..

my knuckles have split from the cold
even a
mid-week night is rammed out here
why have babies when there are orphanages?
adoption not birth for the next 10 years until orphanages are shut down
and the buildings used for schools teachers education

wives families children lame
friends and their friends and their friends sitting
moving their mouths only
typing lying struggling trying following fitting dying stripping denial lying loss
its not hard to see why people
become desperate and offer themselves up to
compromise or lose
their guts

the only way to
avoid
bitterness
is to give value to
nothing
the sound of
my years is
nothing

westmid

I travelled alongside the abandoned buildings empty crumbled rubble strewn graffiti pathways skylights glass bricked-up doorways windows breeze-blocks scrapyards fences barbed-wire signs warning keep out lean-to’s that were cafes passing time over fried breakfast cigarettes radio greasy hands oiled overalls steel-tipped boots lorries carrying burden now maybe human traffic actual mile after mile of overgrown grass weeds under motorway bridges by industrial canals waterways barges tyres rubbish plastic bags discarded shoes clothes wiers burned-out car shells cast-iron horses the sun down blackness spreading the occasional bird in the sky looking for a roost deserted stations all viewed from the train slowly moving sounds clack wheels track me the only passenger all of it vaguely threatening but pleasurable as this is where I grew up the west midlands black country industry re-thought and moved to the far east and with it the jobs hopes lives of the surrounding areas leaving this bruised tangled wreckage of business money and human pride to nature to re-assert her rules and presence which awaits us all and everything forever

morning walk

the nuts on their morning walk
rarely together
usually single
slowly loping
in floppy hats or hoods up

one spoke to me
softly
asking if I’d prefer to be in her building instead
behind the iron fence and
hedge

small birds flitting
chirping

i might very well be one day
so didn’t
reply

everything

after reading some books by david foster
wallace you get an idea why he
took his own life

he knew and understood everything how everything works from people
to business to fracture and everything in-between

after this there is nowhere left to go

no wonder
no magic
no joy of the soul
no hope

body drop

is it chemical it drops like the temperature
feel it in the centre of my body
sinking
dropping
falling
stomach
drift

watch things happen
as a passenger
no real cares

is this what they call bi-polar
one then the other
i refuse to be manic
my will
can overcome chemicals

hayle in winter

a fighter

got up at 4.a.m.

watched a documentary

a fourty year old fighter who was
homeless
had lost his way

still travelled
fought in tournaments
from vladivostok to
chechnya

he moved between friends’ houses
washing in buckets
huge thick beard ex- and present
janitor

eyes squinting face lived in but
body lean taut unexpected under dirty clothes

and he was
humble

sat back waiting
pulling at beard staring at floor as others
practiced and fought shadows

said he was going to
get beaten
he was old

cracked a cheek bone
to go with old cracked ribs disjointed
shoulder

the fight was stopped
said he wasn’t concentrating
then
walked off

he slept rough

one night someone stole his
rucksack
which had medals photographs
basically his whole
life
he said this matter of fact

without pity

the actual spirit of a fighter
a year older than I and
still
proving
every day

tables

worked their way round the room busy tables
low light
on heels
see-through dresses lots of leg
arrived at mine

would you like a dance? both of us for the price of one?
no thanks
he’s scared
i don’t like skinny girls
do you prefer fatties?
fatter than you

they headed for the next table
i watched
the girl on stage peel

and bend

churned earth

like WW1 veterans sitting on hospital beds shivering shaking jolting
at imagined shells
splitting
in trenches ankle deep in rats water bodies
cigarette stubbs

i cringe at the sound of a voice or a phone
would cast them all to sink in the mud
and churned earth of no-mans land

but the new world of the capitalist has become
a no-mans land

its too hard to keep your head below the parapet and above the dirt water

the shells of other people’s lives fall
on your

ear
or
heart
or
pocket