“The need to speak, even if one has nothing to say, becomes more pressing when one has nothing to say, just as the will to live becomes more urgent when life has lost its meaning.”
--from The Ecstasy of Communication

all these small agencies of despair eradicate themselves in this morning I see blue sky and brown tree armed vaguely in the breeze.  To my right is my wolf, sleeping, catching up from the rabbit chase in dreams he held last night, his eyes lift every now and again, in promise of an excitement still to come.  My last two days have taken me across counties but before leaving London, I watched a talk about prospects of progress perceived in tracking electronic devices amongst disabled youths.  A young Romanian boy entered my peripheries.  He arrived as patient to a social prescriber, endebted to continuing the stopper lowered in gatherings of the barely disabled youth.  Instead of living the the present we live in the past or project on a myriad of

“I do better coding when I’m high

but now I feel I can’t really do it anymore”

in oxymoronic cloves I glide in health aspects alongside social aspects alongside life aspects, these parts though are masked with futility and jaded considerations of maciavelion substance abuse as we wear dark corners down it could be a professional counterfeit that would swear by what has happened to share endeavour and to do with the downward spiral we wear into each case of having time being there are four little places to be in contact.

Bring me a rose

My adulterous portal I wear
In dark corridors I wander in soul
Carry each in this weight
To knock on doors
I find grown children
And recognise my adolescence
It bears no evil
My marked flesh cannot diffuse 

The morning breaks in showers I guess

In silent foothills stands the man of my conscious, my pace is unmarked and clumsy, frozen I struggle with indecision.

I am told of the libido inhibiting effects of the pill and in thin white lace, behind flickering, semi conscious eye lids, I undress.

As I hear no words I remain as uncomfort, I struggle to focus on reality, my mind drifts to unconscious sex and I am aware that I am crude and with parts.  A constant demand to rebuke myself is part of this contesting pace, set within these frameworks of desire and submission, of control and excess.  I acknowledge my own revulsion and do not explore further.

Upon reflection I glance behind me, and watch man stride confidently across foothills as i remain forever captivated at the dancing waves on rock edge below.

Life had become unbearable

I cannot finish a thing and revel in it.
My life is without fridge; and solitude.
Even this verse I write backwards
With chipping interludes I bring it back to the first
My desire to quit goes disravished into the bar below
As i listen to the prostitutes down gunthorpe Street
And watch crack dealers score
The fruits of our labour are punishable by death
But I finish a packet of ginger nuts in two sittings
By the light of my window pane
pane

in cerebral palpitations i navigate heavy headed as my feet brush victoria station, i meet leeroy on board who starts conversation and tells my profession.  he talks of london's best vegetarian pasty shops & gives me a vegetarian protein sausage roll of faux-frankfurter palate, we share my leftover salad in borrowed tuperware, me with fingers, him with plastic spoon, i receive an invite to the seaside where he had moved to a nice bungalow with the inheritance of his parent's council home in Highbury.   i spoke of my socialist grandad who i'd never met and st ives, my love of the sea.  if i had gone with leeroy, shaped like a rare rhino, perhaps i'd be happy!  we'd tour through the vegetarian restaurants , id drink relentlessly of coffee, i wonder would i start eating dry but sweet jewish pastries, so well constructed i do think.  but leeroy was too old, and i remain comfortless in company. 

Eastern breezes

There is a little bird
shaped like dog
Who roves the streets;
tail half rotary
Takes off like shark
Teeth designed to knaw
Sniffing finger
Leaves me wondering
Am I best eaten?

The Spy Who Loved Me

I remember boycotting Esso petrol garages age 14, following my state of passage on a minibus journey back from Wales, caused by fatal car crash. 

I blamed Esso for death as cause of place that led to collision and end of game.  This tale on my lips is on top my tongue; is felt when I push tongue upwards to touch roof of mouth.  These tales we don’t tell because they reek of fragility and blame and topics of convulsion in dread. 

I was listening to Greenday with one ear piece of my headphones, the left side stretched to the ear of my best friend, a sweetheart who believed in holy ghosts.  We sat at the front, I think that quite telling.

The motorbike crashed into where the engine was and the first sound was silence, eerie; grey; consuming; like tinnitus, I feel it as I push up against the roof of my mouth.  In reflection I memorise the sound of shattered glass as Perspex lining, masking breaking bones.  My memory is acid calm, but consumed by commotion in forced displacement; such force that I imagine the wheels jammed and we skidded 40 metres to a grinding halt.

If I open the door I get out and look back, that’s how I know how far we travelled. Pretty ricky sing grind with me out of sorts now you put it like that.  I study memory and response now so I know what happened isn’t real and The Grief I Never Felt overshadowed my grasp of its reality.  First aid training doesn’t explain about helmets so we ran between minibus and corpse until we could get response from man in minibus enough to convince him to call ambulance.   His face had seen his ghost it seemed he sat there frozen and sure of it.  I called my mum who cried out, we’d argued before I left because there was no female supervision and we were staying in a cabin and I didn’t know where we were going and after I told her we were waiting for an ambulance to arrive she re-realised that it didn’t really matter after all.