Wednesday

Cluster lilies in their blue fire thrust
up through Wednesday morning. 
Tomorrow will be the same like those

falling Dominoes that go up and over
and around, or mattresses too, 
all people going backwards on YouTube.

They are like that. I like it, the simplicity,
these flowers will brown and I will buy some
more, doodle them onto the vase 

with an immediate pencil. Days go by 
in some kind of sequence but suddenly
I am old. When I dream of Goblin Hill

and I am always 12- a tooth we 
dissolved in Coke, I think: In 100 years 
we will all be dead. It’s as hard to imagine

as space- or the softness of Mum’s
upper arms. They existed and Honey &
Betsy too. Such tenderness in every

rickety synapse, built-in, see-through.
All we ever can say is I love you brave wraith-
I will always forever love you. 

Thursday

Spring is delicious in flames and ginger,
the dead dog’s tree is opening out right- 
buds with the smallest flickering of
acid house in the tip, finally and all after 
we had given it up. The fairy ring as a pink 
mouth and a just-kiss from his best friend

smashes it up into the April. This year
we are not allowed outside- it suits me fine
for only the forest is sad without the old gang,
me and Doggin. I had not been up there, 
for to clock the loss of together would be 
too much, right. Kinga was vivid, every old lady

would fizz and cry such a beautiful dog. And he was.
A streak of fire in the trees, his white trousers
at the back bobbing along under his fern-proud
tail, everyone loved that boy. This year we are 
not allowed outside, but it suits me down to 
the ground- old World with its all kinds of glitches,

some good stuff like cinema and magicians,
but mostly ice. They’ve gone and done it now-
the whole of the everything’s shut. The place is 
in bits and it’s not so bad, just an egg-coloured 
ghost with dark wailings of Easter all in scrambles,
I’m opted out, see. Spring is the king and I’m free.

New Year New 

If a Mergirl: Get some ear-pods for underwater casting, it's important to keep in touch with yourself in that way. Try not to zigzag and cancel the fear of braining yourself against the chiselled purses of younger maids

Always drink wine at lunch time, it’s French. Also have the full good time. Christmas is 
forever, think apocalypse ready. In dreams of being a handy woman, try for some fifties 
thing, a sweetheart neckline

Books are noble, poetry is telly. Make them and read them but never be them. You are only ever one reading away from wearing a beret. Keep your Kerouac in sandwich bags for cleanliness. Bohemia is literally bourgeois 

Supreme satisfaction from folding clothes into perfect rectangles. Housework is artform yet underrated. The happiness of a clean home, it’s not that bad. In the moment we are somewhere else, whipping up cosy like drugs

Clothe refugees in your old Topshop. Open your heart to the online community yet scorch ego like the plague. Socialise with anyone who can tolerate you and love with your full heart. Life is now a beautiful snow globe
Grief has the same secrecy 
as an empty tic tac box filled with
puddle water. The parachuting 
man we hid in the petrol cap 
of your Mum’s car, quick stolen, 
the handkerchief I buried in the trees.

I liked the embroidery. I like it now,
this grief and its stitches, it makes
me flower even through snot. Things
fly past the planet, roaring. I like
the axis, the counting down. Nostalgia
is a cutie, bean-filled Totoro.

The whirl of fur he lived in. His ancient
teeth that ripped me, the bad quality,
we went all over the world in love.
Paws are unshook hands- yet I'm shaken.
Don’t worry Dog, I’ll find you. In galaxies,
through death. I’ll always be your person.

Tuesday

In the pink room we have found
each other, you in the blue sling
and I deep in the dreams that
I have for you. It is raining post-
heatwave and I am glad your tiny
feet are cold as shells, my heart-
beat pressed up hard against
your ear. Nothing can touch us

now. Your duckling hair is real,
as you are- I never thought we’d
get this far. I had you in mind for
so long you’re still made up, an
unbuilt world. Sometimes you 
chirp and I realise you’re here,
hot little hands in a grip, how 
serious you are. When your eyes

open they are in flint, intent, 
certain in some cold burning that
you've been here before. Wrap me 
up in that, I like it. I like you a lot
small policeman. You are the icing
on the ocean- a dot! And when you're 
asleep I transcribe every breath,
golden crest, tiny bird, new entire.

Thursday

Oh Hai canary, I see you
climb. If I were a mine then
you would come up singing
radical, a silver-edged

fresh yellow pipe with white
sound, pine moondial. & how
bird- magicked, our best trick,
are you glued only by light?

The years of feeding Twiglets
through neverending channels of
canvas, trying to make a home of
me, for you eggling. Now you spur

with courage, the burgeoning heat
of a bobbin. Don’t fret birdie,
we’ll spin our endless nest from
every better thing we ever did

and you can rest, quiet in your
pink terrarium. So, buffering in
your life pod, we’ll do for you,
and you will do for everything.

Friday

halloween comes at the best time,
a drip down your heart in a churn
of words called oof- this ghost-lit
bad brain hook on one withered hand it

scratches itself in a forest etc, christ
it’s racy. quick- resurface the jingling spit
says headless / sleepless- nobody
likes you. thanks ghoul! do keep me

posted i say, it is helpful to know where
i’m not. fake blood in the whisper chain,
the dithering rain- childless strings of
lights in tooth, static, pickaxe, how

do you do. deconstructed in laser sharp
glee- my ribcage a synth, fanning out hard
into the red of black trees. the umami runs
deep. pls help. i am above, i am nowhere.

Monday

Fred West’s Cardigan

The sun so vicious hot the tarmac burnt
the Spanish intern’s instep mid-Flamenco,
Fred. I searched for the long gone Youth Club-
right forgotten at the poetry festival, run

by this African Rifles vet called Ken. You probably
knew of him within the jungle din of rumbling bikes,
your gypsy looks and grin, the bramble hair, all that.
The girl that smacked you up the escape

on Bye Street to the Homend where kids
still skulk in stilts, too bored to grope and eating
hands by stalls of drizzle. Scrim, more bloody
melting tea under a scowl of weightless breasts,

the Milk Bar’s ghost where you met Rena.
Lassoed with dirty promise, a cavernous mouth
of bragging entire wildness, a sausage plait
of shame the poets hanker on. Refined; Can the

air be more rarefied do you think? Do you miss
the knife-sharp bunting? Would I put on your cardigan
in this God-forsaken heat, the woollen embrace of a
scrambled animal, pre-Rose, like rape- some home?

Some of those beetles are so shiny they look like tiny bits of glass
before the tide whipped them about in a washing machine

The honeysuckle is in tip-top condition, the smell is arguably better than
freshly cut grass, which everyone is always a fan of

There is a black thing in the tree, it is possibly an amputated leg cut neat
through the middle, tied around with string to keep the sock up

Out of the window a cat watches with burning eyes as the bells of an
ice-cream van shatter the air into a thousand wafers