Bus note 92

I sweat here being ill.
        The fog.
The shop clock's stopped.
        I shuffle off.
Six foot woman smokes
long thin cigarette.
        Her dress of triangles.
Walk over before
the green man says yes.
        My fog. My eyes.
The back of my stupid head.

Bus note 91

        Lips stretched livid
and going at it too.
        A spittle ring
        cakes there.
Eyes are 372 now questions
outneedling each other.
        He wants to be in again.
Mad with the Export
and schizo pills (aura
of closed ward)
        he works
        a thin familial recall note.
She listens and answers,
measured and scared.
        Her little girl looks
        and makes remembering flags.
Questions, wet ropes,
dark stabs over
stiffening, shutting down heads.

Music and Movement

Lungs clagged outside

       sucked smoke
  blown out as amulets

                     excremental air

        Yellow sacs are full
      with people weights

 a breather

             unseen caking
          secret stalagmites

              Fishes in blood are blind

         His bloated neck in heat
              a fat key jangle            

 sleeping tache          where
      the windowless eyes

   Us against        poverty romance or
     fucked and ready dignity

 Meandering in and out
           of stupid garden

Her with jewelled eyes
        and then bleak eyes and then
   jewelled again

           her heart her hate aflutter
              her hurt her
      hysterical hair map

Medical witnessing
                        at a chatter pace

     Decay-stained valentine, curled
                where the plumbing

       Please
       wash
       your
       hands

"We don't go
to the disco"

 And the dank old
           in the cold old
    Brythonic dropped clouds

From the back window, The Shadows:
              "Wonderful Land"



     

Bus note 90

        Whispering static
and stopped rain.
        That one in the bushes
        with the coffee again
(his pretend nature corner
traffic smeared).
        One wall left;
        brick dust cumuli.
White of Birch,
white, sick
and nearly beaming

Bus note 89

Wind flattens rental sign and
        fucks gait and pace.
Unhooks blue tarpaulin      
        over erratic lightshow
        of nip and tuck place.
Stink of skunk:
remainderer.
        Pretty girl goes on:
        "Did he think she was on her own?
        Should we like kill her or something?"
Trees pulled up and out
like some idiot joke;
        an almost subject work.

Morning

Dulled fake slate

Split lip inks up

Sky wash with bruises

A heavy necklace
of oughts

Terraceds squaring
bled rural traces

We have to call it
a drama today

Bus note 88

Empty boats
in Icknield Port
        and then
        a lump of church.
Hair branches scratch.
        "Oh!",
        the wet rot musk cloud sings.
Eyes are fucked
with caffeine shots.
        Traffic pulse desecrates and stutters.
Bare will's thinned.
        How heavy are my hands?