bonorail

I said
I’m going to take the bonorail
with or without you

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One morning beside the mushrooms

One morning beside the mushrooms
where the wildflowers no longer grow,
I found a dead cat.

Pink collar, stiff body, blood painted across its fur.

I carried the cat to the last of the elderflowers.
I told myself foxes can’t stand elderflowers.

I woke in the night,
a dream of a fox sipping elderflower cordial.

In the alley there are cats crying.
In the alley there is a wall breaking apart
with the weight of a lilac bush,
roots creeping between bricks.

Where the wildflowers no longer grow
there are mushrooms and foxes.

playland

the druid outside KFC
is chucking bones
at taxi drivers, this is a long night.

I met a girl who wasn’t a nurse and couldn’t heal me.

johnny marr is a collage of all my teenage years.
when I followed stuart murdoch I was naked,
when I think about wayne coyne he’s covered in blood.

a halogen lightbulb in the long grass,
a penny in the keyhole,
a long distance runner in 1996.

I met a girl who was a nurse and couldn’t see me.

woden is wading,
waist deep, he’s wooden and won’t die.
why don’t we order lebanese food? go on then.

Amitie

Anew. Love is a dance, love is a gentle waltz.
Mirror of you. This happiness will never go.
In time a voice, a step alone. Delicate rose.
Tell them all she is here. Tell them all she is adored.
Ignite the world to warm. No ice, no tundra.
Eternal joy is real. Now see her eyes. Now begin.

today and yesterday

waking unfulfilled,
I stay too long because jeremy kyle is on
and matthew wright is on and it isn’t raining,
stay here cat, stay here and dream

why do they bring their dogs to my dog?
is he a pup, no he’s old now and his muzzle white

my hair is long, my hair is short and greying,
near asda a headless pigeon,
a boy pointing out the worms inside,
my daughter watching the sparrows above

old lady stroke my dog, trainman stroke my dog,
he’s a kelpie and he’s fast and yes, he’s kind hearted

when we jolt it’s always here,
you be peter and I’ll be lilly and why is there a ball there,
I don’t have a phone, my phone is somewhere else
with pictures of my daughter with a snake on her head

running, my dog sprays rainwater up from the grass
and eats a flower like it’s a sausage

I pay for my train travel in change,
up the hill the coffeeman makes the same joke
and I smoke, I’ve been smoking since we split,
there is no red lion at the red lion anymore

sleeping, my dog is running like all dogs do in dreams,
sleeping, I am making love like all men do in dreams, not to my dog, to a woman

there is a squirrel on the road and a frog in the bird bath,
katzuma, you be a chef and I’ll be the customer,
chicken and cheese, if I had a phone I’d text the past,
my curls are for the horses, my curls discarded

my dog was locked in the kitchen with no way out,
my dog is out of the kitchen, sitting in an armchair watching jeremy kyle

when the clouds are grey they’re not ageing, they’re living
and waiting to rain, I’ll write a poem about those buzzards,
feathers of young birds on the lawn,
I never see priests in the street anymore, I never see nuns at all

dog, your god is a crisp tossed into the air
but you never pray anymore

wait here, I’ll smoke and watch you twirl your curls,
when you were born I was a different man, I’m him again,
if I had a phone I’d hide it here, it’s happened before,
the worm ouroborus, the lantern bearers, far shore calls and answers

my dog hides under the bench as a pendolino destroys silence,
I won’t fit under there

this isn’t a train, it’s an aeroplane-train,
hold on, we’re bobbing like crazy,
sometimes the sun is the river, sometimes it’s the window,
I never knew garston existed, now I’m in it

wraps himself around my bag,
his chain pulled across my daughter’s body, her laughter

thinking of a sleep of fulfilment,
the television a mirror and my body stretching
and matthew wright isn’t on and it’s raining,
I’m here cat, I’m here and I’m sleepy

Or Waking There

Not of the marsh
or walking there.
Not of the heron
or the hare.
Not of the staying
or the where.
Not of whispered music
or time to prepare.
Not of the mayfly
or the loss of care.
Not of the solemn
or discarded pear.
Not of the barley
or flycatcher.
Not of evening’s toil
or the risen sun’s glare.
Not of a hilltop folly
or a solar flare.
Not of the echo
or the never were.
Not of the vale
or resting mare.
Not of this water
or the wading fair.
Not of time’s fractures
or that you are near.
Not of subtle flight
or our lion’s share.
Not of footsteps
or the coiled adder.
Not of the juniper tree
or false mother.
Not of circuits
or the now aware.
Not of your eyes
or the wanderer.
Not of the rhyme
or the written bare.
Not of the sweet
or ever-bitter.
Not of autumn
or this burning air.
Not of my kin
or when we tear.
Not of the marsh
or waking there.