we talk to autumn
about his delayed decay;
the truculent end and
tousled beginnings of hibernation.

how did you term the coming
of the razored howls.
will you calm the smothered
pebbles in
chalked glass
or leave them.

what do you say
of the canopies’
demise. fallen
in a big mesh bag
to measure litterfall.

and when door-mice
bite into slumber
where can you hide
as your leafy raindrops
turn to stone.

A mothered voice
was a cloud-drop
in the quarry; she would keep running
with the patterned footsteps of a fool.
needles that glitter become
gold in this abyss.
one licked scar remained
of the two of you-
a day blackberry picking;
when you dried weeps
from the petals and pressed
them in a book.

Dip your toes
into receptacle of embellishments

whilst
hoisting your trouser-legs
above your shining ankles thus
preventing traces of
immodesty.

conjure an entire
genus of rhombi
to  think
                                                                              outside of

at interview:
bubble
and dress
in clothes, preferably.

try not to fold your arms or look bored
and always remember
to be someone you are not.

Sometimes we would make it
down the corridor
to bath-time,
As penguins
Teetering; me, and tall; you.
Your giant feet
Were my stilts as we waddled
Left, right, left
All the way,
To the brass finish line.

In September, we missed the bus
And walked for miles
In the Cornish rain.

We laughed as it licked every
Square on our bodies
And squelched into our shoes

Turning our socks to flannels.

The asphalt had become beautiful
- it had drunk the sky
And rehearsed the whispers
Of the sea.

We were the only humans in Cornwall
As the sun went down
And you put on your head torch

We climbed through mirrors
Of trees and bends.

When we got back to the cottage
We did a funny dance
To peel free of our clothes.
Then we toasted our bodies
And watched television.

Today i viewed multicoloured eggs
And tangled my eyes in a giant grid .
Got angry at the scorpions 
For getting in the photons of my stolen glitter.
I contemplated train  prices and cursed the wiry cellulose
In sugarsnap peas that catches in my throat. 
On a bright pink carpet 
With tiny rectangles we talked 
About words with words.
Then, later on, i thought about whether 
Not saving =
Killing
And wondered why we aren't doing any more. And then 
I closed my eyes 
Because that is what 
Everybody Does.

Owls on bicycles might be riding the ridge
on the ceiling which, for now is nameless
but has a concept
that it’s escaped- for an owl somehow balances,
quite  s e r e n e l y  
but this isn’t sleep
it’s a fragment of my brain
falling off and dribbling down the p
                                                                i
                                                            l
                                                                l
                                                              o
                                                            w
into the papers to be glazed over.
Insomniac lust for
memory consolidation
or brain function restoration
(perhaps)
Escape through paralysis

a world you can rule
without lifting a fingernail

A nocturnal paradise the other side of a boundary
I
can’t
break
through.