This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.



It popped like a snowball on one of the angles of his pretty face
at the top of the stairs at the regular reggae night we've all throbbed at for years
I told him to prop up the flap
and we stumbled down the stairs after the figure
shaking glass from our cuffs and smearing blood on the bannisters and hinges propelling ourselves forward
he got away
some people said too much to the police and we pinched them and coughed near them
some said too little and they didnt even keep the receipt
all i kept saying was it popped like a snowball
you didnt even blink
still pretty now they tied the flap back in place
all riled up and angry sleepless and buzzing
running our fingers through our hair
cracking our knuckles
flicking bitten finger stubs
in a rhythmic march through the days
not seeing him
thinking you see him everywhere
talking redrum in the sunny park
we don't know him
you don't know him
but he swims in the same pond
and things like this just keep on happening around here.

Pissing In The Wind. Election Season.

In the bin behind the supermarket I found my best friends cheek
The freedom and sanity of a talented actor
The moral backbone of an artist
The spacious arteries of our youth
All crushed and mashed
Under the weight of the pound.

Foreshadowing all of this was of course our hope
That they toyed with like a clit
Rising us to a crescendo over hurdles wet with ink
After they came
We were paraded in the media aisle
Defined by our outlines
Corners missed off descriptions
They stuffed us with numbers and factual symbols %
And flung us about like puppets until we all tore at the seams
Our stuffing made their beds soft and comfy
We slept on the see saw tossing and turning
As we dip in and out of shadows.