devil of the gaps

you breathe at the margin
you torch the interstices
of cold existence
no one strokes you now
and you touch no curve
old man smell builds
drifting through
mutant weeks
you bloat

folding out blue

you were the last
song of my heart
you were the first
song from the start
I saw you burn
upon the stage
I saw you turn
and look my way
but that was so far
beyond the road
and so deep
inside the field
the sky awaits
our newest wings
the river beats
upon the ring
and the sword is dull
from lack of use
and the heart is full
and drips with juice
oh please,
don’t give up yet
you’re at the cusp
of the greatest
gate n�

the found art of forgetting

agitation of heart
inflammation of mind
disturbance of body
rictus of soul
and yet we plough on
a million paper light
brutalised by information
bragging about our coffee intake
rage emoji
rage quitting
manic laughter over dross
and yet we push on
being followed
getting nowhere
liking what we don't like
not liking what we do
swapping strokes
like monkeys in trees
picking fleas
from each other's scalp
black-pilled and lovin it
goin large and rammin it 
GIF the wineglass
as big as your body
and gulp down forgetfulness
as to Lethe you do sink

only connect

seeking out small arguments
to get the blood flowing
usually cut n run
said too much again
too definitive
social media
breeding unsociability
the makers chuckle
into their mochaccinos
knowing we're locked down
for life
or at least the half-life
we experience
as we swap empathies
and bitternesses
cute cats 
and people falling 
in the snow
you switch off
pick up the machine
prepared to dash it against the wall
but take a photograph 
of your omelette

searching for the perfect title
to an unwritten river

and the last line
a searchlight up
to illumine the title
in a portion of grace

why not title our days
ahead of time
see if it makes a difference

or whether it adds
burden to the backs
of minutes
till they torsion
and scream silence

yes - this is not the title
she said
the poet of suicide