Picking The Walls of The Rich

I pick up a tile
Part of a picture
A pattern
Outside the house
One of the houses with lights in
And soft seats
I am back on the bench
The knots remained tied
The powder chewed but not eaten
I am back on the bench
The dull scrape of time against my skin
Inside my pockets
Where there is nothing left to demolish
I make marks with my pen
Leave a note on the statue
Children playing
I will not pass them the rough edges
The margins
Real sound has left me
I have no desire to catch it up
To have it find me
The rec is tested as dead
It says on the sign
A signature
I will follow the clues
Transform the marks into candy
Find a way back to the path
Or walk a new one.
I pick at the walls of the rich
And the tile feels like a resolution in my hand.

At Her Feet

I go to her
Her feet
The light at her feet
I see the numbers
Seven
Eleven
Nineteen
Nine
Maybe it is a grid reference.
A place to find words to believe in.
I imagine her
I see her
Sitting quietly in pale blue
Waiting
Wanting
I imagine my fingers rumpling his curly hair
Soft
Like no life has touched it
Pure
I run my fingers over the dimples of his cheeks
Soft
Like no life has touched it
I hold on tight to Alice
Take enough from the bag that I need
But not too much
Just enough to dampen down the festival inside
The place of burst balloons
Sour cake
And candles
Ones you can blow out
Or make larger
I quietly count
I quietly whisper
I believe
I believe
I believe.

Tying Knots In The Rain

It is hard to tying knots in the dark
In the rain
When my hands are cold
When my words are drenched
Left under the bush
For safe keeping
Good health
It is one thing to come back to
The place where the bag is safe
Where the thorns pierce my head
But leave no blood
I stumble
Trying to say

I saw a plastic face
A false eye
Skin rebuilt
Behind glass
Untouchable
The power of making

I see all the stops on the line
I must take the red then the blue

It is simple

I am having trouble putting my trousers on
I am having trouble holding the pen
I am having trouble

The words on the barrier say seek assistance
But it is hard to untie knots in the dark.
In the rain.

Rose

Rose
I scribble on the paper
A flower
Whose edges are sharp
Whose colour has eroded
Whose texture has turned into brown mulch
All but disappeared in the wind and rain
Immobile
No longer looking up
The proximity of bodies
Grows closer
The closeness to my head recedes
Lost in pockets and benches
Lost in me
Taken up by the potion
Drink me Drink me
Living well is the best revenge
I write it on the paper
Next to the flower
The rose
A scribble
The ink around its petals dry up like congealed blood
Wasted time like rings on the bottom of a tree which falls
Unheard
No way through the tunnels
No way to retribution
For the sun that failed to shine on the rose
For the water which was meant to fill her heart
For the hand that was meant to stretch her upwards
Retribution has forced my hands to dig
To bury
A body which no longer exists
A head which is lost
This is the edge of existence
There are no soft round hopes of sun or warmth
These are the edges of rose
I feel them every time my hand reaches into the bush
Bone cold fingers on the grains that keep me warm.

Security Tower

The silver threads hang from the camera
Security
Cold
Hard
There
I look up
At myself in the mirror
It is not my mirror
Not like Alice
Alice chases me through the tunnels
Past the box
Where there is a machine to start your heart
My heart
I think
My heart has gone
There are no vital signs
Yet every sign is vital
Like the dog shit on the don’t dog shit sign
Like my old name on the painting
I receive a call
Back from the beige place
Two people jumped
One broken leg
One spilt bag of pills
My home
The one that slipped away
Cold
Hard
The fairy tale
In the back of my head
No powder or bench brings it back to me
I keep home
Wrapped up
The blue coat
The scarf
The smell of me
Tied up in a shopping bag
It is a flimsy defence
Like the camera
The one which does not see inside of me
The camera which captures me
Cold
Hard
Security
The silver threads my hair dangling from the tower
A tower which I cannot jump from.

Cryptic

I stopped and looked at the stars
The vapour trails cutting the moon
A white crescent
A flag of night resting in the morning sky
A final misplaced shine
I am cryptic
Like the moon in the morning
Like the welcome wreath on the security gate.
We are not at home.
It is windy now
On the bench
My hands shake around the little box of apple juice
I tie knots in the bags
Tight knots
I smile and think of the man emptying his bag on the horse
The statue that leads to the blue floor
The place that leads to the library
The time it takes to count and measure
By the side of his wallet rested a book
A Book of Knots
I wonder what secrets he ties up too
There is an unsteady calm
The powder balancing the paper charts
The letters and signs in room 23
A little hurt
A little help
Chasing the rabbit but not touching his tail
He might be cryptic too
But I understand him perfectly
As every jump lifts my head towards the moon.

Time To Go Home

The old man brushes the dog
Outside the Pitch and Putt
Carefully
Tenderly
They sit together waiting for people to play
I go back to the bench
The one where I fumbled with the candy box and powder
I pick around the grass like the man picks for fleas
A little joy in rooting around for that thing which keeps you upright
Alright
I have a new box
From a new place
There are many more places here
neversayitrustyou
I find a place where the candles burn and she sits
The stations around me
The same as back in the beige place
But not the same
I hug the box wishing to be back there
If she sits and waits for me that will be enough
I wonder where Alice has gone
I can’t find her in my pocket
Maybe she will come back. When my heart slows down.
I think of her as my feet sink into the leaves
Like drowning in the other side of the mirror
It makes me tired
I ask for water
At the library
I keep a little and carry on
It is four o’clock
Time to be home
The orange lights shine behind the windows like needles and pins
I keep my head down and walk and walk
never stop never stop or the house will fall down
The white rabbit chases past me
I see him
A little dust on his nose
I wish I could catch him
If I could catch him
I would brush his coat and wait
I will love him like the old man loves
We will tumble in the thick leaves
Me and Alice and Rabbit
leaves and fur and powder
All together inside.