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

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

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.