Where We Lay Flowers

If I wore wasps in my shoes would I be more assertive?

Not distracted by the flowers on the zebra crossing

a beheaded bouquet of roses, onlooking

four bold tombstones of paint

I cross them like missing planks in a rickety bridge

drop into the graveyard and sniff the poppies,

azaleas piss stained and catching carrier bags

a waste bin for personal tragedies, daisies at war

with the rain drops, damps my scent

but your honey glazed door calls.


Stood, formal as a funeral on your welcome mat

I think about placing my shoes on my hands

and kicking the door down

But I’m holding down trodden dandelions,

you said you only like wild flowers after all

In the other, I’m holding my plushie, a microwaveable dinosaur

with lavender buttocks, that you gave me

to learn how to relax.

I feel claustrophobic in the sheet rain

laying with drowned bees

wondering how long they stung your letter box,

hoping you’d open up.


You only know I exist when outside represents spring

sun glossed, baking the lavender buds

You only know I exist when you find

the cuddly dinosaur on your doorstep,

laying with waterlogged bees and then

I worry you’ll accuses me of cheating on you.

We Were Architects

You always fancied the sledgehammer

and I was a dust addict with no air.

The four walls were sterile,

like your stare while the room

we confined ourselves in

shrank to fit your perception of perfection.

You were narrow minded,

my mathematics were always off

and I was tired of being inside,

so I drew up the schematics for trees,

so I could understand the root of our problems.

You couldn’t lift your hammer,

heavy like your panicking manner

with a laughter of lead

no room for a balloon between us.

I’m tired of sterile and no swinging,

we’re saxophones always reading

the rule book and shaking our flat lips,

trying to talk out with longer notes,

holding on and out for a beat to drop.

It’s here we stop breathing,

In-out receiving each other’s air.

The kaleidoscope is leaking in your chest,

we’re colliding now, it’s what we know best,

making love with a wrecking ball,

knowing we could take a fall

of forty stories, land in the rubble,

dust in our muzzles, to push

a breath to thermal dive on,

ready to rebuild all the levels

with all their floors,

because it’s our flaws

that make us want to go outside.

It’s you, me and the wall.

Let’s forget panicking about perfection

and become architects.

Sign Of My Times

I see the compulsive man, picking up dead leaves

On his path home, placing them in sun beaten carrier bags

It must take him four and a half hours to get home,

I ask him if he needs a hand and he says

Autumn is coming, then shuffles up the street .


It’s the first of March, my birthday, I’m resolving to kick my habit

of tooth rot and parrot talk, and I’m welcoming the spring.

I contemplate celebrating by becoming a crack dealer

Photocopying my buttocks

And fly posting the university walls

But it’s hard being anonymous here

So we use facepaint and dance instead.


A disco outing after developing a cocktail called Sex

I give my first speech and forget to thank my parents,

The party in my flat cheer anyway and bundle my bed

For a count of 15, raise their glasses and march out the door

Clinking to ring of fire, beer pong anthems.


We’re at 80s flirt, loose legs limp on the neon juice,

Beat over the face with dubstep and handbags

I shake them off tell them I’m with wonderwoman

Thundercat strut in my tights to New Order,

Downing Aftershock, meek chemical peel burn

In my throat, pure fluoride,

Need to spit, to head home for the dentist

or a bathroom floor, a porcelain bowl.

On exit, we’re questioned by two bowling pin bouncers,

I high five one’s face and stamp out the fire at the other’s feet

Shrieking like the scared lion I am painted to be.

Wonder woman apologises for me, moaning ‘Lion-O,’

Ready to escort me home.


Catching brain freeze from drinking too much air

My feet are blood balloons trussed up in leather

Too tired I start rolling up the hill on the pavement

That is hiding under a blanket of dead leaves,

We reach the porch,

where two guys shake cum and vomit out of a bed sheet

Into 2.10 AM wind, chatting about chicken kebab

And how tight Stacey is. ‘Are you going to be single for tour

Full on tonguing Spanish heart and whores?’

I shrug the sign of my times and tut at their language,

Kick leaves off heels at the door, held up by my caped saviour

Eager to hide in my cupboard that believes it’s a bedroom.

