but there …

 

 

 

                                stuck in Sunday
                     build-up of olive-green and damson anxiety

                     lost the freshness of my next breath
                                stuck in a lifetime

                                of Sundays
                     lost the freshness of my own birth

                     but I have glimpsed
                                it isn’t like this

                                my whole life
                                              isn’t like this

                     but my whole life
                                is all I have

                                how can I let it
                                              all go

                                                              but there …
                                … I missed

                                my own birth
                                              again

 

 

 

olive wormhole: Birmingham / 030413
Sunday wormhole: the spectre
anxiety wormhole: sit stay heal

 

the bench / on the fourth sister from / Birling Gap before the / wind-brushed scrub and gorse / and the grey-blue sky / smoothed through the / fishtank-blue horizon to / grey-green sea

 

 

 

                                                              the bench
                                              on the fourth sister from
                                              Birling Gap before the
                                              wind-brushed scrub and gorse
                                              and the grey-blue sky
                                              smoothed through the
                                              fishtank-blue horizon to
                                              grey-green sea

                           one sugared
                           deep purple
                           blackcurrant
                           fruit jelly

 

 

 

bench wormhole: possible
blue sky wormhole: school uniform
Eastbourne wormhole: varnish
horizon wormhole: my life / of others
purple wormhole: 1967
sea wormhole: objective intimacy
stillness wormhole: at the apex
walking wormhole: dropped ’till you’ve shopped

 

Birmingham / 030413

 

 

 

                                                                                 Birmingham
                                                                                          030413

                                          long sleep

            I played with awareness going to sleep
                                                              in sleep
                           a new endeavour
                           new fields to play
                       in new fields to play in everywhere
                       in the very plainness of my life
                       in the very and every ordinariness
                                          of my compromised-‘round
                                                              life
            which I can greet now
                           with lapis highlight
                           with olive horizontal with lemon uprights

                                          ~~O~~

                           met Elizabeth after twenty years
                           hugged her held her face for long seconds
                                          in eye contact … blink
            taken through windy landscapes new architecture
                           flagged stilted overhanging built-in built over
                           experience of everything
                                          packed into one unit
            a lift that choraled ascent to heaven
                           then return to basso profundo
                           and walks under
                                          roads and rail lines and
                           brick raised artful in dustrial legacy
                                          to get a grip
            passing slowly by acute-angle edges of new-office build
                           high redbrick sides of factory crumbled down
                                          from the top and day-speckled
                                                              with no insides

                                          ~~O~~

                                          looking
                           at all the people crossing
            and talking to themselves or their phones
                           to those who misstep and those called to help
                           to those who play with sex like a possession
            and those who practise dance steps by the kerbside concrete balls
                           to those who wear beauty like a halo
            and those who nose-spit on the ground
                                          like a right
                           to those who wear their years like a jawline
            and those who talk to the
                                          corners they sit in
                                          to those who
                           smile upwards with trademarked timelines
                           and all those who do not walk the streets today
                                          there is nothing
            nothing to gain no ideal to realise in all there is to Have
                           but the acceptance of what we all feign
                           to complete ourselves oblivious
                                          to our true nature

                           olive-green and mauve
                           with orange-strip sandwich filling
                           and lemon highlight décor
                           over darkest deep blue wall

 

 

 

awareness wormhole: in a / single / lifetime / sitting
compassion wormhole: returning home
lemon wormhole: sat
olive wormhole: thirst? / hunger?
orange wormhole: write / by the / night / of the / lamp
society wormhole: dropped ’till you’ve shopped

 

school uniform

 

 

 

                           school uniform

                      grass too deep and green
                           to consider colour
                      stick to the tarmac grey
                           and blue to the step
                      and redbrick and flint stone
                           high to the window
                      small and greensky to reflect
                           and then

                      some boys by the ancient oak
                           have found a
                      natural high crouch and count
                           to twenty jump up
                      and someone pulls you tight around
                           the solar plexus
                      prolonged drift before blackout

 

 

 

Greenwich Park wormhole: ‘the importance of …’
Roan school wormhole: grammar
oak wormhole: grammar
blue sky wormhole: grammar

 

grammar

 

 

 

                           deep into the thinnest pages
                           soft as clean-cut sheets opened
                           either side stepped gently to
                           easy at-ten-tion typeface slightly
                           Edwardian-fine disciplined and
                           careers-old always supported by
                           slightly rubbled covers maybe
                           green maybe blue maybe
                           brown and embossed title
                           and publisher’s crest

                           tireless examples of grammar
                           with locating particularities which
                           only knit into a texture of
                           communication when gazing out
                           through the window at the
                           oaks and elms of Greenwich Park
                           and the deep grey skies over London

 

 

 

Roan school wormhole: dream / career / 040712
gold wormhole: grey air
oak wormhole: Eglinton Hill
blue sky wormhole: morning

 

man of tomorrow

 

 

 

                                            man of tomorrow

                        the super-scientist raised the conical jar
                        with green fingers and no joints that couldn’t grasp
                        looking deep into the black-current liquid
                        he turned his head as if towards the camera
                        his chin and mouth proffered slightly in a sharp grimace
                        as the back of his skull throbbed and enlarged        thiss

                        this is the answer he said

 

 

 

the end

 

 

 

                      maybe it was the tinted glasses
                      walking uproad to town

                                the
                                wide
                                low
                                grey
                                cloud
                                hung

                      then there was space
                      between the buildings

                      a woman walked handsome out
                      of the House of offices uphill
                                for lunch

                      the bus bsssh’d and waved
                      some suits across the road
                                downhill

                      then there was silence
                      and we all waited for

                                the end

                      under the green steeple

 

 

 

morning

 

 

 

                      morning

                                   is it just fanciful to think
                                   that it rained all the day you died
                                          and I freshly grieved
                                          the hundred times that
                                          I’d forgotten and then
                                          remembered again
                                   and it blew all the night you died
                                          and I recited my prayers
                                          and thought my thoughts
                                          trying hard to keep my mind
                                          on the emptiness you had become

                                                              but this morning the sky
                                                              is bright bright blue and
                                                              the fir trees are leaning
                                                              here and there not quite sure
                                                              what they are doing here
                                                              all brushed up now
                                                              clean and bristling

 

 

 

… in memory of: Bob 1995-2012
blue sky wormhole: Bob // 1995/2012

 

Bob // 1995/2012

 

 

 

                                          Bob

                      took the scatter
                of wind around the ground
                      and the tumble
                of too many things to deal with
                      in life
                as they fell from the trees in the rain
                      today

                      and spent
                      lifetimes
                sitting on the sill watching
                      a single
                blade of montbretia agitate
                      and
                the crown of the oak lean quietly into
                      the blue
                      blue sky

                      job done

                      calmly

                                          1995
                                          2012

 

 

 

… in memory of: Bob 1995-2012
oak wormhole: Sunday
blue sky wormhole: your gold teeth

 

Sunday

 

 

 

                                                                      Sunday

                                                   oh look
                                                   a whole valley and
                                                   yes it is greens in
                                                   different strips but
                                                   down from the hills
                                                   the crowds of oaks
                                                   dark in their best suits
                                                   make their way in the
                                                   direction of the bells

 

 

 

Castleton wormhole: gully
oak wormhole: train // line