So it occurs that growing up
Is accepting a bit part in the story
I am a supporting role
Making the others look good
Not claiming the light
I have hungered for
Forever
But it occurs that growing up
Is not what I want
I want to make a mark
Like a now forgotten king
To have changed something
For no reason other than
My own
And now it occurs that growing up
Is a relief not a shame
Sometimes it occurs that this is good
Even a gentle failure still has salt to taste
Just the one bar warmth of our corporate
Selves is far enough from zero to count
It can be a hobby just to notice opportunities
For softness, acted upon or not
Or as my ego prefers, the opportunities
To mark another with some splendid idea
Designed to bring on an addict’s longing
My staggered flesh cannot smooth out
The studded complexity of any story
When complexity is a feature of holding on to so
Many story elements at a simultaneous moment
There can be no release, only a gentle form of ignorance
At the point of saturation
Each story interfered with by a new signal
Each story improved through use
Each story falsified by my own tongue
Never a detail repeated the same way twice
And what happens when you
I have a penny in my hand
I see my first dog
I laugh not because of a joke
But because I am loved
And can see no end
To this love
I love my first dog
Although I can’t remember her name
I find a penny on the floor
I press it into the palm
Of my son
He says he has money
I have money
But it makes no difference
My son is counting
He says I am 69
He says he is one
My son is cheeky
And laughs at his own joke
He will not remember this moment soon
First thing in the morning
He presses his face into
The soft black fur of his dog
He tells me she is his best friend
My dad has stopped counting
Numbers become useless at a certain point
He laughs or is engulfed by sadness
Those are his numbers
My mum has calculated the days left
She can afford
It is a surprisingly simple calculation
From the middle, my number line
Fades in either direction
If I knew when I will die
I would live each day differently
But I don’t so I live each day
The same
I have feared plans all my life
And now when I look back
I agree there was no plan
So I have not trained myself
To arrange moments
Or barely remember them
Recently here we have been close to death
And new death
And slow forgetting
And children learning
And the week ahead
And have felt no wiser
To our cause
A warm penny is the clue
The hand opens and then closes
Someone’s dog barks
Under the tree
You sat for me
For what seemed a long time
You ignored me
But you were mine
Under the tree
You became an image
and a shrine
To our childish love
A fine line of sight
connects our lineage
And the grass waves on
Alight this evening
In a sea of wind
Under the tree
When you sat for me
To go to bed without a headache
Time and light
I want to eat the whole damn thing
Not a bit of it
all of it
I don’t care if it runs out
I’m not saving anything for later
All these people, all these feelings
I want all of them
I don’t care if they conflict
Let’s get them all in here
While I am feeling big
Hot metal in the sun
Screams of sugar filled delight
Shaking and choked up on the edge of the bed
Distant love suddenly in focus
Slow motion companionship
The crackling shine of this blue sky
And the aeroplane of transformation
Are what I want
The whole damn lot
what a positive position
we need
failings must be left
unconsidered
only small amounts of the story
can be absorbed
or prepared for
not reading the body too closely
is better now
and intuition is a burbling
code left ravelled up
at the edge
opinions are, frankly, annoyances
and help is difficult to gauge
but a positive position
lightly held might
help
and in a loose jangle of friends
and family faces
we learn from all that is new
all that is you
Do not get the last train anywhere
If you’ve had a good day
do not expect another straight after
Never tell anyone to relax
Not everything needs to be connected
Even if it is
Don’t obsess about pain, thirst or anxiety
Do they matter? So what if they do?
Notice others but do not absorb them
Keep finding abandoned car parks beautiful
Keep feeling the mystery of fallen insects
Keep being amazed at the complexity
Plan what to say and then forget that plan
Do not defend myself as a first impulse
Wait
And become comfortable with waiting
Do not always reach for this tiny screen
Sometimes sit and listen with no purpose
Purpose is my seducer
Many things cannot be seen through its lens
Don’t always need to be liked
But don’t let that curdle into harsh judgements
Release the threads that only pull
Untarget the anger
From those who no longer
Matter
where there are flowers there are flies
and this place is no more than the list of tasks
I designed to grasp at
reputation’s prize
where there are flowers there is mud
and this place is no more than each
bud, glowing and hoping
to burst
where there are flowers there is thirst
and this place is no more than the
reality that the plan is not ready
not rehearsed
where there are flowers there are flies
soft beauties turning brittle
deaf to our sighs
in my breath there are flowers and there are flies
one complicating the other
in the story it supplies
Unknowable
Beautiful
A calm quiet figure
But I detect questions
And layers of fine
Disappointment
All her smiles are real
But I hardly know where she is
Except that she is my friend
In any place
Built on a life
lightly observing each other
It is hard to say what we have
Learned
Her pasts are figments
That are mostly bound
By a grey mist
But sometimes untangle
In long lucid ribbons
That chase into the light
She lives like a feather in the air
Discreet and buoyant
Governed by the now
Only occasionally settling
Long enough for a brief photo
She taught me that we are characters
And that sometimes
There is no actor within
And that’s ok
It is a freedom to stop
Searching
Except that I can’t
Stop
Trying to find
You
In your small rooms
Across the wet copper lines
Aside me as we travel
In these and all the other words
