There aren’t many jobs
where Sunday night
cold grips your guts
and has you palpitate

while midwives are called
and antiques are roadshowed
every inch of will is bent up
in figuring the impossible

if we all know how leading horses to water ends
then can we not give the stable hands a break?

As I watch my own digits shake,
stable hands seems like a joke
no one lets me in on

Aghast in the AM
as my friend from youth ago
reminded me of what I know,
and know I’d forgotten

my impulse is to call all:
ragtag and happy,
still on the
line

them good girls gonna go bad
hey Jonny?

snug tired is enough for now

We don’t often visit
the pit of our stomachs
but when we do
things just aren’t good

Panic buuyyyyy
paniiic buyyyyyy
go on!

Then none of us
worth any of us
will get anywhere

douches

We try to sink into the crepuscular
as behind, another working week
picks us out of its teeth

we throw a couple of weaves
into the route to the sofa
for a headful of peace, maybe

though home has deaf ears too,
we love them
and through years of gaining favour
we’ll keep bruised hearts open there

beyond, you’ll see each aortal latch fixed,
each ventricular bolt slid
and each arterial snib
locked

if sweat and tears are the currency
you’d better ****** earn it

Calling all ears
all guts and sneers
every daft-deft writer who would be
poet

Write your soul, your boots
your fight, your fears,
your misbegotten loves
tucked behind your ears

Roll with punches,
belch and rattle at your stars
as they are truly indifferent
gaseous, asinine orbs

Pull rank on the nothing
my lovely, living friends
as your truth is beginnings and ends
and I love you

#poet #writer #write #love

Sunday morning
sluggish streets blink
and whisper to themselves
that there was sun, yesterday

the jagged methadone
of a bad night’s sleep
giving all the weight
none of the peace

technicolour memories
seem to be made false
by this overcast sky
so happiness lies

in the old days
a cigarette and a cup of coffee
would smooth edges,
in the good old days