Sorrynotsorry

Banana is bleeding already

Fucking Nero typical

Bigger blast radius of breasts

Bitter boys shedding skinny jeans

Spitting shrieking screaming warriors

Still looking resplendently puffy

First in the lineation of priorities

Whether for prison passports

Or prize winning tactile tantrums

Propaganda awards for troubled teens 

The Funeral

Cotton starch stench

Sea whipped to floss frenzy

Cobwebs bursting forward free

Endless intimate infinity

Contained.

Stringing along sorrow

Twang twat

Tears freeze eyeballs still

But dare not impeach

Sting or bite

Stained sheets

Damp legs

Screaming

The sureness ache of hunger

Left.

Scale the stream of colour

twisting out of view

(up and down bleating: a heart monitor)

each filled with a

vacuum

happiness burns brighter than a tear but it leaves a better tear

the stage was torn down

a billion tiny fistfuls of letters

no more lines are left 

The coffee cliché

Fear coffee burning lips. Already scared scared by the matriarchal punishment of general teeth. Bursting forward to siege the mouth, searing seizing agony that lasts a briefness eye blinker. Try to guard the way with hypocritical stained bone, marinating in the fizz of the fight between what you want, what you need and what will kill you in the best most bright way. Today death is the harder option, with up paid bills and a missing credit score. Tomorrow brings a new hopeful sun kissed sky that bludgeons book ends and un tongue tipped words. Don’t even enjoy the taste, just the heat and the eye punches open. Woke. Past tense. Sleep now tighter frightened of the big bad pig that crosses territories  into safe hospices. Scarf clad, boot decked, cup clasped, hat tipped figures litter nightmares. Documenting your fall from fast paced hope to the langsam lofty ideals of sleeping on the parentals sofa. 

How Dashing.

Dash at my throat

Slash your credit card

Buy my golden dings

Braison

Gashing my blood on the floor

Stocky limnonym

It’s a bugger to get off

Break me in half

Slicing through

Midnight melody

Mascara drips into

Soar circles

The empty closet is

Staggering

 The saintly hour bangs

I cannot leave                                                                                                                                    I cannot leave.

The saintly hour bangs

Staggering

The empty closet is

Soar circles

Mascara drips into

Midnight melody

Slicing through

Break me in half

It’s a bugger to get off

Stocky limnonym

Gashing my blood on the floor

Braison

Buy my golden dings

Slash your credit card

Dash at my throat

The Butchers Shop Window.

 Starving fingers wipe themselves across the glass.

Clawing at her insides till feet drag her through.

Blood drizzles behind them marking

The time till the daisies bloom above.

Candy stripes smock lean across and

Knows what is desired.

Scrabbling for coins. Count them. Now. Hurry.

The tiny scab of meat chipped.

Only the one? And he seems disappointed in you.

The sunlight dimples as he hands IT over.

Taking nothing in return.

Out. Of. Kindness.

He gives her his eyeballs, places them gently in her breast pocket

And they bulge awkwardly, obviously, bleeding too coating her in him. Staining

 the Last good shirt.

Only his eyes roam free, cutting her open,

As he is a professional no nicks or tears are seen.

Clean cuts that quantify her worth.

Spin like a rotisserie.

Time later the chop sizzles anditstickstohermouthandshecan’tswallowandsheiscryingandshedoesn’tknowwhy.

And The Hunger Passes From Them.  

Where I was now.

Two forests closing eyelids framed with lashes grassed,

Litter scatters the sun beating concrete like rose petals on a dusty bed.

Twist through the trees, leap over three empty graves,

Smiling through the hollowed.

Children scream with precious energy, clambering free.

Guardians stand ready with tired eyes and tired feet’s, a ready meal smile.

Pass through the boundaries of this far away land, right next door to

Grange primary school with pencil lined gated learning.

Track down the mud path, picking at the blackberries. Tiny fingers.

Dodge the nettles stinging for the sweetness.

The devil will spit on them all tomorrow.

Hurry. Hurry.

The juice bludgeons hands clothes, sticky sour taste.

Think on those continually impending winter moths

And the Christmas ice cream, sharp against strudel.

Wait! The green gate. Bromfords lies ahead.

Turn, run. Skip over the creaking crack.

Swing through and past and over the steel security tape.

Plastic Chinese tubs bouncing on our hips like babes

Patter pattering down Friern gardens

Checked purple shorts, visor held together with paint, string and stubbornness.

Beaming cheeks at out bulging bounty.

Can we go back inside now?

Silver Reflections

Vanessa leans forward towards the silver

reflection of curls

drifting in front of her left eye

to examine the individual strands

a distraction

from examining closer

closer examining her

herself

of asking questions about what her hair portrays

its coffee cocoa colouration

of what it articulates to the world

Anna leans forward towards the silver

reflection of her eyelash

stroking her finger along its texture

its flaking specks of black which fall

mascara

a distraction

from examining closer

closer examining her

herself

of asking questions about what her eyes portray

their coffee cocoa irises

of what it visualises to the world

Rebecca leans forward towards the silver

reflection of freckles

which lay over her nose

to examine the constellations they map

a distraction

from examining closer

closer examining her

herself

of asking questions about what her skin portrays

its coffee cocoa complexion

of what it speaks to the world

You lean forward towards the silver

reflection of your mouth

running your hand among the line it forms

a distraction

from examining closer

closer examining you

yourself

of asking questions about what your mouth portrays

to the world, visually

orally

of what it speaks to the world