kanpeki「かんぺき」 と いった おぼえて いる か な。
「なにも この かんぺき あって は ならない」
は あの とき に きみ の め の うしろ およいだ。
その とき の あと
この ふたり の こと わ どころか
かんぺき に なった。
ぼこご を わすれた よう に きがして いた。
きのう の よる
TouchI've been watching how
couples find each other again in public
and interlock fingers.
stand with bowed heads
and deactivated puppet bodies,
with a skin loop hand
like a hanging leash,
waiting to be dragged off by an equally lifeless owner
as if sticks are sticks
and could never make fire.
Some hands are receptacles.
Pinkys curled into pinkys
like crinkled plastic bag handles; a collective balled up tissue
collecting fluff, and dust, and hair,
like a pocket worn on the outside of an everyday coat
that it seems irrelevant, now,
to ask if you even still like. (besides,
it fits, and it's got all my junk in – a two pound coin
hidden somewhere in the lining -
and shopping is such a tiring business)
I saw a couple at the harbour.
They ached like twin drawers
in the same cabinet
of an old hotel,
that had seen a lifetime of guests and baggage.
The man looked back at his wife
with tearducts that had pearled the sea.
Their hands slid back into each other's
as the bridge lowered to perm
they're tearing me down, i find
i am a sandcastle at my foundations.
i am nothing at my foundations,
i have sand in my shoes
for that's all i am: sand
i have shovelled into sleeves and expressions.
i can make you castles but you cannot live in them;
the wall would crumble
into your hand.
becoming stuck between pages of your candlelit books
falling in and out of every fifth word...if the dark is
crashing at your door, split me into bags;
in the day the storm will be over, and you'll be safe,
but you'll find a familiar grit
the crusts of beaming
early morning toast.
walk with me on the beach one more time
we'll write a postcard to your future self
and while you work out
where to address it to
i'll fall into the ground
like my egg timer has finally run out
the sand grains then...you'll think nothing of it,
it was just from the beach
and sand is all the same
29.03.14Bunched together in the hands
receipts of hours lived and passed
they didn't have any flowers in the shop today
but please take this bouquet
made of time that did not last
and the scratched out tallied cost of all those times I didn't ask
the wind blew an unopened letter across my path
I think before its time the rain will take my skin away, take it and fill it
and I wonder if that will all still be me. If everything in this strange membrane
is me. That if it is me that is at fault, then my kidneys get apportioned blame
just like my toes and my earlobes and sense of right and wrong. Because I have a sea rocking in me,
like a child's toy,
and it is made of fog; it rocks and rocks
back and forth, sending me mad, filling me with a vague nothing,
and extending fathoms of millennia
between every full stop. Stop. Rock, rock
as if frantic movement
could work up a condensation that will not drip dry
from the insides of my crystal, frosted eyes
that now sit like blank pearls inside oysters that
this sinking feelingMaybe I’ll fill the silence that whirls around me,
maybe I won't.
It's hard to make a life from the things I do
when I think more of the things I don't.
I end up feeling like the only way to stop this sinking feeling
is to place my feet upon a boat,
so if I’m still dripping in my thinking
there's a finite ceiling
before the last of my oxygen gurgles out of my throat.
Because I won't float. This sinking feeling
is born in my anchor lungs, it's dribbled
from my weighted, burdened tongue,
rolled like a boulder over my mouth's entrance
where wordless wishes
won't form a sentence. If my breath is baited
then there are no fishes. Just those that will pass and gawp
as the sea takes each layer of my eyes
like oranges peeling.
Maybe I'll say something that matters someday
maybe I won't.
I've never said anything
that was good enough to quote; in a life of writing I hardly ever
stood by what I wrote.
It's a desperate pen grab
in the crossfire between troubles and healing.
UntitledLiving room dropped. me. Off
café of the kind you get in shopping centres say they're
looking for your next show every stranger here has tickets for the unannounced you
hands offered under mugs. Passer by eyes
looked like a departed hearse and
feet on the ground, we're sure we're breathing still
feeling a hotel crawling up the inside of a knee it won't be long (black toothpick teeth
to churn a sound machine) We're sure you're breathing still
there's just this sense
you're getting worse maybe you should think about going back to the
and expression is such a chore
delivered to the kitchen. I wonder where you begin,
I feel I'm carved off the Sunday chicken
a strip of meat flapping free from the earth and I tried but I
just can't paint any more, said,
an exhibition of room minds with a ping pong ball bouncing from height to sinking
I just don't
what relevance sight has any more kettle always clicks down what it said
and I'm staring at my worktop hands thin
A hundred and one ways not to ask someone out...and I'd devote my time to
learning the subatomic nature of the universe,
so I could manipulate it, unlike my voice;
to weave a tapestry of neptune's dark days
and saturn's wild black summers
then stitch stars to read
will you hold my hand
Just to lose out to
a girl and her,
'You free tonight?'
Head slumped on my hand in a chemistry lab,
watching liquids bubble and froth without warning;
I might as well corrode the algebra from my thoughts, because
I don't understand how this works at all.
I walked the cliffs today to try to understand
what it feels like to live on the edge. But with my feet dangling, free,
over our conversation,
I know which makes me feel alive. No jump from here could match
swimming surrendered in your eyes.
And I could probably write for Clinton Cards
but never send you a birthday card (let alone Valentine's)
for fear you might be run down by the awkwardly wobbling language
like a bike short of a spoke
cycle out of me,
and decry the style of a
The only thing I'll make youWhen they met she said I'll make you something. It was only years later that she presented her gift.
'That's it,' she said, one night he cried.
Puzzled. 'The only thing I can make you,' she said,
Washes. Plates. At the kitchen window.
(the starlings are cooing, the starlings are cooing,
it is the season)
Plates. Just a window,
a wall window.
Wash up wash up wash wash wash
There must be it, here,
that I could hold delicately like you.
I could crush so easily
Starling turns, eyes as dark as 4 a.m.
You were always clean, she says.
Turns back. To cooing.
You were always clean.
Plates and plates and
a falling china shop of shattered face
soaked in blood warm water
a starling sat upon my finger
a night spilled out with stars
(now they are stuck under my fingernails)
and the starlings are cooing, the starlings are cooing
for it is the season
Eleven abstract storiesA physical yawn. A stretching of self, a reduction of form into a queue of cells that stretch out and flounder like a cat's tail. My eyes are planets and spin silently, slowly, in the darkness time will never wake up from.
Self is input. The ones and zeros and seconds were all made for each other. There are no doors for the keys that make up our fabric. Just a glisten as illumination, a gliding spotlight, picks out the patterns in our breathing metal. Space gives space and more space, an infinite jumpback when 'more' is uttered. Else there is staring at the surroundings and see nothing but oneself, and the space inside, that gives more, and more, with an infinite jumpback. It's the entirety of universe or the entirety of me. My body is the pinch in the double helix.
Meaning is an indescribable picture painted by a blind universe. Mini portraits carried inside physical, breathing cavities must have been received from it directly. Nothing I or you can do to emulate the brushstrokes of