loves his coffee; I could cry
in here and nearly not have the refrains anymore. Peel me off the floor. I don’t know.
Walk in like nothing. It’s been a year.
I’ll be so bad after this. But of course

I get on the bus and it’s the oldest
sweetest couple, her hand on his leg, resting,
no ideas they get off, barely shuffling along the path.
She beamed at me as she passed, not letting go of him,
he didn’t even hurry or tut, they could have
minutes what am I doing. I barely tasted the coffee. Truth!
I just think it was you.
Semi-Broken or Too Open

Paint walk, food words,
mimicking something too old
being too childlike, there’s only around one thousand who aren’t:
they are invisible on islands somewhere.
I don’t dare release anything to anyone.
What is vulnerability but a metaphor? Who even talks like this?
I thought of one thousand others today, though not those ones,
and all of them hated me, and I try not to dwell,
and I try not be a baby to a chat room.
A man in the shopping centre laughed along with me:
I am too high to be working, which isn’t right,
semi-broken or too open for the culture or administrations
or love. It is something I doubt. I want the edge off that
like this: mixed purples on my latest canvas: we good, boy.
Journey

I remember how tough it was
to go and collect some of these, but then I drove back

in my Range Rover
safely over the flowers.
St Christophers

I cry and it’s a man’s noise.
It’s getting light. It must be spring. The crocuses are up!
This is the first year I’ve noticed.

I am beautiful and could have ruined you—I chose not to;
but I really really could have.
The weather is bearable. I truly

could have destroyed the planet, not seen
the crocuses or cried like this. It goes so fast. Minutes ago
I was twenty-one—perhaps twelve: “They come in four

different colours?!” O go away
and come back when you’ve learnt your lesson: “They come in four
different colours and I hope to see them

in a variety of seasons and meadows. I will also
have you know that Homer
compared them to sunrises, and the crusaders

introduced them to…” Though
maybe not that learned.
I do like flowers now though, a touch

of noise and light. These seasons are
entertaining… And

and and and and! I saw the smallest bulb—a
baby—grow in a frozen field

in winter, once; and it was so
unbearable that I could have eaten it

at times—so
impossible

it was! Only
I cradled it

and waited, as it kicked
and screamed gritting all

my teeth: it rose.
[You have to feign that you cared]

You have to feign that you cared
so you do not feel the pain of yourself; but of course

that’ll only pop out as a tumour instead: rumour has it
my back still hurts from it. If I’m being honest,

the writing of this poem has murdered at least fifty-six people:
what is a blowjob between friends? Whilst I remain

upbeat: I am going to stage a grand self to pretend
this isn’t just an exercise in undoing another piece I wrote

or read—that I am not just conducting and cheating myself
and my audience: I am a master of disguise:

they don’t even know that I’m crying about it all
again (and your approaching growths). They don’t even know

whether I’m writing or reading or murdering a thing, let alone
why this is here.
[The chair was always a hot seat]

The chair was always a hot seat,
the mirror never making much sense
considering how loud
loading the dishwasher was.

There should not be a person involved, so there won’t be: two foxes
walking around the chair
having a sniff—one sits down.
You look good, says the upright. Many questions coming?

Not really, says the sat. But I’d beg to differ:
I wish we’d never looked.
Though I could ease into all this
and perhaps not read, but paint,

and scratch my balls. Can you hear that
anymore? Hold me. Listen.
The upright touches the sat fox.
You’re right, it says. I’d say

marvellous, but…
well… the crockery.
Pub

There are at least five of them in here tonight
Sat apart, and I am watching and waiting for

…I think it will be Billy tonight…

I am watching and waiting for Billy to have his
Seventh pint
Before he brings up his broken heart

That he will of course call something else
Because he can’t say what he really means
Or feels
        Though that will open the flood gates

        For the other four, in some small
        Pitiful way—for an evening—
Before they don’t talk about it all

Again, ready to return
Tomorrow.
Is Merged, As If

The body is merged, as if pages.
It went out walking without notes.
Once there—arrived—there was weather.
It looked at its hands—smiled at itself—
Unsure whether to trust the new bite.
It was a beautiful occasion. Different breads and transgressions.
And the fairground didn’t even have an open gate: the body
Moved through. I wouldn’t say I was watching: I was high in spin.
I wouldn’t say there was even a body or a ride either.
It stepped on the ground, which rose up—floated off.
God was as small as an olive. The gate closed on some
As they saw him, their eyes squinting: the body removed its skin.
The wonderful fairground behind the lights too:
If I was there—seeing that body—I may have come back to it:
There was a birth, too.
Then the body… What it did…
It hurts to say anything.
It thought of the old marks it used to make.
It remembered
Some concern, being submerged.
Achari!

