Tuesday

Palm down, flat with the card underneath. He is buying a small
container of pasta, the pasta is not nutritious and barely satisfying.
Into the station, a clock and also wretches. Some are happy, click-
clacking around, lush. A fake smile catches the worm, she is so tired.
They are all tired but there is Floradix. There is coffee coming from all
the pores in every wall. From every epidermis there is coffee. And time,
all the time. Compared to these skyscrapers and the men who built them.

In the lounge, and hating the way it sounds. Sitting room, Mum would
have insisted. Tapping away, good luck. Stuckist in flannelette.
There are motivational quotes for this I bet, gone viral like a fascist.
There will be a programme for this, a way to re-enter the station.
There is a yoga pose called not depressed, it costs eighty quid at
least, have you tried it. Follow your bliss in an arts admin position, you’ll
be around people: not complex, and they can’t see your eyes.

Back on the walkway there are hundreds of unshackled minds. All with
purpose. A lady nearly knocks my flapjack off she is so full of it. Nips in.
Busy and alive, in her groove. Emotional freedom is an excuse, and it pays
really badly. Also, do you want to be remembered for being tired. She was
always tired! The pews erupt into laughter, they are fond of how tired I was
all the time. Always tired! Just the way she was, changing the world by
loving people. Writing some poems that a hamster made his bed in.

One day the crutches just stop working. It’s ok as we are not chimneys nor
romantic enough to be a drunk anymore. It has lost its mystery. One whole
packet of Nice biscuits is guilt. So now I hobble around on cocktail sticks
stopping only for a single robin. More truth in a single bird than anything I am
told by anyone, more sense. Or a dog’s eyes. I crouch and understand the
dog. His head is solid and my hand does not go through it. Or when a child
speaks to me I can make them laugh. When they like me without trying.

Or I could buy a Graze box and browse products in Boots, they used to hold
such promise. All the potions and stinks, now useless. I see the package
design in vector and people decide to have a different colour hair, how
are these decisions made. People represent themselves and I am lost, can
only see the way they move, with bravado or hesitance, a sudden faltering.
Trying to get past you, winding up to make speed, to their futures on time,
toward the olden days clock with no lovers.

Wednesday

Brace to expand the only magic space
left to us, a place of folk that exists beyond
money. I love money! If only
I had some, or the other thing they all
want, called exposure, or big ears.

Disruptive in itself, the voice amongst
ads, pride in my artform, graffiti all
over the banal- nice, I like it. But
also, why does that vast nation get to
finger our last starry trench with a yup,

filmed on metro sets of faux-reality?
Imagine yourself surrounded
by cameras, your words tripping out to
potential emptor, shoehorned hard in
to fit the brief. The future etc! Saving.

I would melt with the absurdity of it,
my self droning on about shares or family
when I have neither, not quite the way they
call it. Grubby poets with their terrible
clothes and outsider faces, spun

to gold in terse intermission. Lol
at the Night’s Watch, volunteering
to keep the tiny slice of light alive. We
never did it to make ends, but for love-
to transform right and organise.

For we exist elsewhere, always. We do,
time bends. I am useless in the mainstream.
Here are some words that fit ok. Spokey-
Dokeys on your wheel, for recall. Sorry
I cannot sell them. They are already yours.

Friday

There is a decent amount of stillness
in snow, and also in the yellow of
daffodils. It would be easy to say they remind
me of you, but they don’t. The crown of each
burns. All around, people

are effortlessly people. Some elsewhere.
Poets are ghosts. It is not especially
romantic. Stillness and the urge to participate,
hoping the snow sits. Casting out lines, always
wonky, the agony! Sounds good does it.

Yet in the centre, amber. Suspended,
knowing our faces are lunatic gaps in some
bottomless armour. So far into absurd that
money is unfathomable, hearts birthing
bright from our sleeves like hernia. Still,

the need to be a part of it, to have existed.
To never forget that we are slipping away
all miracle. Vivid and extra, skin and light,
experiments in weather. To touch, to write it
right. Staying open in the only way we