Stone

I post stones down the sink

One for yes

Two for no

We have talked like this for three years

It is enough

He still has words

He asks questions through the pipes

Is it safe

Two stones

Is it safe

Two stones

Is it ever safe

Two stones

I wonder what he does with my answers

There must be lots of stones

Down the pipes

In the sink

In his hands

If I said yes

The water might flow again

I pick up stones

Every time I leave

Careful of time

Of streets

I make sure I see her

Two candles burn at her feet

The other waits

I dip my finger in the cool water

I am hurried

It splashes my face not my head

I see her son pointing at his chest

The holes

don’t go don’t go

I know you are here

I always go

I always seek the stain

I get the green paper

The treasure which moves me from no

There are words

Black words

I wonder if the black words are the last words

But that is too big

The stones cannot answer the question I wait for him to ask.  

Thread

The streets are a tangle we cannot out run

Like a thread sewn too deeply

We are stuck

Our feet moving

Without feeling

Without thought

We have to reach that place

That place without a name

The one that we all hunt

The bag rubs my shoulder

The skin

Already broken

Makes my coat wet

Another black stain

On another black stain

I must be black inside

I think

don’t think don’t think

I carry what we need

Powder

Dust

Treasure

And dirt

As we move I pick up glass

Add it to the bag

I tend it in a way that I cannot tend myself

Held in hand

Washed in puddles

As if anything can be clean 

As if it matters

Why make this longer

don’t think don’t think

Glass and powder

That’s what we need

The powder wrapped in food bags

Dried out on the glass

Kept in the shade

So as not to taint

As if anything can be untainted 

A sweet minute

A sweet minute where the powder cakes the glass like toffee apple

Crunch

A sweet minute

Which untangles the streets

Pulls out the thread

Softens our feet

Brings us to that place

The one that we all hunt.

Law

We pick through the washed up

Junk

Huddle over the silt

Like a prospect of gold

It passes the time

Forces the breath

Any junk is better than home

Cars aren’t here now

We walk

The thin soles of our shoes slipping in the mud

We need to wipe them

The only clean ledges are graves

Funny how death survives death

We do not wipe our feet there

Some laws still apply

The postman wears his uniform

The red faded but still inside

He smiles tries to say hello

We have all forgotten words

He works

Prospecting his own gold

Picks up dead mice

Posts them in the water

Carefully as letters

birthday thank you congratulations sympathy sympathy

We do not remember

I wish for that absorption

Not in silt

In mind

I see too much

Feel everything

And nothing

My skin is purple and swollen under the sun

It hurts

I wish it would break and let the infection in

Force me to the grass in happy delirium

They pulled me back from the grass once

Now if you are pulled you never come back

No one misses what is not there

The light makes me sick

Us sick

The kind of head sick that comes from gasoline and ice cream

burn high cold

I wish it was gone

I wish I was gone

The children draw with stones on the ground

Some laws still apply.

  

Heaven

I pick up heaven

It is pale blue like a sheet

White around the edges

Heaven is marked by a boot print

I wet my finger

Try to take it off

It feels bad

You cannot step on heaven

I hold the paper

In the park

You cannot stay for long

Only a moment

This place is not heaven

Even though it says so

On the paper

In my hands  

I hope that heaven is better

There is no break in the light

I wait for it

I imagine it as a clean sheet

A soft bed

A place inside

A warm place

With cushions and blankets and noise

Good noise

Not bad noise

Bad noise keeps your eyes open

That is how it differs

when i walk i am safe eyelids flutter shutter little paper squares of rest but never rest never stop never come to a halt an end an end would be nice an end would be like heaven

The paper square is not an end

It is dirt left over from when

I was little

I think

Now I am as wrong as a boot print on heaven.

Air

She puts her tongue in my cheek

Softly

Like a gift

I cannot find enough air

Not without her

The storm has blown through

The bells ring

Empty packets travel like scurf on the tide

Cakes not eaten

Parties not thrown

He throws a ladder against the empty shop

Calendar Club

Defunct

Time no longer has meaning

But means all

He is picking for wires

The baby pram remains neatly abandoned

Rich pickings

Except there is no rich any more

No one left to push

It was ended

Long before the air ran out

We turn the carrier bag into a seat

Sit on the wall by the water

The oars chug like pistons

Wasted energy

Wasted breath

Some people still try to leave

We watch

The white hand is painted on the door

Brown ribbon in the dirt

They are taking down the building

Picking for wood

We put our heads down

Invisible

We will have to go back

To that place

It is the only way to find air

That thing we need

That thing we seek

Inside all we want is for it to be ended

But we do not have the heart

Or the white hand

We no longer think

But thinking is all we do

She puts her tongue in my cheek

Softly

Like a gift

I cannot find enough air

Not without her.

Toast

The blood sits on top of the toast

Like a buffer

Between the peanut butter and chocolate spread

But not

When I chew

I choke

When I choke

The blood comes out my nose

It falls on my toes

Warm

Not like the old rain and mud

A unity between flesh and fluid

But not

I think I broke my mind

The tissue paper won’t place it back together

Not even mixed with peanut butter chocolate spread and blood

I don’t think I like eating now

And I think I broke my mind

It walked down the hill

Dangled its feet over the railings and looked at the water

Heart beat racing chasing one hundred and fifty five

Skull as soft as confetti falling to the floor

A disagreement

Cancellation of the contract between breath and time

They transport the body

To that place

You know

But they do not collect the mind

It is uncollectible

Just blood mixed with peanut butter chocolate spread

Wiped lightly on the toast

I do not like this red spit

Like their spit

Like venom

They did not walk on hot coals

They rubbed me deep within it

I think I broke my mind

I think I know who did it

She is the only one left who looks

Into eyes which aren’t quite there

transitioning choking coughing

Pick a name and bury it deeper than the sound

Light a cigarette

she knows she knows

She holds the hammer

And hits

I think I broke my mind

I can’t find all the pieces.

Stain Removal

There are black stains on the shoulders of my jacket

I should really wash them out

But I can’t

I just can’t

They balance the black of my eyes

Like a map

Pulverized

Misread

I copied out the numbers

When no one was looking

As if they ever look

As if the numbers would make sense 

Make a tiny part all right

Numbers mean nothing

They may last longer

Than me

I think that

Sometimes

All the time

Boiling the kettle at five am

You look taller lying down he said

I am short I replied

Very short

Maybe when I am flat the numbers do not hamper

The thoughts do not taunt

Maybe when I am flat

My body grows

To true size

Real size

Drink me

Eat me

Fall down the hole

Never come back

I am not sure if white rabbit is a friend

I am not sure if anything is friend

I find the cluster of silver thorns

Like my story falling

In the supermarket car park

They are joined together

All five shiny

Nestled together like friends

Maybe I should leave them

Maybe I should tell

i am not ok you know i am not ok

I pick them up

It’s not as if anyone looks

I put them in the bag

The bag with glass wrapped in tissue that they did not find

And I understand the numbers now

I understand that they mean nothing

That I mean nothing

I understand that I can leave the stains unwashed upon my shoulders

It’s not as if anyone looks.