Inside, I get called a racist by post-it notes

pinned to a corkboard for poetry

tell myself to be calm and deliver slow.

Drink the chalk water, talk to the toaster

For spring loaded conversation,

Hear the after midnight row, upturned beds and wall pummels

Little naked fists, wrist caught and kissed

That love hate relationship knuckle imprints my cheekbones


They know I’m home when they hear my post night out stream

My head hits the ceiling, feet land after a minute, collapse on

My lover wonderwoman, who starts wiping the makeup and tears from

My battered skull, picking dead leaves from my locks

Telling me I’m beautiful,

while I try to articulate why I respect women.

She shushes me with a hand on the back of my neck

I purr and cry at the excess love in my veins, the sign of the times

Fear of autumn coming, thankful for the superheroes

We both painted ourselves to be, both mismatched

But resting in the same, spring time tree,

Two cats in no need of firefighters.




Laying on a bed cradling your first born stab wound,

You’re left looking like a heart attack

after you’ve stepped past the exact

point of standing against the common ground

that is the earth held on the tip of a knife point,

so concerned with shoving a statement in your chest

like vacuous motivation is what you need

when you’re trying to Beep… past the radars

of those expecting things from you. Great things.

High expectations for long disappointments.

All it takes is the foot placed wrong

and you’re in Monitor City Beep… Beep…

Every single word and beat and feeling

Registered, processed, jerked with an arthritic

lie detector arm. You’ve got the wrong guy.

I’m a victim, believe me, I have no voice.

I’m sorry, is that my heart so truthfully scripted there?

It looks like a child’s fridge drawing, scribbles of nonsense

scored with decaying crayon …Beep…

It would just be nice to say things without interruption …Beep…

Definitely a forgery… Beep… Last time I fisted a …Beep…

See I can’t even complete the sentence.

The wires in my skin are trying to fix the pump within

and all its redeemed with is a Beep… Beep…

what I might say next is free from the chest,

for a thought provoked from the bottom

of the barrel headed minds that so frequently roll around here.

Beep… I never used to talk like this. I feel as though I’m in code

…Beep… Encoded by the …Beep… So making sense

while I lay here might be the …Beep… ends of all reasonable

discourse from a tired soul. News is on.


*Suspects questioned today in a lyrical hit and run enacted

last night on rappers Blatently Overated and Uncreative.

They were riddled with assumptions and deaf ears,

leaving them in quite a shock after their lyrics

had been stolen. They are both trying to recover their voices

and are glad to have put one of the assailants in hospital…*


You can only make a living from what has been done before.

Some people are more literal about this than others.

I could question the morals at hand here,

while I’m dying on the suspension bridge of …Beep…

They still have their voices and words revolving

around the corporate music media, instead of being locked in

to a tape recorder, a dying artist monologuing to a transcript

that will make it no ears or minds or …Beep…

Come inside me. Close your eyes. See what I pretend to see.

Here is the vast plain of creativity I have here,

locked under eyelids and blood vessels and bones broken

as a milk bottle left carelessly in the wind. It falls to smash

and out blossoms the word ‘WHITE’, which can be assumed

stands for canvas or convex or concave, a shape at the very least,

of something you can mould beyond all comprehension.

Or simply let disappear, here, in the back garden,

where Dad used to cut the grass and now the lawnmower sits

next to Mum’s fabric sunning chair, shredded by hails stones,

with grass grown all around it and the Spring weather

has bounced off again, so all it does is rain to rust its metal.

You roll around as a dog and wonder if you were a cat,

the moon would be the most enticing bowl of milk

but instead you are …Beep… relaxing, coming to terms

with the fact you will never mould yourself into something

that will excel as high as the moon …Beep… but it’s enough

to want to create the journey, to pull from yourself,

lying on the ground, the ideas of ladders or spaceships

beaming down and pulling you up from your daily dog/cat duties,

to reach something as unimportant but beautiful as space,

time takes nothing from you, just a day dream daze

for half a day and there you are, laying in thin air, despite the …Beep…

that stops your free thought …Beep… Dad forgives you for not mowing.

Mum has fresh lemonade, despite the cold … Beep…

Nurse puts a sponge in my chest cavity and soaks up some blood.

