I fail at sleeping

in a show of unconditional accusation, the reproachful slander of your hereafter,

amongst the placid hours,

I try to be the grand man, but I shake too much

unhinged by the overreach of my skeletal height

much to the delight of every unskilled whistler

tough love and rougher hate interprets the shuddering motions, as my left hand lingers

over a poss...

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I ponder the etiquette of nursing a pint

and whether some might find it impolite

if I made it last just little while longer that I

might watch the rain that crawls on the steamed windows

making broken ghosts of every passer by

each of them eager to avoid

catching the eye of the living and I wonder

which one of them broke winter’s heart such as to make it

so bitter

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the monsters used to live under the bed

now they walk the streets, most often,

with halos around their heads

cold sunbeams stiffen my hyphenated bones

and even singing does nothing

to evaporate the frosted water in my veins

splash my neck

slap my face

I’m sick of talking, I get no satisfaction

from my lower case hate

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what crisis?

nowadays they have to pinch the ends

of their cigarettes before they cross the threshold

no longer allowed to herd the crumbling swarms

of ash across the gingham veldt

outside the window, on the pavement,  lies a bible

and the radio declares their readiness is high

seems like a good night to let the smokers

in and warm around a last ember...

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(profanity alert)

do your dreams play better in colour?

you may never make it to Oz, be left

in the dirty sepia hollow of your streets that bled

their hue & rye into the gutter

when your ankles drowned in

silk and nylon and the alleys breathed your

living tears did you lose more than I ever found?

what do you think you shall leave?

the weight of your footfall...

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