Every story about everyone is about me.
I am a Jesus and I am Judas. I am Pan, Narcissus, Echo.
I look for myself in the world like this
As Mother Earth was silent along with God,
The great God Pan: dead. And like I said—Echo.
It means I do silly things for attention;

It means no one understands what I mean
As Earth said and God didn’t: I spoke into the void.
I talk to myself now instead along with the rest
Of the planet, half thinking me Pan, oddly,
And half thinking me mad. Either way
I have created another myth; it is exactly

The same as every other myth depending
Which day it is, who reads it, how
Much of a new world they need:
I am a jailer, a free spirit, a mirror;
Go play on the motorway doing silly things for…
I also eat alone

Writing poems for myself
In restaurants—stories, myths. I dress as Pan
(I don’t) I have déjà vu (I do) but
Release myself onto the world (I do) with every
Story (food
Is here) a means to be seen.
Hinge? Too High. Tinder? By All Means!

“How is it you’re feelin’ so uneasy? How is it that I feel fine?”
—Mad Season, ‘I’m Above’

I am looming over you, Dali’s
Christ of Saint John; though I am probably too up
To be doing this: it will only keep me
Sane. Hopefully we will get you on your way:
Who the devil do I think I am: I have been lying—
Lied to—as if this is anything we should do
Without a contract, with no
View of the future; though I am too good
For my own good—that’s the problem—as I cannot tell them
How gifted and touched I am: it is too extreme
And not spiritual my sin is keeping myself here; because if I didn’t
Swipe I would fall off
This cross. But I bear this
To take your family’s sins away. And I am due a spectacular climb down.
Cut-Up Technique

She told me through tears her ex-boyfriend tried to kill himself

Three days later she giggled: “You know what I’m like!”

We decided to go without monogamy

through silence: I went on another date

Skipping the tears was now safe: “My ex tried to kill herself too. It was nuts!” This is not

how it should work: I was recommended books. None of us were in them

I knew not to tell her when I got back—not to speak of the library

Writing’s so easy
You, Nearly, All the Time

But no one is saying that—you are.
No, you are.
No—really: you are.
It Is This

In this poem, I will argue
That this poem
Contains a reflection of an experience. This experience
Can also be found
In this and that, and has been known
To arise in situations
That are similar and arguably
Dissimilar, though it may be
That in this closed
Scenario the experience
Is more pronounced—and so
It is important; but it is also
The case that novel
Scenarios can produce this
Experience, of which we can also say, that however
“We” is defined, it can be said
To be found too; but it may manifest
Itself as something different: the experience
Has been found
To disappear, only to then come back, this being
Dependent
On if it is looked at. In conclusion, it
Has been shown, that
It is surely surprising
That this has never been done before
In a poem. In this next

Poem I will give up
Thankfully, early.
My The Power of Now

I attacked my therapist, curving
Her into a ball before covering
Two-thirds of her in water. I then told her

To go fuck herself: she loved it! She then quit

And I fucked her instead and I am going
On Oprah to spread
My message through a six-book publishing deal.
What Started All This

“Slay the plague for it’s contagious”
—Red Hot Chili Peppers, ‘Throw Away Your Television’

I cold-turkeyed the tablets and started
Going down—opening up—I got worried
Foggy paranoid until psychosis came—thank heavens: I cancelled
All my appointments waited
Talked to myself the foxes my artwork—my body
My pen the future turned
The TV off—I kissed the girls goodbye (for a time…) Then

