He coughs up slugs
From a paper bag mouth,
Ruins daylight
With his flat cap,
Scratches obscenities
In the soil with a stick
And groans from his chest
At the dogs as they sniff.
He back-heels snails
Into bleak thorn bushes,
Ruins moonlight
With a smoking pipe,
Fills up benches
With a sprawling laze,
And flicks cigarette butts
At the birds.
By talking to him
And not looking in his eyes
I grew to like him slowly.
She’s a breath
That took the breeze and ran,
Swept with formations
And cool see-through skin,
A space in the diary,
A taste in the throat,
Forever away,
A face on a wave.
She’s a breath catching dust,
The seeds on a draught,
A blink between road signs,
A whistle in spring,
Paced by the summer air,
Whisked by a coming storm,
She is rainfall in the distance,
A looming, moving force.
There it lay
At 2pm
On a Sunday
Afternoon,
The withering balloon,
Creeping along
At 3pm,
Hissing out
It’s helium soul
Through a fingered hole.
Wheezing still
At 4pm,
It lasted well,
Far too well,
The dead rubber shell.
Wrinkled flat
At 5pm,
Spitting
Pity and pain,
No longer a game.
The balloon,
A picture of childhood innocence,
A picture of simplified love,
Now lies flapping,
But my dreams
Still walk behind you
Silently smelling
Your fresh perfume trail.
Overlooking the land
Where neon lights
Crease the river
And the concrete mountains
Rise without apology,
A spot where the past
Now nestles
Underneath metal jaws,
Giants of glass
Staring down at the scenes.
On a soft hillside lying
Against the hustling thrive,
Magpies trotting,
Bagpipes echoing
As the wind strokes the future
And whistles with calm.
Trust is a glove
Waiting for a hand
To fill it,
Beauty is just
A set of shapes
You somehow
Connect with wonder,
Happiness is a laughter
That stays
Well clear of thought
And holds you
Like a wrestler
Until the madness starts.
Lying under a
Fallen ceiling,
Destroying ants
With my fingers
And tasting the dirt
On the floor,
My tongue
Is a blanket
On a now
Broken bed.
There were
Songs here once,
Memories that smelt
Like a buffet,
Well-organised food
Strewn beautifully
Across the room,
Alive from the hands
Of a mother’s
Plump ego.
The crimson
Sounds of ringing
Sit oozing
From my ears,
Trickles that tickle
Like scurrying mice
Across the heavenly lap
Of a vicar’s
Virgin daughter,
A numbness pervading,
A lesson in learning.
There is little
Time to waste,
Questions
Are mounting,
Laughter
Lies punctured,
Silence is growing,
It’s a barren situation,
The crack of twenty ribs,
A seed upon the concrete,
A sparrow in the sky.
The city is screaming with wonder,
Every emotion has found itself a light,
Taxi drivers wave at one another,
Invisible theatres move.
There’s a music in the air,
Celebrity look-a-likes relax,
Policemen drink cocktails,
Wandering widows shift their tears,
Beggars dance beneath the glow
Of the largest coke can in the world,
Delusion drifts with the storm clouds,
But hope brings a silver-lining.
We are well within the bubble now,
Our last song is an echo,
We could throw ourselves on moving cars
And still feel born to win,
There’s a moment in the madness,
There’s a moment we locked eyes,
We could talk until the bars burnt down
And the time has now arrived.
Slacker Shack