oven damned oven,
how i long to move on from you
and your unreliable grill,
to go without you and 
forget what happened then.
sink damned sink,
how i desire to fix you
and your dented draining board,
to watch water flow down and 
not sit stagnent around that dint
why do you both cause me grief?
my lsat sink had the same dint and
the last oven was even more broken.
no matter how much
philosophy,
poetery,
or fiction
i read
no matter how intimately i relate to it,
it will never be able to define
the feelings i feel into words
legible to others
each minute and fractal detil
becomes an imperceptible blur,
the ryhythms of the beat of my heart;
a drone,
the individuality of the moment:
lost forever,
imperceptible
it's so cold in here.
the windows haven't once fogged up,
i can see clearly past alison street,
to the minute corner window of our old flats terrible kitchen:
all to clearly.
this window is much cleaner than the last one,
less pidgeon shit on it,
a better view,
but how i miss talking to that
family of pidgeons
while i washed the multiplicity of dishes
a single one of your meals left.
i remember how the window fogged up
while i tore that cardboard,
gaffa taping it to any hole
adjacent to the counter,
to stop those damned mice shitting where they eat,
the window blurred over:
me and the phantom mice,
in our own little world
the urge still rises to the top of my head,
as i stare at the magnetic knife strip,
gleaming in the empty moonlight.
my scars are healing
but i don't know if i want them to yet.
i used to make my eggs like yours:
high,
fast,
basted in oil,
but i no longer make my eggs like that, now:
low,
slow,
steeped in butter. 
beauty,
no matter how mundane or imperceptible,
magpies fly over the pond,
a mother and son laugh on a ninety minute delayed
avanti west coast servie to london euston,
i bump into the woman with a gold tooth whose name,
i've forgotten,
dancing my first ceileih with goose's ex,
sauls dad finds us in the street,
past midnight,
gives us eggy bread,
and for me:
moonshine,
the moon shines,
and everytime i look at it the
beauty of the individuality of a moment
touches my soul imperceptibly
theory shouldn't be a tool of analysis;
but a tool of creation,
what fucking use is a nihilistic antihuman
diagnosis of the affects of modern society,
when it fails to utilize iths methods
to at least attempt to create a near imperceptible amount of 
fucking meaning
dreams sweet dreams,
suddenly perfectly real,
just as suddenly not
dreams strange dreams,
full of some true meaning,
lacking any usefull explanation
an endless well to descend
dreams melting dreams,
merging into reality,
mixing into memories
an exchange into other realities.
accumulation of dust particles,
building up on our mantle piece:
suddenly visible             a pint
                             a pint
a flash from the past,       a pint
an unstable man,             a pint
an unstable friend,          a pint
a tuesday night,             a pint
a wednesday morning.
comforting accumulation of dust particles,
your shape so familiar,
let me sit with you for a while,
before i blow you away.
dust particles not settling on the mantle piece,
but gleaming in the 
south facing kitchen,
bathed in the morning sun
       high
flying     ,
and carried by 
the      drafts
    warm
to settle where they please.
i'm sat on a bench on argyle st,
watching the hundresds of people walk by,
a flock of pidgeons settle next to me,
all desended from the sky.
invisible to the flock each inhal a t  i    o     n
of my cigarette brings back a lost memory,
invisible as i wait for alys outside sports direct,
expereincing only temporarily
i'm sat on a bench on argyle st
and a child runs by,
a flock of pidgeons dissapte
and i descend from the sky.
is the flock invisible to me?
i see their forms, shapes,
and meaty structures,
but i blink and they are gone
lost eternally as they fly so high,
descended from their reality,
only momentarily to ask me for 
a ciggarette.
those moments,
my painting of you,
i've taken off the wall,
it's in the pile with the photo
of you and your brother
and the books i gave to you.
next to the trace of you,
the knives one their strip,
sit at an angle,
on the edge.
the dried flowers,
fresh when you picked them
from below a bin on dixon avenue,
hung them.
dried them.
now they sit in an empty
metal bottle of linseed oil,
about one head falls off 
everytime the cat knocks them over.
the blind man unable to sense them,
with his cone on.
sometimes people just arrive
when you need them,
you don't seek them out,
nor they you,
you all just slosh around that same coffin,
night
     after
night
everyones problems, desires
and misfortunes
sinking
            rising
       and
like the bubbles of a guinnes
before it settles,
and then
dissapears
sometimes the passing of time itself
-for a breif moment-
becomes ubbearable.
the slowness of each word on the page,
against the speed of each pluck
of the guitar.
not making sense when spliced
in between minutes and seconds,
all it takes to change forever is
an infintessimally small segment of 
an arbitrary standardized measure.
two people sat on the floor next to me 
have gotten kfc,
the smell is revolting,
i just want to drink my tea queitly
while i hopelessly wait for my
l o n g delayed train home,
but now i'm stuck,
with that smell bringing me 
back to that kid eating kfc
in my eleven plus tutor group,
his fingers shining.
i never want to let go of my scabs,
to simply let them fall into the dirt,
never to be reabsorbed into my body,
but what if i am one?
one with the soil,
i am nothing because i am everything,
the universe and a scab
that is a part of it.
three pints &
a whisky,
or 
two pints,
a whisky
some time &
then a third
at the farmers inn.
the lakes will never be the same,
without you,
or your kia picanto
bumbling and stalling through those winding narrow roads,
while days 'n daze mutters through the speaker,
at a level acceptable to your sensitive senses.
the moors,
the yha,
that bloody lovely dog,
that ladies eyebrows,
her freind in a state,
the hag stones,
the lakes,
the moors,
the moors,
the moors
& their gentle emptiness.
i write this with a damaged pencil,
snapped in two in france,
then carved with my knife to an inch with a 
point on the end.
