take me back

Take me back to 1996 when I was one, 

young tongued

and so demanding 

growing up

growing up

your parent admits 

they can’t know what you’ve been through 

you are now older than them,

as your young brother was to you 

when he lost his friend

he has carved the way

Seriousness, familiar and unexplained 

dormant, not full bodied — 

you carried from the start

sleeping each day 

sometimes arising— 

weighted in the centre of the chest 

like water

from your grandmother:

“a tragic life”

sadness which once passed down

skipped a generation

and settled 

notes

notes 

a grated slate of skated boules, turned upside down against the grain, smushed, in again and turned inside out. 

green pips smudged against the corner 

lifted from the dull grey earth, squeezed out each drop to sink into annihilation with the beans 

again and again 

not listening to the signs sunk into scrapes of skeletal skunk. punk hope fucks the patriotic

fantastic crowned crowd thronged and fleshed fresh with dripping scars the cloudy sky

the beasts of the underbelly fucked each other until they swam in sweaty swarms of hair and filth and gold dripped from their raw beaks

the beans, now gone, grew from shroud down to molten earth begging to be let alone, allowed to taste the flesh of their own children as their guardians had of theirs. 

and once they picked the pods, torn and cut, a soil of death rang round the daylight’s dung 

sprouting from gravelly drudge and interspersed with locust swarms of the new century. untravelled, stagnant. begotten. 

squashed against the wall like water drops, but other worldly, alien at form and unbeknown. undone and not my place to be in but here we are. 

Clashed, slashed and fuck off repetition, fuck the interruption  — broken soldered iron to cast another broken dream — fuck the police, fuck the bulls pigs. 

and then the beans grew blank, dank, blue and red before the green leafed bud burst the stagnant cold and hue 

the buds cut down the grey earth, splintered wood and dragged it up

and no one gave a shit except the old and cloudy sky — 

and anyway said one tired soul to another

what about that lad who was born too late, his time forgotten, trying to mould into a walled world which no longer fits us any more. 

what about the fucked up dank sweat of the young thugs who gasp in heat to get their daily dose of the divine. Fuck the model. Bourn. Burn. Born. Disco Pig. Lighter. Fire. 

—————————————————————————

exhibition of selves

exhibition of selves

bodies 

bodies lined up in a morgue 

you could visit them,

like visiting your relatives in a museum. 

but you won’t

the person has changed 

can be dressed up and down 

humorously 

wearing their favourite outfit 

behind the glass

your nose pressed to the cold 

are they alive there?