the unknowable transforming point 166/ 170

Late late fridays

Freshly lit cigarette
wanting to breathe the air
and suck stick
happier softless adrenalin
softly slump over keys and give in
this passage between the building
a lane in the dark
had to take her to the station
but had to return on my own
late late fridays
rain on the windows
sheets of rain
nearly ice on my head


Blocks of wood underneath
you gaze up to pieces of forest
it feels like your room
the apartment not yours
and mess everywhere
what did she want in there
need to get out to the pavement air
this was the concert
up on the high
no wonder
no one thought
hot bath sink
and pain in my hands
the stretches too deep
in the stream of vanish
thin air
and grey turn to the sky

Bungalow ghetto

Back to the bungalow ghetto must have
what she picked up
on beat pickup
the beat
before we all fall asleep
with drone loops repeat ficfuc

Light sleeping

I’m running on empty
my fallen angel
but now I can see lights on
and a tv on in the house
she was a talented pianist
I only heard her practise twice in 3 years
next door a piano has not been tuned for thirty years
little hymns played
and bass line vague scordatura
probably hunting for the shock of the gate closing
and rusty sound squeaks every morning at the hour
early it used to seem but not now
awake aware
at light sleeping

Ten to one

It was light when I sat in the surgery
of hospital waiting to see another appointment
was made to count down ten to one
until then you’re on your own
slept through for two days
without the tracks in my cranium



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