::::these broken feet shuffle:::: [ poetry ]

Poem I’m crossposting from Glasweigan Death Trip.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Dawdling in the burning light;
broken feet drag themselves along the cracked concrete,
past strangled chicken wire, broken necks squawking out
no city ballads
of degenerate matchstick men.

This is no place to stop and tie your laces.
They won’t even leave you with socks.
those broken feet shuffle.

::::is it?:::: [ poem ]

is all you does drinking
cup after cup of 
coffee and smoking

your little hand
rolled
cigarettes
not eating and 
has you really
forgotten to speak?

::::the first iteration:::: [ poetry ]

A man awakens
in a room
an office
a street
over and over

forever he awakens
each time he knows nothing of where
nothing of why

he explores his surroundings
searching for
something
anything
that might be
a clue
that might explain
but there is nothing

::::Fire:Man::::the cold men::::Matt Dalby:::: [ extract ]

Fire followed where his feet fell.
Grass burned snow burned
soil burned snow burned. But
no heat no heat.

Fireman enjoys
whimsical car adverts.
He collects
taxi business cards.
He sometimes suffers from
insomnia. It’s been
known to make him cry.

His grandmother
in Cumbria
grows pampas grass
in front of her bungalow.
When it flowers
she sprays
them red. Still
growing where
they are.

The girl moaned a little in her sleep. Fireman went downstairs to fry eggs and watch the news. When he’d finished eating he fried two eggs and made a cup of tea for the girl.

There was blood on her mouth. Blood and saliva sticking her face to the pillow so she had to peel them apart. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at him.

She left. She didn’t touch the eggs and tea. Didn’t throw them or smash them. Fireman watched her walk down the street hugging herself from the cold.

When he made the bed he found three of her teeth. He addes them to the jar. 58.

::::gone too far:::: [ poetry ]

unless I’m unconscious and you’re a doctor
basically summed up as risk-aware consensual verbing
control freak
actually have no issue
with giving consent
consent is possible in most cases.

::::if only:::: [ poetry ]

dealing with with buried trauma… is dangerous
not the case with other people
too many clumsy dancers stepping on toes -
they actually annoy me a lot -
I can’t participate with anything that is inhibited.

::::after the next:::: [ poetry ]

I don’t like the idea of false memories at all.
true, bad is probably relative
I remember the myth of FUN birthdays
the sum of your memories.
a powerful… and dangerous
means for change.

::::your magnificent pink goo:::: [ poetry ]

how you make it little sister?
won’t hold your hand
This dead meat
another grotesquity of humanity
lays half numb between the people with the boastful eyes.
Their fingers flexing in conceit.

oxygen got so thin
you struggled to breathe.

::::these uncanny stones:::: [ poetry ]

These uncanny stones
so near yet always not
– A distance that forever
ends with every step.

Of sound they swallow
and release,
A song more felt than heard,
which sends skittering about
that bone of echoes
and brings forth from whispers
this most unusual light.

::::Waterstones & the ASBO:::: [ poem ]

Somewhat inspired by real life. I’ll let you decide for yourself which bits though.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I only got to sleep for an hour
before going in for my shift.
After drinking a litre of cheap energy juice
& a flask of instant coffee
they released me into the wild.

In the bookshop
I wandered
with shooting stars playing across my sight.

I stroked the books
tongue hanging out
drooling from the corner of my mouth.

I touched them
& then
I touched myself.

The police found me spent
in a large pool of my own ejaculate
surrounded by stained & ruined pages.

::::i had a dream:::: [ poetry ]

and in this dream
i shaved my girlfriend’s pubis
with a naked razor blade
in a haunted house
before going down on her
whilst her parents road desolate streets
and dreamt themselves.

It’s weirder
when you know that
my girlfriend doesn’t have parents.

::::this human race:::: [ poetry ]

the race is already done.
those still tying their laces
and putting flowers in their hair
won’t even get to breathe their name,
which they hold so dear,
even though it amounts to little more than a cum stain.

::::Last Week On:::: [ poetry ]

Hard to believe, isn’t it?
This state of affairs that gnaws at the elbows of our gentleman caller.
Could it all be a viscous indictment of some previously unacknowledged truth?
Obscured, as it was, by the hubris of humanity;
its tendency to imbue with grandeur and nobility that which is actually
rooted in the most base of instincts?

There is only one way to find out.
Tune in next week for the thrilling conclusion!

::::stonetape:::: [ poem ]

There will be no further digression;
no tapping of the foot or complacency.

The whole damn thing is about to break.

::::chlorobenzalmalononitrile:::: [ poem ]

True love blinds
like tear gas.
Crying incidental,
evidence of ache and joy.

::::surface tension:::: [ poem ]

sticky like pollen
the ineffable skin traps
the dust
of our passing
beneath its surface.