Sousse, Tunisia

A man died with his head in the sand today,
a notification pushed that image to my eyes
with bridge of palm into bridge of nose close handling,
made me stare upon congealed sand and loose limb brain
and I still don't believe it happened.

I'm keeping cries close over here,
muffling coughs into towels as the world falls apart
because out that door is behind the wardrobe you never saw,
Biff, Chipper and Kipper holding fort on bedside table airtime airports,
all whilst newsfeeds and jetstreams transport footprint flotsam to far off shores
where no one really cares for the marks it left,
too busy bitching 'bout some gal in San Francisco,
stabbed at gun point down the back of some Home Depot.

Under that parasol he slept,
a bullet in his head for doing nothing
hurting no one
and I'm on the toilet thinking,
stop your self from being so hard on yourself:
thus is life and all the web it'll tangle itself in.
Then my ribs turned to barbecue fingers and wet serviettes,
blood I thought ink swelled into debts and hyphens I thought were friends,
I sunk forward into a slump,
Flump over easy into downward trend,
singing some first song heard at birth and blind to it ever since
until then,
page one of Twitter.

Can we go now, please?
these warm French mornings are filling me up,
thick milkshake up tunnel straws,
tailback plumber's mop pushed through shot glass
and shatter
into pat-me-on-the-back, gummy bears against brick walls in mattress van dreams of a no seat belt driver going 70 in a 5 zone.

I'm not a driver nor an adjudicating passenger,
but if I was
take me, mid-morning, to a storm linen beach and lead me to the summit breaks,
there I'll listen with you
just with my head in the sand.


Strangers and angels 
and angles and stranglers,
in an age of nothing new

what's left to create?

I want an unedited you,
not Snapchat
but time-lapse,

not trophy of a sex tape
but tattoo text certificate-
look how brave I was.

Get over it.
Get past it.
Stop hurling milk cartons onto cobbles so you can cry,

elastic drags you back,
let go and wound and carry onto wherever you see fit,
the moon perhaps;

and I want to ask the dads when they went to space because they know so much about it,
but it's all from books
and BBC Four late night

tell me mores.
'Cos somewhere in here is a
gypsy boxer, low rank poker player

who doesn't know how the world works
and meditates, all odds bundled into clusters.
I've developed the taste for granola

and silent films,
quake teeth and aftershock tongues, berries rest,
under eye makeup and train chases,

cornflakes on mute, smooth talker,
my crunch is worse than their bite.

This is fourth time lucky cos the third didn't cut it. 

Lord of the Harry Potter. Another trilogy

is like getting caught washing up at four in the morning by the partner of friend, 
the conversation bypassing all formality-
then the expected question,
coffee or tea,
and/or cigarettes,
let's rest and talk until dawnlight plough has pulled day into place,
two hard sleepers who never cared to wink sitting face to foot,
stretched out, 
fresh flour cushions sat above heavy breath chests and cold forearms.
Empty wood silence, hummed car crash too far away to save.

Your dried eyes looked like they wanted to ask
what they fuck and why
to the question
where did they get to?
Always repeat things because next time they'll owe you,
we shouldn't have trusted them,
erase them from the book of expectation,
track back through equation with detectors set to pot-hole.

What does it take for something to become part of your five a day:
same shoes and bed,
rainy day hen party showers
because some of us have to cleanse daily,
pass the crown and shot glass.

Gillian Merlot

Gillian Merlot
is a mistress and a book binder
gently sewing on the shelf behind me,
she looks authentic in the wings with that fake smile of hers
plastered across in haste.
Her tears never rain
but tour down her face
in torrential laps of alpine needle flats
and Italian lakes.

I asked her to shower me in bank collapse clothes the day before an eternal day off, but she declined,
suit and booted me out of the job into
khaki shorts and t-shirts
opposed the Fitch & Abercrombie I should have never been wearing.
Merlot makes me feel fierce again,
out of debt and always in pocket
of another bottle
filled again with hotel sized portions of not a lot else
but backwash and murmur,
caught sound in conch shell just another Everyman Twitter moan.
Shut up,
the ones and zeros have tattooed your face in equations not even anti-feminist scientists can work out.

my nutella went cold, my heart broke

Fall back,
fresh bed;
the nest you made yourself not moments ago
came about through blueprint and rehearsal,
practice for the show
of more sleep and gust in your sails.

We forgot where that ladder led,
ran up it twice to a ruined viewing platform
where white sheet sky spat itself into cloud and sea-spray from the spit of headland
that pointed south,
back home via up north synapse of electricity
and bath time blues.

Sing to me Stop Staring and Do,
you're giving me more receipts than I can handle and keep,
so stitch them into scarves, neckerchiefs,
airport walking escalators,
something faster than the overwhelming sadness I saw in a German Shepard's eyes today,
bored he was lease bound and tied to a lamppost by the post
master's office. He'd rather have been kissing in car washes than have been sat there;
see the war paint mascara turn into a masquerade for yourself whilst sat atop a warm fridge than have been waiting for its owner,
pared down and ready to run,
catch up with Henry's wolves over the page, back a few. Years.