spinner

….In the silence that followed when I took your face and shook you, was afraid,

left,

one of us did with interest and trust feel concern.


Brought it,

dancing, araneidal across the bedsheet.


Knew it,

missed it, struck at it and hit it,

cutting damp,

blinds and their pine trappings.


St Charles

looking, strangely old, lumbering

through

sub tropics, that eternal corner.


I lifted my hand to sap, roll shut the window,

cursing you

in the green canopies, ruffling feathers.


I forgot it was easy,

do I know?


Do I become always wanting,

the same old bars

brought it dancing.

dead space/exit wound

the moon
eats the sun,

me
& you,

spinning
catatonia

andromina's
spun.

nebula

messier,

expect to collide

in light

palpitation

where you're in full sight.

i’m

wide

on the run,

whipping
up

silent
still
& where.

andromina

nebula

masses

messier,

expect to collide

in light

palpitation

when you're in full sight.

expect to hit

catatonia
sweet 

then sit.


vegas
vega,

i can't
remember.

croupier
kuiper,

ceiling
split.

stick
in my lungs
with

each
undulation,

equulei
equuleus.

i'm champ
you're the bit.

grout

red wine sticks
to your flat pulse of
tongue

a messy tile
due to
weathering

exposing time
puckering
wildly flicking
and stuttering.

the opposite

your hand drops to my chin,

you pull
and tell me to think
think
of
an
apology.

drunk
idiot
drunkness
drunk,

you drink,

i rush
to put up the airbed.
from which

i squeak
like a frankfurther,
egg like a roll,

always need you
in a hard boiled way,

and watch
as you
yolk
wriggle
out of your jeans.

if the mould is broken

wind bubbles on tin
slate, through
the sky
a damp piston.

out the window
close up snaps
my face, against
the netting.

cold air, hit it!
lop lip it.
ledge height
guide moths to wind
tight.

to build, i suppose
an oak, an oboe, where they come
to eat my clothes.

while the curtains rot,
my tongue does
dry,
doze.

lari

you won't see me again.

across the west pier

muscles
peel starch,

chalky saccharine
digs in with sticks

and
shelled peas
clutter the grit,

clatter
the sink,
the sand.

the swearing salt.

wash your face,
looking trim.

knots

i think now, in time i will still,

it’s a shame all those ships
pass with a stare, a smile,

and a dynamite stick.

sad buoys splitting to stoke the sun
so that we cannot look forward.