the side of it reads:
ICE THE SPEED,
and that is all it has to tell me on 
this bench outside the farmers inn,
if only i could tell it
something.
something that extends beyond life,
beyond death,
and beyond the matieriality of the object that traves this 
graphite onto this dead wood.
something that rings so true to all,
that for a second ALL will be well,
for ALL in this strange world. 
when i was little my grandma
would but drops of colour
in the washing up bowl,
there was a step so i could stand
at sink height and watch
apparantly i really enjoyed it.
home is where you lay your head at night;
my coat scrunched up into a ball
cradled inside my arm,
the tan line on my wrist,
oh how the sun has darkened me,
all my feet touch is grass,
my hands,
canvas and steel,
and my nose?
many things.
my mouth touched that sweet tea,
that took us all together,
lying on that grass we all
knew so well,
from dancing like idiots!(plural)
to shivering in the rain,
to drenched through meals,
to tents in the dark,
from normandy,
to berwick,
all inside you,
tent,
with my head on my new home,
you;
coat.
does reality even exist at this point?
its been over a week since i was yet again
enclosed.
strange tarmac,
washing your hands in a public toilet,
with anyone in there averting their gaze,
as not to have to interact with another
human and become concious for
one
small
moment.
sometimes it feels like the closest
thing i have to home is ketamine in the park,
at four am,
at the stone circle.
how i miss you old home;
you, my coat in my arm,
beneath my head as i drift off
into the ether,
yet
again.
i don't want to shave my beard,
cut my hair,
because that means i've given up,
it means that winter is around the corner.
and my tan will fade away untill it's
the same colour
as that pale band around my wrist.
i don't want to wear trousers,
take off my walking shorts,
because that means i'm back,
it means that the old routine is back,
and everything is magic until it becomes routine.
i want fields,
i want grass between  my toes,
i want to shiver, soaked after twelve
hours in the rain,
i want magic everday,
in everything.
opening this book to a pressed flower
i didn't put there,
sat in a cafe in lancaster,
with all i need to survive
anywhere in this bleak northern country:
tent,
sleeping bag,
stove,
and ink pens carved out of every kind
of stick or twig queens park had to offer.
lately time moves slower,
even when it's busier,
it's quieter.
i am magic,
all it takes to make time
stop is to stare at the sun,
glistening off the river while
two lovers kiss to the side
of your eye
line...
...welcome to moomin land
everything is flux,
there is no static state,
just different flows,
eternally passing through
eachother,
i pass through lancaster,
informing it,
magically and minutely
shifting the collection of 
fluxes we call lancaster.
I am a wizard,
but i'm not special,
everyone is a wizard,
a wizard with their own staffs,
wands,
tailismen,
cards,
and enchanted objects,
that they use, intentionally or not,
to alter the fabric 
of reality,
add to or iron out
its folds,
untangle or knot its wires,
in attempts to understand 
the multiplicity of mycellium networks
we call this.
cerebreal
slow

    down
and experiment
with your perceptions
they look at me strangely,
and i gues i know why,
cause i will never be
blue chip
we may all be one,
but how can one help one,
when one is destroyed by
sorrow for another
one?
things i've learnt at the job center plus:
they do not have a public toilet in the JCP,
i am not allowed to bring fluids into the JCP,
they do not want me to enjoy my flask of tea,
while they fail to explain to me
why i am acctually there.
why do they need a g4s security gaurd,
to enforce the rule of no tea in the JCP?
how do you describe those
swirling moments
of pure conciousness,
the body disappears and i float,
subtly into the realm of
immateriality,
where it still snows,
and people don't
desecrate its
untraced beauty
everyone has experienced fragments of this,
some, combinations
but it is only I who will ever experience these fragments
as a whole.
the interior,
the          exterior,
the corporeal,
the          incorporeal,
the unquantized flow,
the specific flickering pattern
of the candle
and the way it makes this blue lighter look black.
the memories of how that magnetic knife strip
from the hardware store used to look different
in the moonlight,
all of these fragments colliding,
twisting,
distorting,
merging,
passing through each other,
all to create this whole you will never understand.
time isn't linear
nothing is
everytime i site here crosslegged
all the times, thoughout past and future
i experience simultaneously
haunted by memories and premonitions
they wash through me                   me
time washes through around, over, under
                                          me
i do not walk its line toward or away from 
the horizon
but spin infinitly until the horizon
and the path i walk are one and the same blur
that contains all
the times throughout past and future 
with neither of really exist
on a train
change accelerates
to the morphing
of the horizon
line
its shape morphing like waves in and out
like the tide
controlled by
ancient sattelites
and future
events
strange how the swirling
swirls and how it can lose
all sense
surface beneath your feet
spontaneously combusting
and internally you swirl
down towards the void
to schizophrenic to 
make any sense of it
something stolen from
inside the fleshy self
it must steep and brew
into that sweetest sweet 
tea.
                 so so warming
when the sun becomes eclipsed
behind the moon
and the clouds mean you
don't even know
without even knowing you 
can pass through the
tuperware box that
caressess the horizon
that morphing, shifting
untouchable infinity
that sits, like a 
halo on our eyeline
five means freedom
feelds and feelds of it
stretching out htrough time
in all of its directions
that we do  not yet have
names for
in the feelds aether is emancipated from responsibility
so we become like
the insects we despise
floating through this egg
shaped planet searching
for our senses
life experienced is nothing
but a flash
the non existent past and future
circling round
linking arms and
throwing eachother onto the next dancing partner
forces constantly exchanged
redirected
deflected
and almost always
wantig to return to where
desire led them:
suffering
like a letter
in a fire
all goes quicker than it came
all ends before it starts
nothing has ever begun
and all may become
so many partially formed ideas
that all trail off into something
imperceptible
like a dancer
moving their pinky toe.