at work v2.0

a bit of time for the nhs,
a bit of time for me,
a bit of time for the internet,
a bit of time for my cup of tea,
a bit of time for the nhs,
a bit of time for me,
a bit of time for the internet,
a bit of time for my cup of tea...

[repeat until 5pm or death]

Things to do before I'm 30 - haiku

I made a spreadsheet
Of some colour coded dreams
Imprisoned in cells.

Forget about her

Stroke her face gently with your sad finger,
press your lips on hers, hard but also soft,
and stare into her unblinking black eyes -
If they are windows to the soul then she
quite clearly does not have one anymore.
Weigh her in your hand, feel scratchy features
come off slightly on your freezing pink skin.
The sea calls her back but you are not ready.
Scan the horizon, plot trajectory,
contemplate the time you spent together,
try to smile, if you can, but if not
don't worry, just plant your feet in the sand
and throw the stone with her face painted on
as far out to sea as you possibly can.

Whisper this poem on a summer day

Bright blue
Leaf like
Life like
Shapes brush each other
Through a sky of green.

Inhale grass cut rustically
Breathe silence.

Distant cars trying to be heard
On the cool breeze
Are shushedby the birds.

Rooted to the shade
Close your eyes
fade to sleep.

i found these in an old notebook

9.46 to Yarmouth

The nine forty six to Yarmouth
points itself at the sea and
rolls towards the darkness
where the horizon used to be


A night in Leicester

The abacus is not a machine.
It seems.
Tony is not a cheater.
It seems.
Gorilla is not a meat.
It seems.
The nature of Dave is repeats.
Saddam is dead.
Robin is not safe at parkour.
I know TJ's number.
Or so it seems.


Ely

An hour lost in Ely
inspires my soul, no really.
The truncated connections and
near anguishes of the pikies
errupt around me
like quiet but unstoppable screams.
My gaze is drawn to stretched tops but I can no longer
use summer as an excuse,
not here in Ely,
not really.

haibun - Norwich to Yarmouth via hangover

Walking hangover smell breath pull face in reflection in used car show room window more care than my usual dare in crossing roads earphones roaring with loud music out vibrates brain pulsing against inside of skull where the nerves are brain does not feel pain train station full people rushing clean fresh breath and brushed hair.

Walking hangover
Does not feel pain in the brain
Though does in the skull

Off the tracks on the train on the tracks looking like someone from the other side of the tracks i read the sun knowing that it is all i am capable of this morning but having no way of making this clear to the strangers wondering who is judging me when I linger on the third page pondering who on the packed train will use this evidence against my future self phone call from my lover which I answer but am relieved when the signal goes as I become aware that I was shouting so silently i read station signs and stare at people on platforms safe behind the window of a train they will not be getting on.

The train on the tracks
Tabloid reader watches back
For his judgement day

On the other side walking again trying to keep work out of mind roadworks punch my ears the swaying of left foot right foot my stomach like the cement mixer i pass churns she rings again now we laugh no need for volume control walk down my street open my door plan to move into my shower and stay there for the rest of existence.

Then walking again
Swaying stomach churning up
Eternal shower

Peterborough to Norwich (Rail replacement bus)

Grumpily we roll bumpily along the frozen grey river
flanked by bold political placards issuing directives in primary colours.
Lungs turned inside out are scattered on the landscape.
Rising from the fading evidence of a snow man massacre,
android giraffes, buried up to their necks, stretch high to avoid potential accidents.
Behind them giant metallic monsters, their 6 arms weighed down by invisible shopping,
queue into the distance.
The giant torch, on full beam, makes everything spill its ink.
Above the paused explosion on the horizon
crystal clear water is scratched by the trail of upside down ships.
Clusters of deep 3d arrows point upwards
as a crowd forms to cheer us along
their thin little brittle brown arms waving in the air.

While the fallen ladders lay unused and rotting.