Window

Clouds and tears mist a horizon where
pink line scorch splits a diagonal and moves on.
Each morning story is one precious page in a book with no repeats.

Travel

Wetland shine chases tears over harsh ground,
Outrun latent loss before a storm broke
It wasn't in us,
cry, cry, cry a wounded landscape, write it well.

It's cold and the station stinks of piss and trouble.

Season

Seasonal confusion trips me up on the front step.
Unsentimental wind pushes my feet from under an unsentimental sky
Me and the cat are both enjoying a change of view
I run the childhood poems through my head as November's March winds allow me change unpredicted, unknown, unforeseen, unable, disabled.

Flat

Flatland skylines broaden a blue line,
possibility weakens under a race to hold on.

Heron heads home to upriver renewal, lucky heron.

Leaves

An accidental redemptive solution pulls a car off a tree stump forty years after the square inch patches of hair pulled from my scalp smarted into auditorium darkness with no escape before the end of the film, but then I did escape from frying pan to fire, a decade on and a chink of light drew me from the underworld. Today I'm learning not to drink poison when I'm thirsty or eat shit when I'm hungry.

Warmth

What season do owls come out to circle and screech?

I don't remember which hospital, which shift, institutional food dished out warmth to a peachy overall clad misfit

I don't mind sitting in old lady piss in the accessible toilet,
Slight droplet splash her daughter didn't catch on a hurried wipe round before manoeuvring the awkward hospital wheelchair round the awkward toilet door.

Slippy

ha ha look rough, must address lighting issues!

Resource

What gets passed on? resources run down to nothing in
a tough season with nothing left to build on.
I smashed up a motorbike then gave it away to a friend, my injuries stayed with me but we all loved that bike, chrome and speed in a child's drawing of who I am,
ancestors we passed on, but something stood out, I am, I am.
Out of sight pairings, was it first come first served,
subtle unseen distinctions of feather and flight path.
My cat rolls in pleasure at the top of the stairs, growling in territorial marks later, he moved on.

Time

The toxic addictions break down to wasted time,
leave languid limbs wrestling with the season.
Me, I cry in bed in the morning,
when you get to your forties there's always someone you care about dying of cancer.

Rites

Juvie rooftop refusals while she gently stands her ground knowing the
summer fat excess will get you through a change, her work is done, independence looms large on the skyline.
Far to fall has no meaning nor predatory anxiety too deep to see
high risk reasoning
on low-rise ledges as urgency wanes and waits out a season

Threadbare

So I'm in mourning for an old pair of jeans gone through at the arse.
It doesn't have the same meaning these days, fashion urgency and profit thirst thinned denim to a speedy obsolescence, a bit like old skool butch I guess, thank fuck old skool fem still thrills to slow move zippers and bright fade blue.

Walk

"Are you convalescing dear?"
"Sort of, yes"
Hollowed out cheeks, half portion dinner requests and an inability to tolerate polite conversation gave it away to an inquisitive lakeland concierge who's seen it all.
But the chemicals is only the half of it, a broken spirit has it's own track marks.
Strange to have been in so much better health then, half kilometre walk past seagulls, swans and ice cream kiosks down at the waters edge, one stick or two? I don't remember.
Strange to feel better but be so much worse, I couldn't do that now, this is the meaning of degenerative, progressive.

Cells

Tears fall at an empty shoreline
Blue boat laps unanchored to change
No moorline loops back loosely to anywhere
Living cells map consciousness in the claws of a bird
No afterlife comfort of a place to go
Where does collective live?

Surf

Brighton didn't care about me she just stole my wallet and my phone.
I remember dressing a bumpy shoreline years ago, when surfers and tides aligned my hope.
Where did it go? I remember the route way but it wearies me now.
In the eighties, optimistic smoking and a case of greek wine blurred the problem, today it won't hide, ok close all tabs and get out of bed.

CSI Sunday

Your DNA is under my fingernails,
Sharp taste on chewed back edges,
'Willows! Get in here'!

Seasonal

Spring frost over insulated rooftops marks time, resources and harsh lee side truth, that's how it is.
My sex toy stock went up with you, since we broke up I cut my nails in optimistic defiance of decent into self pity and neglect.

Unshod

I wear socks out quickly because I walk around in bare feet.
Feedback loop that balances me in a turbulent world,
who knew? One of those helpful things you only get to know later after neurological languages become a daily diet.
Physio's, Podiatrists, OT's get queezy if you scamper round the house in socks, unseen hazards and staircarpet slippage but you know we're all on a cost/benefit analysis cure, conscious or not.

Thyroid normal

"Thyroid normal, B12 normal, so no problems there"
"Great"
"However, you are considered menopausal if the FSH level is above 30...and yours is 99"
"Oh right so that's a yes then"

99, fucking 99, it's meaningless to me.

"Er..what exactly does 99 mean?"
"It means your pituitary is flogging your ovaries to death trying to get them to ovulate"

Inward image: ovaries lying in a flogged heap refusing to get up saying,"Fuck off! you tip that toxic blue shit in for months then expect to get a rise from us?- forget it"

Snow falls fast through the orange glow, tear stained tracks wind into the dark.
Nauseous taxi-ride home with no solid ground, I drift away, distracted from rushing slippery gloom.
In my mind I'm fucking you on the floor, desperation and anger,
unholy fragments of pain and desire, not careful or cautious, driven loss looms overhead, weighted like the clouds.

Cafe comfort with random spillages and restless rhetoric
"What I need is rough sex and a holiday, any order, mind you don't know who'd have me now I'm gonadless?"
" You're still cute though"
" Yeah cute and balding"
"Doesn't show you know, 'sept a bit at the back"
"No I don't mean there"
"Oh right...really?"
"Yeah, nearer the gonads"

May result in gonadal failure- Years back I thought gonads was only a bloke thing, you know, bit like loins for girding, all on the outside, vulnerable, where you can see them, see them working-or not, kick them if need be.
Ovaries, you can feel them, feel them working but not really see them.

All in the mind, I see you, curve and sweat and breath, someplace oceanic I was lost in and lost in and lost in, anenomes and water pulsating with me.

Sometimes all I'm left with is the facts of it, I'm here, you're gone, we both
hurt, Thyroid normal, FSH 99.



JJ 09

Poem: muesli injury

Alas I'm of an age where bad 70's cosmetic dentistry puts my mother's teeth in better shape than mine.
And some tattooed guy on a kids mountain bike pedals past, lazily outrunning my sense of ease.

Cat tails

Poem: Juvie

Juvie seagull cries wash away on autumn tide,
out of sight struggle of change and dress codes, who knew what we went through?
A fountain of play, then away, away to the ocean.

Habits of sound, plaintive in the late summer, cry comfort, loss, change.

Butch losses

Butch losses, a film about disability, identity and sexuality.