Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Golden Goal

Seasons; I turn up my collar, open the front door, push out against the wind,
mouth pulled like the river in the plan I made of the park in double geography,
when the sun hits right I get used to the way parked cars distort my face,
there's a leaf in my glove, the nap of my boot seems wayward.

Thanks for seasons but they're wasted on me.
I'm not predicated on cycles anymore
all I think about is the war waged on weather by
my body.

Blitz ice, you could throw me arse over end, a Japanese burn in the canteen,
but the slow-arse cracking down the sides of my thumbs,
the sheet of fright when a hand opens up suddenly
near the lemons,
it's a piss-take.

I needed seasons but now they just happen,
the El NiƱo supergroup will make them without precedent,
and perhaps my hands will continue and crack,
perhaps it will just happen.


  1. the sheet of fright when a hand opens up suddenly

  2. think we gotta invent new seasons and their correlating psychic phenomena in real time. but, yeah.