frenzied
flipping
solenoid
(re-pinging)
pop bumper
spinning
steel *****
(skill shot)
end-of-stroke
trip
hit
drop

maybe a black mouth
opening and closing
usually you can see the gums
the teeth
lips stretching over them
there’s nothing
a gaping entrance to the void
there are two stale muffins on the table
one soaking in milk
it’s been two hours now
the room at the top of the stairs
is growing louder and louder
a piercing bellow
drowning out all thoughts
but it doesn’t
i want to scream
throw myself into it until my entire being is lost
between the teeth
the white black lacuna
corn splitting from the cob
a rotting banana
an empty carton of milk
my god, could life be any more boring?
i caught a cold
sneezed at the floor
achoo achoo
get well soon cards at my funeral
loraclear on my casket
dirt over
grow me like a mushroom
expanding into the root systems
puffing into a bulbous fruit
pick me and slice me
but i trust only supermarket goods
picked by mechanised beings
******* on an industrial conveyor belt
modernity made physical
look into the slaughterpens while you eat your steak
barter your children for another shot of coffee
hah hah hah, doesn’t affect me
strutting your cash like an empty slot machine
rigged to emote only with your colleagues
while the television blares another thousand deaths
**** this ****** world
consume me until there’s nothing left
everyone’s a nihilist
someone brought back a dozen breadloaves from the women’s refuge
eat them before they go off
turning our bodies
pouring soap down the sink
all the fishes scales rot away
they slowly sink into the depths
and line the seabed with teeth and ribs

Starting is hard
Growth maltese candles
The painted board next to me
Where i sleep
Cars, unrelenting bring an incessant drone
That lulls
Exstasis
Mechanised intrusion grants
The brevity of randomized input
The aversion of direction
This isn't a poem
Nor is it not a poem
This is a home
This is a home
Shampoo crease salt licks
Salt salt salt salt salt salt salt
Salt salt salt salt salt salt salt
Not that but there was something else.
Not what just happened but something else
I remember when i try not to.
I always forget when i try.
I can feel it
It's not suppose to be remembered
It's there to be felt
Something like that
Something similar
Im not going to just say 'something' on a single line
Nope no.
Nothing
That was ordained
Now this is nonsensical
As if any of it was.
Reading
Nothing yet
Nothing worth saying
Yet
Yet.
Yes
Ending is hard

They guard our gates. We are ruled by mechanised gods.

We are not free.
We are not real.
We are not awake.

Our mornings wake up to dew and smoke. We wake up and pick up our broomsticks and sweep.

You and I are made to sweep.
And it is through these sweeps we dance our fated dances.

Dance to wake the castles,
and water the gardens,
and venerate Emperors long dead and gone.

“This,” we say, “is our duty.”
“To belong.”

“To bow together.”
“To hope as one.”

We, all key cogs in the machinery. Everyone has a broom and dustpan. Everyone is made to sweep.

"Is this the land," we ask, "that we sang for and dreamt our feverish cartoon dreams for?"
Perhaps not. Our stories exist only in a land beyond time.

We’ve been there. It is a mechanism for the gods. They too hold brooms.

They too sleep in shrines of stone.
They too live in temples of steel.

The gold ones have long ago burned.

They flurry fashion clad around him,
Bashed and bumped he is upon his knees,
Nought but an obstacle to their purpose,
Just mechanised utilitarian’s ****** into abstraction.

The mishap stagger jounces loose a depth,
A profundity in a shallow weakened him,
His hollow cavern caves into consciousness,
To behold thumping polychrome dances of light.

The wash of sludge slinks down his hands,
In the puddle on the mid of his legs he gapes,
It is a fall of falls to end his deaden tumble,
As he stands he knows not what next to do.

He had death marched his life to a timber box,
Crafted career, projected home for expected wife and child,
He weighs an unlike life of who knows what,
Just not this one where he supposed he was alive.

Wind begs for his tie and so he lets it free,
Looks to the looming tower block prison,
Through the militia of totalitarian drones,
He runs and he runs and he runs.

Through the bustling paves he is a sketched dash,
It is the most paramount of hurries he’d ever began,
His heart flourished as he saw not where he was going,
Knowing only that he would not ever reoccur.

time a mechanised walkway
we ride, unawares

time flips the clock
we watch in snatches

hunger speaks
in the depths of our bellies

and thirst is for more than water.

I'm being mechanised
integrated into modern
mascenery
which is a take on machinery
and it's the best I could do.

think I am through with
the cuckoo clock,
I am being touted as
new on the block,
but you know that I'm not.

I'm being marketed
packaged and sold
told I'm a failure
and that doesn't work for me

I get the message though,
being in is the new out
I know.

Computers
sharp shooters,
there's a reason they rhyme
but machinery don't have the
time
to explain.

sinews taut running
tendons stringing muscle
to bone

armour front
and haunches
lowered menace
mechanised into form :
fangs
spittle
ears flat
eyes adrenaline wide.

viscous red tongue venting
between growls
gut deep.

yet and twisted

rolled on side the
frame is supine. flattening
hair stiffened to bulk
to frighten

hormone rush is now quivering,
racing pulse and, throbbing
veins exposed under
flesh shy of bone.

near gutless .meat offered
to fangs wet with it's blood.
ears folded hear the howl.
there is silence and
a final pathetic yelp.
platitudes.
To the pack standing
in lines witness will departing
in the
blooding of a king.

mechanical toys
mechanised mind
the tools
the challenge
the ride.

Departing from one mechanised coastline
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and

On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my skull, and
A fickle layer of arthritis glassed over my skin,

For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, perhaps
It was a gift from a platonic friend,

It loosely sat, half-worn upon my shoulders
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
My pride decided to cover up the rest,  

That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, a weight
On my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,

A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite

All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was half-ready
To confront this temptress in my pocket,

Which hand would volunteer, the right
Or the left - or perhaps
I shall attack the outer fabric with a hearty press,

The latter is what I shall do, a tiny
Nudge back should do the trick, oh
What is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,

A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,

What is it, what is it that hides
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,

What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I am not ashamed, maybe

I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe my worries will drift away,
Like the tide temporarily retiring,

Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left

Hand answers, and small splinters
Of seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas it is only a chip,

Now that I have struck, it feels
Unbreakable, and I am certain it shall
Now permanently reside in my pocket,

Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when

Will the sunshine return, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.

Departing from one mechanised coastline
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and

On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my cranium, and
A fleeting wave of sloth drenched my appetite,

For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, was
It a gift from a platonic friend -

Loosely it sat, half-worn upon my shoulder
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
Pride took sovereign, covering up the rest,

That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, an anchor
Upon my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,

A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite

All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was all too eager
To confront the temptress in my pocket,

Which hand will volunteer, the right
Or the left - a modest nudge should do the trick,
Oh what is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,

A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,

What is it, what is it that hides away
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,

What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I do not concede shame, perhaps

I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe then my worries will drift off,
Like an ebb and flow temporarily retiring,

Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left

Hand answers, and small splinters
Of serrated seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas, it is only a chip,

Now that I have struck, it has become
Unbreakable, and I am certain
It shall never untether from my home,

Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when

Will the sunshine revisit, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.

There is a strange kind of magic in the air
It is the return of Spring
Sounds of nature
Unpolluted by mechanised human activity
Float through the air

I can actually hear the birds sing
And bees and insects buzzing along

The natural world is showing us
That there is beauty all around
If we allow it space
And offer it our respect

The human race
Has stopped racing
For a brief span of time
And it feels like the natural world
Is breathing a sigh
Of relief