It tickles, too much. Hahaha stop it you cheeky …Beep…

I don’t feel like waking up just yet. I’ve got too many

restrictions waking up for …Beep… sake. Stop it, this is

…Beep… of the highest… Beep… Let me see my mother

…Beep… for another …Beep… I’ll tell you everything

…Beep… I was the one stabbed … Beep… Beep…

For my …Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

The Day I Forgot About Yeast

Breadmouth is talking about the fall of the economy

while we drown in the sinking pink sunset,

letting the geese fly off and out of the crèche

we built for them on the hillside, using wicker

and wicked thoughts, for freedom is featherless.

We’ve been here every month, catching every one

with the loose crumbs of our speech, for we

are the careless talkers of the century, digging grass

angels with our lack of movement, watching a sunrise

and wishing for it to set, as we are set in resin.

The dew climbs and rests on our pale naked bodies

that we’re obsessed with tanning to the degree

that every leather sofa we pass, is jealous

and lounging around is our disrespectful game.

No longer are we baking today, we’re dining

tomorrow and the day after, without laughter

or intonation or pitch or birdsong climbing

the vapour trail ladders that descend from rescue jets.

No bread for grandmother today. It’s mouldy,

sour dough and coughing yeast, easing itself

into a shallow grave of atmosphere eaters,

no plastic containers or fridge preserves

as we are unreserved wasters, here, upon hilltop,

flocking like the wingless geese. We are

wise to the ways of addiction, plucking the fat

bread obsessed birds from the sky and making

pâté patios, for more beach loungers, so we can

fart and ignore our bed sores, argue about towels

and whose skin is getting thicker in the rising sun.

Our days as vampires have ended, blood is no longer

appropriate, it’s just a distraction, you don’t need

circulation if you’re not rising for anything

other than a waiter bringing a sandwich, and usually,

a goose will die above you, ready for rotisserie,

so here we are, waiting for our feed, while releasing

our geese so they can grow plump and pluck worthy.

Breadmouth’s economy plans are flawed; he likens them

to buoyant balls amidst an ocean of sinkers and stares

at the sun, saying that’s the biggest star we could catch

and yet, all I can offer to him is my lack of opinion.

I am dead for moving, junked up in over fed state,

eating flatbreads, wondering when I had forgotten

to put yeast in the mix, for these crumbs will attract

no foreign flyers or picnicking couples upon the hill top.

I may have to become vegetarian and eat the abundance

of green or a cannibal and over power Breadmouth,

devour his form, so full of bread and rising breaths.

Saliva is masquerading my mouth roof and tongue

eager for a taste of my dearest friend, who is now

honking for his flocking friends to return to his side,

basted with bread and yeast on a mattress of crumbs

browning well in the rising sun. I stand with a struggle,

hearing angels and devils applauding my momentum

as if this is momentous and the hills are witnessing

the death of descent, welcoming the limp body’s ascent,

timed perfect to the sink of the sun, unmotivated

by the light, daring the dark. I clamber, weak on the legs

who have forgotten emoted motion, stagger on what

could be pins propping up a boulder and I tumble

on to Breadmouth, who screams in surprise, ‘HONK!’

And I eat the goose away, the body of my friend,

cooked to perfection, tasting of everything but,

feeling nothing but hungry and lost. I ask the sky

whether or not I should be a cannibal and eat the rest

of the loungers and it doesn’t respond. I guess

that means ‘NO’ and instead, I lay on the grass again,

wishing I had not forgotten the yeast. The sun begins

its rise and it no longer welcomes me, for now

I am cold and brown, ready for migration. An allergic

reaction bristles my skin and feathers begin to puncture

underneath. Like a cocoon I am enveloped, waking

with wind in my bones, hearing the migrant call of

the geese set free. In me, there is a flight taking place,

of the rib cage parting ways with my heart, lifting

me upwards on a thermal current, that before felt

lackluster. I leave on the wings of the foreign flyers,

my brothers and sisters that rise to the sun, despite

knowing it will always descend. A trail of breadcrumbs

fall from my beak lips and I honk goodbye to the hillside,

certain that soon, someone else will be lying there,

wondering why they didn’t put yeast in their picnic bread.