POEM : A letterbox eating a blue door, is similar to kissing your own face

When you return it will feel like this.

The delicate balance of the sky can be interrupted by empty feet,

balancing on wire.

We will record the soft sounds of a geometric fringe,

and photograph the nature of resurrected butterflies.

In the evening we will make up worlds to sum up our feelings,

and when the butterflies emerge like the edge of a wrist,

we will once again idolise the necessities of a warm spoon.

The feelings ascend and immortalise on ink and paper,

suspended on black string museums.

Dinosaurs with the dreams of infinity, blue like floating marble structures,

stretch the arm of god,

and volcanoes fill with the means to pronounce the word love.

The good thing about our faces, is that they are very head specific.

The romanticised action of kissing time with light, entangles our delicate patterns,

and throws me into the fantasy of tree trunks.

POEM : The Varying Sounds of Grass

The moment has passed. like a lifetime of crumbling ruin,

gravity succeeds in its will to illuminate.

A building with no walls.

The grass remains,

dry and brittle,

the more I pick, the further away from the door I become.

Does grass even have a door? Does grammar intentionally whore reality?

A misnomer.

A baboon with the face of a doctor, the instruments of a cloud,

and rain infinitely at it's disposal.

Little money spider, why is the ground so dry and relinquished of handles?

I can't seem to go anywhere.

The thoughts of clouds are as insignificant as the empty paradigms of mud.

The wind is the reconciliation of belligerent humidity,

with the modest handshake of perspiration.

I was describing you today to someone who's never met you before.

"She's quite small, dark hair, good dress sense...?" I said...


"Ok..." I continued...
"do you know when you have a pair of favourite trousers,
and they comfortably mould themselves around your legs
and before you even realise,
you've had these trousers on
for nearly five months.

You check the pockets
and slide in your hands
turning them inside out
finding tiny particles of dust
remnants of places you've been
records of things you've bought
perhaps some loose change
and sometimes
on the odd occasion
you'll be lucky enough to find
a perfectly edible sweet
sleeping in its wrapper
like a ladybird
in sugary hibernation
or occasionally
a pound coin
tumbles into your hand
rolling into existence
like a sunrise falling out of the sea
and you feel a compassionate
warming sensation
momentarily
dancing across your body
and your wait for warmer weather
has arrived
but in this impermanent instance
you quietly appreciate it
and you are blessed with the illusion
that the universe
actually cares.


well, she looks exactly how that feels."

Vegetables and Phantoms

It is in this exact moment that all my senses are receptive, and not properly functioning simultaneously.

We sat in the dark on the settee, and hadn't talked for some time.

I looked down from the living room window at a group of middle aged people gathered around as an opera singer sheepishly signed autographs, edging away, until eventually disappearing down the street.

"I sometimes sit on that chair" he said "and look down the street, sometimes smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea."

Three people, all dressed in neon golf attire, fumble with physics as they struggle to remove themselves from a taxi.

I began to look around at the surrounding buildings, the majority with darkened windows, like wet mascara eyes smudging down their rain soaked dusty bricks.

"It's funny how people never look up" I said aloud, but partially to myself.

"Even god must get bored."

I was still waiting for the cup of tea that never came. A poignant analogy of most people's lives.

We talked more about menial things, drug dealers and John Keates. I read 'To Autunm' although I'm not a fan of the old romantic era.

This city is a docile giant.

"Are you supposed to put a goldfish straight into the bath?" I asked.

"No man! It kills them, they have a heart attack!" He replied.

I couldn't help but think that the fish was dead, and somehow better of this way, not languidly floating around in yesterdays skin.

We said our goodbyes and I returned to my flat. I flicked on the lights and peered into the bath to see the goldfish motionless. "Shit"

I lowered myself to the edge of the bath tub and dipped my finger in, and to my surprise the fish swam away, seemingly, it was just in a state of suspended torpor.

Maybe that's what we all need - a cold bath to feel the waking effects of a heart attack, and the enormous probing finger of curiosity, to push us through the vast, wet banality of drowning in our own existence.

Automatic writing 1

Silver wrapper glides illustriously, the gem should see as the trees move closer.

Im not moving but things seem closer. I'm not going to stop but the slapping of thighs is filtering into my pocket. What do you think we are all doing differently?

Soupault measures the beautiful system of insignificance with accurate indifference.

Look at me and go to sleep, but don't complain about your swollen eyes.

Afternoon dialectics with the reincarnation of Max Ernst

I imagine that we are both fatigued, yet you have removed yourself and reappeared more than I have cared to count.

We look at each other as your legs dance.

Are we both pondering the pleasures of the dream? Recording the patterns of the day that are manifesting like string and vibrations.

Do you know what it feels like to be Andre Masson? His drawings never disappoint,

but I admire your frottage.

Is it wrong that I wear blue shoes to give me a sense of what the sky feels like?

Jean Arp painted the bottom half of his house blue to give the illusion that it was floating.

Aren't we all just pertaining to an existence that's intangible, a feeling that's transcendent?

Like putting a mirror on the face of a dog,

to give a feigned sense of our unmitigated loyalty.

We are creatures not designed with the capacity to improve.

Are you listening?

Well, forget everything I've just said. We only surround ourselves with the people who are most similar to us, and tell me, what company do you keep, if you are not content with yourself?

We were transient symmetry only three weeks into existence, with three hundred cells between us,

yet you are so content with idling away the world on my sleeve,

with all the fervent poeticism of Camus, without having read a single word.

We should all replace our heads with mirrors,

so we can see how stupid and blind we all look,

longing for the feathers of birds,

but emerging with the wings of flies.

BIRDS : 01