Tuesday, 13 September 2016

Reluctant Bus Sounds Shanty

Coded Beltane not with Aspartame
called muck splits syndrome. Put on
up On diner no white sick. That disgusts
you. Just build eyesore on a sack lament

churched. Now in new misery put out
anew guilt fresh always crush transportation
methods in the gesture of your silent knell
then split then split back together. On

to new world the object fluid is tear is
split on me On open your aspic hood clasp
to rat out your identity play. No on gate
while the leaves fall tearingly sad its us.

Possessed possessed with a hone of flick
to load into what care I support I do
flat in bed whince upon their hurried
teeth to gangway apart the door.

Sunday, 11 September 2016


As part of your straw or dust hazard a guess at this thing is hurting me. Me that was doesn't understand it standing in a screaming into a bin on Western Road there the hold tight monograph your face made up is made up.

Sing the notes descendant on a part, a part broken.

Monday, 5 September 2016

First Disposal


    of disposal
    of human

    Fuck  the  schools

    we're  in  need  of
    disposal. No more listeners:

     sometimes   away  the   crossing
     voice. Curling   sea,, away

     where     are     you;     what've we

     lost    you.

     those. Those were   difficult   days
     for    me   I   said   they   were   hard

     they  were  nothing   just
     like  now  the  days  are  not

     passing      are blanks
     signals  of

     what's   what it's like
     to   be  gone  where   are   you  fascists

     like   to  self  identify. we're not;

Community Care reported that over 2,100 mental health beds have been closed in the UK since April 2011 with 468 beds closing during 2014 alone. In addition funding for home treatment teams has been cut by almost two percent whilst referrals to them rose by 16%.e.

Friday, 2 September 2016

Rain for Viola


to Jazz Malkin

     Dear friend, the rain as we hear it tearing
     from the ground or groaning up into the
greying, somehow swaying or numb blankness.
What are those functions(?); when are they stuck up,
     stapled eye to eye to look forward, out
     across this rattling and rhythmic little
street-thing, when we find out ourselves; if speed
has detached from the motions of speaking

birds soar up and back and somehow nought down,
     zero to street level to level with
your,, no not that there is no hope that we
     cherish in the zero content of voice
one, mine: Splashing its useless words but what
use is speaking ever when there's years, love
     and a borderless range of optional
     hazards, and you are total. Somehow know
that; you are total, a sister nought down
to eye to street level and up, in with
rain, your heart to me, dropping just to rise.