I can’t wait to fall asleep, soft
and slow as a cloud dispersing.
With that ache and contrast shift where
things disappear and become blur,
words disconnect and disengage
and the images dance amongst
the silence. When mouths open, then
the silence deepens. I can’t find
the werewithal to concentrate.
I am a lizard with a tongue
slipping out fast to taste the air
in a desert and my light muse
water has been destroyed by sun
scratching its fingers over all,
leaving hot and cracked marks. Scuttle
into shadow, and soon the cold
is within. I can’t think to do
anything. I lie in the warm
glow of the new LED bulb
and stare at the ceiling. The word
approaches when, failing to find
my muse, I fall backwards in the
dark, and the she catches my shoulders
in an eldritch trust exercise.
I sit and play around with you
like a dolphin enjoying the
water round a quiet ship – ice
soon takes the water and I leave.
A buttercup has been crushed here
all its petals are gone. I want
to find the key to unlock you –
not to know you, just to see a
smile break. Then a dog wanders up
oh holy dog. Accomplishes
with presence what I had failed at
attempting to stand on my head!
Sophie the dog gets scratched and I
see George Trakl’s pastoral field
scattered with corpses and blue mist
over the nebulae of grass
evaporate under our field
borrowed here on Hampstead Heath, sun
is altered and wizened by the
clouds that pile like a rock slide.
The entire sky is the open eye
of god, examining us
up close. And so few conclusions
are drawn. The eye begins to close
Coming home on a long warm night
where the air takes the noise of keys
and holds it cupped in its hand like
a ladybird which alighted
on the hand, and is climbing up.
Coming home after mild concern
has flared in a blank stare forward
and later a stratified phase
of conversation while the feet
hit their warm rubber on the path.
Coming home after talk of trade
and politics and other large
and uncontrollable forces
which fluctuate like black storms do,
hung waiting behind the buildings
on your right, and seen between them.
To say power is power just
raises violence to a law
and that seems a dull reversal.
There are as many reasons to
do a thing historically as
there are to do a thing today
at least, and as reasons densen
a cool breeze blows over the street
Matsuo Bashō reigns his horse
in and stops a moment. After
several seconds of cool sweat
pearls his forehead, he moves to grasp
some scrap paper. Ahead, the shrine
hung on the priest’s back sways buddha
slowly to enlightenment. I
think to write this poem as I
walk in the sun uphill and out
of the city. Some very apt
resonances would have been sought.
Between my walk and the journey
he took, ready to become close
to things which want their expression
in the form of a clear cut haiku.
As it is I had to take the
bus. Nevertheless, I think to
write this poem on the bus, yet
I see the wonderful smile and
mouse laugh of a girl I now know.
She tells me of the peregrines
nesting in the uni tower.
So, finally, I note this down.
I don’t think it turned out so bad
The way the world works is different
each day, i see new shadows bloom
and then germinate, I suppose
a lot in this explanation
and so of course I must admit
exceptions to everything said.
like the overheating light is
the exception to the sun’s warmth
of character. i admit that
one point of view is not enough
to view the other points, that is
if you want to create pure space
to breathe. If you make exceptions
by habit, soon you will see that
simple graces of the sun rise
are an exception to the dark
and everything will deafen you
with magnitude. I have a cup
of mint tea every now and then.
My body thinks that everything is
a treat, and surely exceptions
can be thought up to that as well.
but what am i saying? something.
ideas can be e-mailed to
How the suddenness of sunset
shapes a cultural relation
with light and dark, that is, with all
that light and rock can come to be
which is to say, all metaphors
will seem sharper, more cut and dry
humour may become less widespread.
when dark comes on like a sudden
realisation that you left doors
unlocked throughout your life, the past
is compromised, you may become
less happy with a vague object
such objects may leave you stranded.
with nothing more certain to say
you see the sharp edge of the knife
as more useful. Is this the case?
The heat at the equator makes
mistakes, when the hot air shivers
and the moon sees the sky ripple.
before night pours out through cracks
Then in the morning piles of books
lie scattered like hot forest mulch
on tables in the market. Free
from dust the air seems unhealthy
Oh my god we were all such dolts
in high school. I say that, but what
are you going to do about
it? I mean myself. I only
live to apologise for my
past crimes. it gives me something to
hope for. All of a sudden I
see sun I see everything seems
poetic to me again. must
do better. just that time of year
when life seems written by Hiyao
Miyazaki and my high school
wrongs seem a warm subplot with which
to throw shade. context on current
millennial life. we have phones.
I turn up the soundtrack. I turn
to Spirited Away, where ghosts
are turned and made to serve children.
river spirits and lake spirits
are high. here in the city trees
spread blossom around like golden
syrup on my unseasonal
thoughts. I drop my sister at the
café to meet a guy and drive