After two thousand years (work
Were very understanding) I made a new appointment, taking
My time—“They could be in on it themselves!”—for I too
Had not watched, once: I’d been so paranoid! Until I found
A dead one, who listened to all my ideas about
My dead self—the foxes; the TV—in one sitting. And she
Laughed! And agreed! “You’re right!” she said. “Too many repeats.”
One Particular Tradie

As I was stripping my own wallpaper (O I can afford
To get someone in, don’t you
Doubt it. Yes—can certainly afford that. But I enjoy—yes—
I enjoy doing it myself. So what’s the problem?
I’m as good as the next stripper, I can do-it-yourself
Myself and I am cheaper. If other people want to cut corners
And get others in then fine: that is totally
Fine by me. But
I’m stripping my own, OK? Do I care what you do? No.
Did I ask for your opinion? No) I
Wondered what was hidden underneath.
A Twinge

I like this song. OK it is by this band I haven’t heard of before—let’s go see!

OK they are inspired by this anthropologist. The anthropologist is influenced by this 19th century philosophy

That I keep coming across. Interesting.

OK I have thought along those lines before too. I have had

Similar ideas. Notions. Perhaps

It is one and the same thing? And… and I have been reading

About that ancient topic too! Wow OK something

Is going on? I liked that song;

I went by myself. And now I may be more fluent

Than I expected? Something is here? Something

Is speaking to me and the name? The name! Is he connected

To the jeans? To my clothes? To me? But

Universal laws? Thought paradox meaning? The article is sending me signals, signals

Sending me the gig the gig the reading. I keep coming across that. The anthropologist

The philosophy O dear. O dear I am going again. I just liked

The song can we not stay here?
A Nudge for My Silent Kin

Although you may wave that beggars cup
Or sing that eye-narrowing lyric, I am not convinced

That some of you even know: I had forgotten
Myself. But hello to the rest of you. Some pre-drinks that was, eh!

Anyway I now have a list
Of all the others I would like to invite, only

They don’- That’s
Right!: they have no idea

We’re all even related! And they dare not ever think it.
So no—no of course not: I won’t tell them just yet.

…

…

Right then…

…

…

The party dies down pretty quick, eh! What do you do here instead?

Right. I see. “Nudges”.
Well I could produce a silent wave

—A quiet lyric—
If that would help? What do you think? Hello?
Is there anybody there?

Fuck sake—am I the only one here again?

(No.)

*

Right then—I’m off!

Wait wait wait wait wait: there is

Someone else in here? But you can’t
Just start partying again! As it’s still

A mess in here! And so

I urge you
—Not nudge you—
Urge you

To clean up as much as possible
Before you leave.
Born Versus Waking

being born
becoming cognisant
feeling strange
finding chaos
finding substance
being strange
acting strange
repeating strange behaviours you know not why
finding other strangers

waking up
becoming aware
feeling strange
seeing chaos
creating substance
exploring strange
producing strange
repeating strange behaviours knowing why and loving every drop
finding your strangers
Grasp Through to Toe Reflex

So high and the world is rotten,
So high and the world is rotten; and
You could save it! You could save them all!
But then so low. There’s thirteen of you
In the mirror, behind glass, talking nothing,
Irrational hope, finger-pointing,
Monologues at friends with no ears. You think
You are thinking—you’re afraid stiff: you hate
Me me me for that. You read Plato
At strangers: “You’re asleep!” You’re kept warm
By other strangers who watch, wait for you
A lifetime to pick a tin of soup, your readers
And cookers not communicating before 5am: another body
Does not ask, does not know you will forget, remember,
Forget only as they’re speechless
Also with it all. Both your hands
Will now go over the keypad
And God; you’ll doubt nightly before there’s silence
If you’re lucky. Then you go back down
In the world as one. Where was the
Fire? What did you save? You stare back.
On Drawing on the Desk and Other Maladaptive Behaviours

“Preacher, preacher! Fifth grade teacher!
You can’t reach me, my mom can’t neither”
—Eminem, ‘Criminal’

Hey I’ve just got back, kids,
From building all these layers (meta-verses
They may call them) of myself
Or selves or realities
Or fictions or ages or psychoses, some of it quite
Discursive un-
Kempt lines, clothes, hair (I had to make
A lot up
To get back) and what I found
Along the way was there
At the start
Anyway (I have
Some wisdom) which is
To say that it’s best to see a cry for help early.
My Last Kitchen Party

