This Stasis In Phases

Roll on and toll
to a beat
A beat that moves
the ground
These fingers are
extinct and mobile
Leeches to
crisps and data
Squeeze my knee
and I’ll say sorry
Yellowed tips
of grass
Wave in steam
around fag-ends
is easier than it looks
This soup of sound
makes me homesick
The floorboard
rhapsody rubs me clean
Even ghosts make
a sound
on these stairs
Flakes of plastic
make snow in doubt
Shards of old bikes
make their home in new thorns
And this is where we
make our home

The Tesseract

To recall stained fingertips
that never leave is a joy I,
for one, will always hold dear. That
meat, those legs, the undying
pace of being to which we yielded
in naked thrusts of naivety.
Be a ghost from morn ‘til
a day when that is realised
and wrench each ounce of
hedonism into these steps;
these waves, these bulbous
feet as well. We define such beauty
in Saxon tongue to wrench
a flame and slap a name to
a wall that knows not of
what it means. Grow to
know how childhood
woe is everything that
shapes the salted water on
bare feet that skip; stoney
and morose but ever-

Lost Anchors

these memories
loose as they lay
are hardened
by the still decay
of passers by
that wander gay
but effervescent
shards of you
hang heavy on
each tear-dropped dew
to watch for me
I’ll watch for you
and tear to shreds
the barbarous untrue
be free and fair and
type notes to share
these memories
are our crosses to bear
hearts in a deck
that beg to peck
something false
in a vintage check
stiff uppers
in our downer glass
make weight to
wonder what may pass
as real in tandem
a perfect random
let’s have this dance