The world has short hair

The shop is filthy as smoke

This is my confession. I’m

on my way.

I stand on a carpet of your hair.

You mine.

We salute.

Are you afraid of bleach?

The ends are temporary

As red.

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are first a kind of listening. I didn’t know what or who it was.

 

Family is opera, mild as shattering glass, subtle as sulking. The ‘room’ bloats and twists. Fear is air-borne, open-mouthed. Someone loves someone.

 

Distance – the pubs empty late in summer, walls yell to dull the fright, no football season, hot park sigh. None of this is voice.

 

Stop whining, they say. You can’t have any. Shut up.                                                                                      Then chocolate.

 

Voice is a means to an end, like a dental drill. The racing results are my closest friend, announcer’s odds-on surrealism . I learn.

 

Voice is out to touch. A reaching out. How withdraw? Suck back into what seems to have an inside; (turns out not).

 

One; can someone come now? Two; can someone give me something sweet to love? Will someone remove this persistent ghost? They do so. (Shut up; stop whining.) Lemonade.

 

So tiring. the pleading. the explaining how bad it hurts. Mum’s on the phone to Old Nick. He’s from Bootle.

 

My voice the storyteller. Relishes the rise and fall. And rise. Terror of the fall down the well, the climb up the beanstalk. I love you. Voice of movies, songs. Accent of adoration. the pledge and the standing-up- for.

 

My part of town, my city, my river, my bus stop, yard, my team, my mum, my brother, my mates, my sisters, my music, my girls, my teachers, my gods; my wife my kids. I say so.

 

The perfect footpath through the red sea is a long guttural tongue hot and swollen with mumps and arrogance. We win the league through speaking like this. Who the fuck are you?

 

Not everyone is so lucky. This French girl on the London coach thinks I’m Swiss. I decide to shut up but am unable to. She talks funny. We kiss.

 

Overheard In the Butchers.

 

He won’t eat meat;

bad for his feet.

Butcher growls.

MASH UP

 

I sneeze

at the Alps.

Wells bells,

old shoes, and

the heavens open.

 

I’m proud

in my rabbit-

dappled shade

out of which

elephants

app(ear)

(disapp…ear) .

 

Every word

begins with H,

a refuge,

 

and we reach

  1. Jim

and his whippet

race through

the breezes

 

that run through

my hair

in waves.

An anti-

horse-fly

thingy falls

onto my hot

pillow. Ow!

 

Boring! (Ouch!)

I’m well proud!

 

 

 

cicily/rob

 

1.

You begin to feel impatient with lively ideas,

leisurely activities, relish.

A touch rebellious re the angles of Uranus,

one’s difficult issue is friendly get-togethers.

Intuition harnesses optimistic lack of ambition.

Advice – trip alone in your mind using stellar tandems.

Unhappiness is familiar in

the lifestyle zone of restless angles.

Patience runs out. Seeds capture nothing.

Consider adaptation to another way.

Setting out for lesser stars.

 

2.

Grip ruthless no-chances.

Potential Lunar items

determine signals in waning plans.

A sacrifice option conjoins valuable awkwardness,

smoothes niggles,  willingly tracks solitude.

Intense-relaxed, pursue

ideas related to fading harmonies.

Tricky navigation of

the shadowed Jupiter situation.

 

Lingering emotions tempt

insignificant interpersonal

worries. Without direction,

avoid the right one.

Now is the rational time.

Dissolve into doubt.

 

He’s up all night

again; pacing,

pausing. How

did i make this mess?

Leafing through

the holy texts

for the error,

for that one slip

in the formula

for certainty.

He’s drinking

again, muttering

the names of

the so-sure

prophets

he set up

to fail. By

dawn, he sleeps

face down

flat out on

the drawing

board.