Ribs

Springs dig in my ribs

As I reverse from 

vivid trips,

distorted relationships.

Ones I hope won't outlive 

this feeling of _springs in my ribs

Springs dig in my ribs 

As reality hits, I remember social distances...

And throughout the day

I may have to unbuild such extensions 

Repair make belief bridges.  

Realise I never rode space mountain. 

It was just me asleep.

Pyro pink

Sea swimmers have soup in their veins 

I push a pram away from the sun, 

 transfixed on its stand off with the moon 

It backs down and bleaches the sky pyro pink... 

Others no longer focused on patchwork pavements either. 

 

Weather proof

 From creosote

To when we were shaking 

Dead fire coals as spring unfolds 

A familiar beautiful wasted space 

Why didn't this add up?

All these times were weather proof 

for me, not you. 

Wonderland we're holding hands

Somewhere between a dead charade and a glue eyed dance.

An old one excerpt from my song the Magpie Turns. Just a bit of winter imagery. 

It's Autumn

When the day is done at 5.

And smoke perfumes the past.

And Shiny Happy People*

is a meal supplement.

And the last office lights 

make you feel she's gone for good. 

 

It's Autumn. 

(walking home) 

shiny happy people* by R.E.M  

Bleach blonde hair

Bleach blonde hair half tied

Her family are the only ones who ride 

without masks. 

Caught somewhere between a pandemic and a farce

Her kid's tablet is a never ending peace treaty 

She's on her last legs but hasn't any to stand on 

But for a few hours it will be lights out 

nestle her head in to other problems 

Relentless texts from an ex. 

A stream of empty politics, 

and shut her eyes to Talk show hosts 

who shout at her through the television set. 

(my best bet)

Blue vein lips

 Her chin rests on her hand

And her eyes rest ahead of her heart

And in the bar. I'm a shadow. 

She has blue vein lips on

Stood at the back of the room 

And no matter how hard I tried 

I couldn't get through. 

I'd never move

I’d never move 

When Sunday opened it’s legs

for Monday far too easily, 

I would never move.

There were never many stills of us 

making the most of the passing hours 

My memory couldn't focus, 

from the station blank, still can't.

By the time it does 

I realise that every memory passed 

was the greatest work of fiction 

(based loosely on us)

(written a while back but realised I never shared it)

Burnt sweet potato, pigeon blood

Memories of this place.

Burnt sweet potato.
Pigeon blood.
It wouldn't come up

A 2 bed rental.
Housed our birthing pool.
Stagnant water from a stay in hospital.

 First responders and midwife  treads

An untouched courtyard.
Plans of plants just roots in our heads

An unhinged neighbour. A freedom fighter
left drowning in his stereo, the night before 

Rat Olympics from the kitchen to the bin store . 

And a landlord second toke nonchalance  

But Our little carpet crawler, new knees, the bees knees, we could've been
in a tent and still been happy with him. A new lease of life.

Every moment marked in these four walls. (but any)

Every moment now flaking paint in a world pandemic 

Having to downsize due to COVID19

Barking too

Night time, she coughed...

and woke a sleeping dog.

The other side of the park.

The dog howled and others joined in

Owners showed their mettle by barking too.

This was the most industrial action
she'd seen in her life time.

SafeTerrain

Somewhere between
blue air and
turbulence.
Spirit drunk,
I keep company
with four walls
& a grey dewy morning

And I'm in safe terrain

I live in a neighbourhood

Up on the hill tops
Oak bed posts have stood forever
But as we descend the hill further
her bed frame can hardly take any more
Her place surrounded by
a war zone of refuse and shards of glass
As she does most things men ask
Until she has enough to cover her rent.

I live in a neighbourhood.

The Motor

Note to her, him and me.

Attach yourself to
to the motor.

Not your ego.
Or those playing virtue notes dirty.

When drowning other boats
is the sum of Christ like purpose
not the maths of a worthy cause.

Attach yourself to
the motor.

And just keep going.

ascents and descents

Sea water salt,
my legs, the stairs,
the backward steps
the mass I shed
as I headed
up coves and coves

The descent, wrapped in the
smell of bush
the boat watchers
the sea a stomach
soothing relief or
longer harder my steps

And new shoulders weekends
Make amends, give the blues more than you
Formulated faith, soak it up
Never fail a serotonin shot
Keep face until one too many
and then you'll hear a broken record
of sorry slurs. A broken verse
Nothing new emerged

I'm stuck with paint dry sentiment.
Cemented. Sleep walking through the past.

The first bird song

I can hear the first bird song
through the baby monitor

Feeling like I last ate 3 meals ago

In the dark drive
where blues run the game*
could be consequential to the day

The birds and their sleeping audience
have so much to say

about that.

blues run the game* by Jackson.C.Frank

The Kitchen

Everything happened in the kitchen.
She was sentenced to life
but a week before
couldn't believe the time
went so quick
but we became a dying horse
under beating pressure.

Everything happened in the kitchen
the twin towers took hold of the planes
Your Dad explained we'd never forget this day
The papers asked if it was the end of the world
Nostradamus sleeping still in his grave

Everything happened in the kitchen
Legs made a v and eyes marked the sky
 but then we disagreed
until the water, either way,. ran dry

Everything happened in the kitchen.
Well, not everything but a lot.

No formula

2020 and we see the staples
in a society of stockpilers
How many configure.
It's a squeeze to get on the first train
at the expense of a neighbour's sway

some cupboards full
without a care for those
who must entertain hunger and
then bathe in their own shit
that's before we've gotten to the pandemic

My wife must solely feed our baby next week
Because there's no formula in a pandemic.

Trust me

Trust me to have writers block in a pandemic.
I'm not seeing anyone about the town though! Most of my writing is done on bus journeys, but I haven't been on a bus in months. Anyway...Here is something I started. 

Cars line the front
as if they are in mourning
They'll soon get moved along
by heads who don't need
the sea to stomach
their thoughts today.


ps music production is kicking off with more time I have. Expect to see more music on here than writing perhaps?

Petrol

I wrote this with 'I trawl the megahertz' in mind. Everything feels pretty surreal! 
March 20.
Petrol never smelt so pure...

Mask on. A nurse, slumped at
the back of an empty bus,
can barely afford the sunshine.
She is on a conference call
to a fantasy land where there
are no ladders and she is
royalty through occupation alone.

Earphones in. 
She is miles away from an eviction notice
and every mile she runs is for her thought process alone. 
She has money untied in her account
that can be any currency but sterling.
She's just awaiting the gun.

But as the driver puts his foot down
she is rocked back to reality,
A witness to groups flocking beaches.
Hoarders who would let their neighbours swim
then drown in their own waste.
They've been taught to fend for
themselves for years, 
when were they suddenly going to change?

She realises that her time on the front line will be an age.

Beyond this time is white noise.
No cornerman or hydration
But if she could hazard a hope
she'd be in a cafe in central Paris.
Awaiting a Calvados, followed by a stroll along the seine
Ready to be swept off her feet by moonlight.
Watching the tower lights. but until then...

she sets foot in the elevator,

and realises her time on the front line will be an age.

Hi Vis

Homelessness in a hi vis
locked in the commute
of sharply dressed suits
Trying to double
their lung capacity
with half of his

But for that hi vis
he'd simply be homeless.

For Roo

As Schubert offers an upright,
to those fixed, blue eyes
ascends the octaves over the house,
Our time gently flies
A morning sweep, curtain beams,

I come to the conclusion
that you'll be in an observatory one day
If not by occupation then certainly in spirit.

And, at times, the world will try
and remove you from these observations
and I will try and keep you with them

It will be a tug of war until my end.