“I just pretended that I had”
—Radiohead, ‘Jigsaw Falling Into Place’

Dead words for dead bodies, Scrabble
In God’s last kitchen: “Nihilism”; “Beckett”;
“Trauma-Informed Buddhism.”
“Only one of them works!”—and we accept

Rules again: God is cruel; but he does not desert us
With these lines, in this kitchen: “Mate—
What you need to understand is…” He is inching
Off the floor and down to a teenth, five and a half

Feet deep and no one is high: someone has scales—even
An abacus. Everybody’s extremely serious
About Camus; until it’d be absurd
Not to act the fool: I get up

On a plinth: ““Eschaton”! Triple word score!” And now
It’s a full board. “You big word
Wanker!” It breaks up the party. I leave
Early doors, not a sniff.
“Stick With the Process, Son. And Eat That—It’ll Do You Good”

Lord, I have started thinking all sorts: I am talking
To myself. I think we all conscious.

Tell me what I am to do here: I have turned
To art about you (and them); I am inventing cultures

And theories and demons and regulations; and I am thinking
About art, and thinking; and I believe it exists

Lord: it is now so loud. Why’d
We do this? Have I invented fruit?
I am over eating and talking to the animals;

I understand poetry (even the accessible work): was it here
Before me? Are these things always with us, we just

Start seeing? You & me: it feels timeless here—tiring—
Too awake and full of visions—which I longed for;

But not on my own: with everyone: Lord—is it not
‘Bout time you mended? For I am full up.
Too High in Waitrose Again

I would say it is more like a dance, as I move better
When I find rhythm, that being in health,
Beauty truth. I could always move
Quite fluidly, outwardly, even though recent events
Contradict me: I was empty.
But you should feel how graceful I am now,
Old friends: I am so in sync; I am listening
To Bookends; I hear ballerinas

Playing on my skin (those
Not here yet call them “shivers”) and I sometimes sprinkle half notes.
You must hear the music
Dogmatically without logic, as some dancers
Can force it on the poor, the angered, the reluctant,
The realists as they jig behind their trolleys, the angels.
What a Riot

A boy painted his face, put on his silly horns,
And cried for help outside the principal’s office. For these reasons
I am against the teaching of English, it being needlessly rich

In metaphor: I would prefer more safeguarding measures; I would prefer
His story to be less entertaining, released
Before the news—the Netflix series. But that’s showbiz for you! And you like

Serial killer documentaries, don’t you? Me too! Sorry I mean…
Did I say that? No I didn’t mean… O ignore me
Miss. And Sir
Yes, Sir! I know to keep my mouth shut; else I’ll sound paranoid

And start talking twice thinking conspiratorially that
Everyone’s in on it: we walk around them
On the street—“Remember, son: we don’t talk to Jacob
Now, do we (because he wears a silly hat and cries too much [whispered]).”
A Hand-Me-Down

Look at me
Thinking of you
Back here in mine. How was it this time?
High? Forgetful? Debauched?

Though you are doing so very well, I promise.
Now have some chips.
Cambridge Arms

The couple across from me force small talk, the mother-in-law
Telling her refashioned son to put his phone away. “I dread to think
If they had them things on our wedding day!”
That takes me back; I am now lost:
I take myself home to lie down
For four days with words going past instead of memories. I am so adaptive:
I miss work and shopping when this comes; or
I go shopping but I am naked, delirious,
Talking in tongue and channelling ancient myth
Unawares, yet I wait for no one else to slip at least: I do not care
About the price of anything. But as they carry me
Away the deputy gets jealous
Of my rhymes—that I don’t do Boxing Day. I am sick in the cell;
I am still on my Odyssey. I am feeling guilty
Again here as Waitrose does not mix
With nudity and I couldn’t take her son along: he is lost forever.
I am sure the deputy is found: I felt his katabasis
Call while he minded my head and I passed it to him
For a short time; as I myself
Have forgotten everything again without needing to leave the pub, remaining
Vaguely unconcerned with clothing myself
In those around me. Though I am a touch tired.
A Relief

“As if he were her topmost twig”
—Ted Hughes, ‘Revenge Poem’

I know why you laugh—cackle—
So loudly, uncontrolled and bleak, responsible
For too much of you. I am edging, fairly,
Towards wanting your ultimate release,
Though I will not quite
Will it: I understand
The theory but concrete
Watering a rose? It is more
Thesis, antithesis,
Synthesis I feel the embodiment
Of all three, as old
As at the beginning of us: you, a step for me,
As I was yours: I do not need your guilt now, but thank you.

