when I grow up

When I grow up
I will be a recluse, and a poet
watching the brick wall for indications of
an inner beauty, patterns of sense in red and
brown red, angular spaces of rough grey
will I see faces in the grass and concrete and
faces in the patterns on bathroom floors and
stains in the corridor
fleeting memories of what I can't see
movement in language of
the opening of layered yellow
incantations of life

when I grow up
I will be a habit and an impulse
breathing shallow smoke filled breaths of
cumulative tiredness
watching repeated patterns of
life's patterns refusing to give in to
slowing fingers and strained mind
timed by the length of ash trails
quantified by hurt and joy
wandering grey idol of the lack of being

when I grow up
I will be clear and alive
or I hope I will
or I hope I will

When I grow up
I will have scars on my hands
not from working but from rough prayer
to gods of longevity and ego and faith
digging through sharp, heavy ground to find
sustenance in the foundation of love
refusing to give in to the separations caused by
my lack of extra-dimensional awareness

but I could see it for a little while
please believe that I could see it

an unworthy poem, written in a worthy notebook

And you are,
A scarf, and things,
Blue and green with,
Streaks of acceptance.

And you are, a solid eye,
Staring with honest energy,
Placed across the couch in,
My mind.

And I am,
Wishing I could see your,
Scarf more clearly,
And see the weary inside it,
Scared of my pen and mind.

I'm a wolf, just,
A psychic vampire, strung out,
On the junk of emotion,

And you are,
So,
So,
So many branches of light,
If I could grasp it,
If I could just be a leaf.

poetry cafe number 2

And I'm here

among the wood grained dark stained

flat tables of cubed sweetness

ailing books with cracked spines

practised cryogenics and god

if I could spell it with seas

if I could fly over low oceans

dipping beneath the harsh waves of

crumpled reality and

forced memory

meaning from bed to heart to head and

plastered from bed to heart to head and

mixed flavours of forced spelling

and I'm here

among wood grained light stained

curved chairs with scuffed post-punk

ailing souls with the need for a fluke

a fleeting flute shrill

twittering through electronic windows

if I could spell it with care

seeping through wide cracks of

garish bravery

gaunt aches of the head and heart and

I'm here

thinking of what I could do about

think of what I should do about

thinking all the time

I'm here amongst the white brick readings

growing up in Reading, city of every state

springing through fields of repeated sentiment

finding new townes and boss weights

shivering with the anticipation of the next word

and I'm here

and I never quite finish

and I'm

I'm just

a work in progress

What can I see with my dying eyes?

As words and numbers sink into textures and shadows

have I seen too far into the all of being

expanding my vision, blurring my resolution so that I might fit it all in?

As the details hide behind

my inability to focus

squinting to read road signs and facial expressions

gasping through semi-closed eyes for the knowledge of vision

as they wilt

as the colours around me

blend into bleeding patterns of

undisclosed

details

de-tailed quetzalcoatl

soaring god of the crowded city

casting glaring branches of light across the sky

destroying my eyes

what can I see with my dying eyes?

As have expanding as my squinting

grapsing as as blended disclosure

details de-tailed soaring casting destroying

what can I see with my dying eyes?

As grasping details

what can I see with my dying eyes?

Less and less every day

what can I see with my dying eyes?

Less than before

less than before

poetry cafe number 1

He, in wired coat of flax and followed slant

breathing deep the argonaughts breath of deep

seeing eyes of the eternal nonsense

opened to the callous float of blown up ideals

of anarchy

and anarchism

undulating thugs fleeing through flowing streets

spraying dissent across meaningless concrete

soul-less hyphenation and baseless promises of safety

left to harmonize with the hopeless day

sighing that infinite breath of contention into the hearts of

the young

the youngism

the schism between squalid brown glaciers of upturned mud

glowing with the post-coital bliss of anti-capitalism

each of us carry with us the spark this same spark of idiocy

clamouring for the correct way to express our dread

will I kill today?

Oh father molog

will I kill today?

Oh mother azathoth

goddess of non-gendered destruction

touch us through our shaken shoulders, through the wired coats and the grey hoodies

through the streets of contention

through the houses of dictators

through the mud and the dirt

and the love and the hurt

through the rhyme and the sky

through the questions and unacceptable answers

through the green and black crossed youth of futures hope

through the yellow and black of baseless copulation

through the rape of our families

through the gauntlet of doubt

through the wormhole of Lycanthropy

through the glory of repitition

will I kill today?

Oh brother steadman

steady oh shading the harsh perfect light

shaded by incandescence and signified verbal halitosis

allowing our creativity to bleed through our gums

allowing the scurvy sickness of realities harsh caverns

lighting our way through validity and context

will I die today?

Oh sister moon

and will you cry when I stop thinking your name?

Will we ever sit again, and will I spell your three letter name with hope, or regret, or kindness,

or nothing

Will I die today

oh fleeting collective

of crass and bloodied faces

facets of bloodied facts

sanguine money pushers of normality and appeasement

of leaves and of awakening

of meaning and meaninglessness

of esses and nesses and lochs and

quays

of myth and of fucking

Will I die today?

Oh feeling of doubt

I cannot deny you

I refuse to die without you

Will I die today?

Oh guru nothing

OHHHHMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

an old poem, written on a receipt

If I was a crow

and was a bird and

had wings

and could do certain

things in the sky

with those

wings

I might fly to you

and peck on your

window

and if I was that

bird with wings

would you think

I was a blackbird?

and would I remind

you of a favorite song?

and would you

sing it to me?

and would I be able

to hear it through

your window, with

my tiny bird ears?

I don't know

it's just a thought

these are answers

are they questions
have I done it
wrong?

is it a question
have I done it
wrong?

am I casting
cellophane
anchors?

do I know the
clear, crumpled
answers?

have I discarded the
slight itching
reminder of
why the
why of
which answers can
fly across
barriers of
ignorance
trying to
try too
hard to
three
for everything
I
see

am I asking questions?
are they questions?
is it a question?

or have I seen the horizons edge
and glinting jewel of
the pinwheels edge
and

are these questions?
have I done it
wrong?