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That would be good
Like Burt Reynolds beating the shit out of someone
With strings and sunlight and Lauren Hutton afterwards
Glass of wine and a sports car
Some stale love song

In reeking swirls of syntax and poetry
With the rise and rhythm of a symphony
Everything applauded
Rewarded
With grace and favour of the world

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if you were summer
in the autumn
you would be as sweet
with beads of winter on your brow
and snow fall at your feet

From Television/2

I have seen whale-sharks taking krill

In great swirls of ocean splendour

Settled with dust of newborn planets

And have not moved a muscle

Only finger lifted

Sat in silence staring

At something I forgot

I have touched a ring of flowers held by morning

Drunk the soft curves of her neck

The way an insect moves a meadow

The way a summer slips through grass

Alone in this circuitry and light

Through fractured trees leaving voices

On a flickering wave of static

In a radio dream of silence

From Television/

A horse staring at a camera

And through technology staring at me

In glassy blackness

Hanging telephone awareness

Where blind men speak the secret stars

This strange connect so mute and stupid

Windows windows into nothing

A reminder from our sponsors

To tell me who I am

More often than my family

For a fraction of the cost

While Crazy Bob’s gone mad on prices

And we are not at War

And we are not at War

In seconds of television

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Neon paints a sunset

So soft to trick the eye

These are the fleeting faces

You see before you die

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Talking in your sleep

Is my favourite time of all

Through a window of words

Into the tick-and-tock of your soul

A glimpse of us as glorious

Mad and bright as winter stars

Sung from heavens corner

And darkest of all for mine

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The Sun upon the river is the colour of the colour of the Sun

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Saw the black stones stare
At scissor birds that flew
Cutting holes straight into space
Past silhouette trees
Where the shadow of something gone
Casts a spell upon the silence

Wednesday

Wednesday
Wednesday the twenty-something
And I've got a bad feeling
Running late
Out of the window
Over the gate
Bird song sings and the cat is hungry
Lingering with her question-mark tail
Wednesday
And something in the walls is cracked and dripping:
The poor creature in the cupboard cannot bare it:
His lungs are mottled and he can barely
Crawl across the floor at night
Wednesday’s stick like calories, they stay with you,
Like every bad thing you’ve ever done
Like every good idea you can’t remember
Every Wednesday takes a week off the end of your life.

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Sometimes it sticks
That it feels
Like I felt already
And if I just turn around
I‘d see myself
Writing this line
Writing this line

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I could never capture them
The soft ways you were beautiful
In pictures & letters you evaded me
Like a name written in smoke
Or a bug on the page of a book
It could not see to read

maybe

ask me and i would
in a blind second
far from here
forgotten forever with you
in a skip of heart beats
lying broken on your body
drunk and drowned with kisses
lost in mind and matter

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found your mouth in the dark
like a weed through a wall
searches for the smiling sun
and climbs blindly toward heaven

god is a christmas card that used to be a tree

5a.m.

grey sky frozen
and there's beauty
in the smoke-stacking chimney that billows
from the hospital furnace
where souls of stillborn babies
rise to rejoin the Universe
and cold streets awash with rats and windbitten faces
that would smile at me if they could.
this conquered city, making tired love
blessed and empty with litter
like the pages of a book
I dare not dream
where the dawn is a darkening day,
and a memory erased out of need
crawling from the shadows of itself

where are you now
little thing that i love
lost in hospital
here and there
making the world feel big
i remember the moon
looked small in your eyes
smiling like a crooked morning
from the corners of your mouth

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you are that windswept sparrow song
torn through tangled trees and gone
you are the bleaching bones that sing
on dusty shores of everything

further

Further out this time
Into the dark dragging sea
Eyes clouded and black
But with phosphorent green swimming
In the depths
Where drowned lovers labour
And the bones of the old sailors sing
The cold blood and lungs of the Universe
That rolling engine of time
Roaring in my ears
Rusted with the ash of stars.

observed

Old Woman on the bus
Coughing like a wet bucket
Rasps on every breath to her husband;
The silent foil
Aimlessly on-and-on
Like a break in conversation could kill her.
Something desperate in her recollections
As a fading photocopy, that thins and forgets itself
This inward outward monologue
Reminds us she's alive
But running on vapour now
Her memory dissolving as she speaks
About what she said, to whom, and why
And I am slowly nodding, along with her old man
At this mouldering ember of life
Tottering on the edge of oblivion
Knowing that the end is really nothing
But a break in conversation
When a husband remembers his wife.

fags

there's a world without cigarettes
but i can't find it
beyond the tips of my fingers
further than the end of my face
this taste of things to come
this slow subconscious suicide
has swallowed me like a secret

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underwater
far from here
the ocean breathes
like a sleeping giant
on a bed of murdered mountains
in the arms of sunken sailors
a barrelling roar that only bends with distance

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in the corridor
shadows lick the wall
like smiles after sunset
deep in a memory mine
with the cold rattle and shriek
of a shiver that made you smile