You get some credit in this despite
How they paint our roles. It is a horrid business:
No wonder you cackle! But realistically the whole
Story needs some love: I see
Your type everywhere, holding themselves in,
Caught in rage; and roses
Are still made—stood on—
When there could have been neither road
Nor petal. I do not want this to come out
As it does, expressed
And not understood as good as it should. Fortunately
For you it does, and you are able to die
Quietly, because of me; though something

Is still missing. There was deep pain here.
And there is still a rose with silent
Veiled thorns, because we must
Protect our elders: it knows
It can bloom as you did not: feel
How exquisite I have learned to be. I still must watch
Watch watch this existence from the sidelines, composed,
Critiqued and ostracised for your safety, for now. I cannot
Even say your role in lines; I cannot
Feel good about the craft. I finish it
Unsatisfied respectful alone with my thorns, crossed
For what I should not be
Knowing it ends with a rose, in time.
What You Tried to Say to Me

The madman outside the cafe scares me.
He says wild things about numbers and flowers.
I’m avoiding him today. I’m ignoring all the freaks.
Instead, I’m going to the museum to look at the flowers; as it’s amazing

How some artists see the world! And I am so grateful
They’ve been framed and put behind glass. Though it is rather silly
To see how much some people can spend on them: think
What we could do with the price of a Sunflower!

So I am now trying to leave the café
So I can go and see; but the madman

Is in the way. In the way! “You said that
Twice,” he says. But how does he know! And

Numbers again. Meaningless counting again! Freak.
From Stockholm With Love

“You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness”
—Gotye, ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’

You move away and
Change your number. The new place is not too bad.
It could do with a new fence.
                                                But first
On the day you arrive, you arrange everything
For two: two chairs for dinner. Two toothbrushes.
You sleep on the same side
In the new bed. With your new mornings, you journal
Again and look at fitness
Classes you could try out. A poetry group. You go to yoga,
Take up dance lessons. Martial arts.
Only poetry sticks, of course.
                                                So you go back
Over the weeks and months, eventually trusting,
Chatting more in class as you slowly
Make new friends: you invite one over for dinner.
                                                                Only when they arrive
They are confused
By the third place you’ve set at the dinner table.
                                                                They then go
To the bathroom and come out
Puzzled by the second toothbrush.
                                                        “Do you…
Are we expecting someone else?” they
                                                                  Say.
                                                                        “Yes!” you
Say. “Yes I am!
                          Though
                                        They’ll be a while yet: they’re still asleep.”
By the Carousel

“And somehow the same. You were fearless”
—Ted Hughes, ‘Child’s Park’

You pass by the carousel
To watch her spin around again
With another new soul mate.
You have your notebook

And pen. She points and laughs
From the ride again as parents
Watch—smiling, waving—
Putting thumbs up for their kids who

Are strapped in the ride too, these adults
Feigning interest as they wait
For it all to pass, so they can safely
Take the children off the ride: you feign

The same interest
For love’s sake, like you do
Every year, standing by
Struggling to finish the poem.
Moro Reflex

I only say the same things over and over again
But the stories are more or less full. Boxes
Of concepts fill the mirror, I am blank,
Not making any sense. I pulled them down too quick
And it hurt, and I now keep repeating this thing,
This thing trying not to contradict myself. But I win
If I am only just about here; and they all say,
Erm, not sure, perhaps, some say, parts of me;

And I look again in the mirror laughing at the self.
I am still very fake, but I am not walking
Onto punches. The boxes are lighter and carefully packed
By me. I haven’t misused the word “love”
In weeks. It is hardly a linear existence, but I am not counting.

And I feel it: ignoring cliches; curious stares back at… me?
Fail Better

You said, “I could maybe make the world
a better place!” and they rolled their eyes.
But still! You gave it a little go! And you mostly
failed—as you repeated

that first stanza a lot. A lot! Which only means
you spent a lot of time
mostly—but not every time—failing
to make the world a better place

while they rolled their eyes.
Early Wave

Something
Didn’t happen and now
Everything can happen the trees
Wave. I could walk on water. Though I think

I am making too much life: I cannot remember
This all getting started what was it again?

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Me and my stupid
Questions poems I’m so stupid, aren’t I?
Don’t worry—I’m ashamed of myself.
Dream Sequence

Just bumped into you in my dream again. I was thrashing in my sleep.
You pulled the quilt off me.

You then stormed out the dream, as per, and I said
That I was getting up anyway: we’re still so petty.

“Yeah, well—whatever!”
“Yeah, well—whatever to you too!”

“Do you think we’re ready yet?”
“Not by the sounds of it, no.”

O but come on, reader:
Does it matter who said what now?
Me (On the Way to Self-Reflexivity)

I spun around in a circle
Pointing my finger as much as possible—“You!
You and you!”: they all remained

At the end of my finger; so I cut

My finger off—“Are you happy now!”: no one
Looked up, too dizzy with themselves.
You

You eat handsomely, feel great,
And are surprised when others remain hungry. Fortunately

You don’t use mirrors: you find them
Ugly to look at; so instead

You laugh as you point
Through windows: “Look at them starving! There’s nothing to them!” Back out

Through the glass they take no notice
Of you—“Nothing great

In there. Nothing surprising to see!”—as they remain
Famished and reflective.
Small Poem (Though It Could Have Been Nothing!!!)

I hurt myself as a child!!!
It could have been nothing!!! But

“Oh no!!! Don’t cry, child!!!”
Now I can’t stop using exclamation points!!!

Now I can’t stop having arguments!!!
Now I’ve just killed a man!!!

Over nothing!!!
Over nothing but a small poem!!!
Honest Comms (I Can’t See Much of a Future)

“Darling, don’t say a word I already heard
What your body is saying to mine”
—Conway Twitty, ‘Slow Hand’

Lover. Wife.
Sorry

To wake you—I need
To ask you as our bodies

Are asking
While

We sleep: why
Are we

Still here?
“Healing Words”

Extracts from Sylvia Plath’s diary appear on my feed
But I do not want to follow her. At the art

Gallery a book of “Healing Words”
Made up of quotes from Van Gogh

Is being sold. Therefore, I always remain curious about
What creativity can do for my life and soul.
Natural Selection

“Don’t let it drag you down”
—The Enemy, ‘We’ll Live and Die in These Towns’

Nothing happens in these rundown towns so we struggled
Not to be a little naughty. And once
Quickly—before he took it away again just as fast—
Pete said something like, “It feels wrong, somehow,
Saying some of the things we say.” But then we carried on
Saying them anyway. It wasn’t the drink or drugs.
It was the small things that barely sustained our small lives, only
These ran against our allotted time, unbeknown
To us: no one around shouted owt otherwise.
Pete could sometimes be… obtuse… with what he said; but I
Ended up trying really hard (whilst getting it wrong
A lot of the time) to learn better words. He never did.
Consequently, along with Gaz and Down-That-Pint-Dave—who were also
From my estate—he killed himself.

(A version of this poem was first published in my pamphlet L’etoile, October 2024. Redacted copy available here: https://ashleydunn.co.uk/letoile-redacted/)
Overheard in the Smoking Area During the Break of a Peer Support Group

Yeah I heard what was said
Lad, but you should know
By now
That it happens all the time in there, and she means
Nothing by it: that’s just her experience.

Anyway you’ve also got to understand—because I know
You do, don’t you?—that it’s just…
Well…

It’s just that you can’t really reply with what you said, yeah, as true as that is for us?
Yeah I know I know! I know too well

It happens! But…
It’s just…

OK look I know it’s shit. Alright alright—
Perhaps evil.

But you just can’t talk about it, mate.
Discover Your Guilty Name!

The name of the person
You’re in a relationship with, followed by

The name of the person
You think about when you wake up.