hopelessness

isn’t much life

durable or otherwise

half slumped half bent

in persistent armchairs

swilled with daytime

drudgery, may as well

be a coma victim or lain

out for worms to suck

there’s nothing reclusive

about distilled quiet, it’s

a painful sound of nothing

a murder without commitment

it just is, a pollution of

rotten thumbs all trying

to page thru’ the eulogy

that’s trite and way too skinny

there were no blasts of

excitement no rewarded

early years only the drab

of utter disappointment

crow at the nearly thin

window endeavours to

look smart in a soot

blamed overcoat

pitch deep stares lively

yet lifeless somehow,

a stillness familiar bored

with and succeeds to the

crammed rain threatening

sky, untidy bruises full of

wet to share, nine thirty

morning moans grim ulcers

colour discolours and the

ceiling lowers like a matter

of fact coffin lid, concerned

with who will never visit?

knowing there will none

accompanying no one,

tea that has lost it’s taste

drowned in the gone off-

nitrates of loneliness,

gasping prospers don’t

be fooled the lung doesn’t

care and yearns shallower

and finally, someday

unstoppered for the

attending officer to

mull over

what will the coroner think?

amusement or reflux

pity? summed up succinctly

by ink in a tell tale box

ten twenty seven, mildew

mugs another corner, the

letterbox opens it’s grin and

slobbers out a summons

for some unpaid ghost,

pile up as tiny hills

for a spider to contest

with

eyelids bury themselves

but dreams won’t gather

and entire thoughts

molest their fester

fodder for chairs to

stare unaware outwards

indistinct and dull

interference on repeat

unintelligible pulp vomits

up thru’ the television

screen, conniving

participation, let’s waste

a lifetime, there were

plentiful in heydays gone

and devoured, simply

cannot remember

someone i think i loved

that fizzed thru’ out all

of my veins, scarcely can’t

quite finger or place it

was it a feint narrative a

displaced echo? a favourite

film where all the characters

were dreamy and in one-

another’s singing bones?

could have been an illness

visited, repairing then

bleaching its memory

doorbell stabs at thinking,

don’t move as too covered

in roots, some are sinking

seeking the devil himself

time forages from my time,

am easy as a clock that

has lost it’s stride, take

quicker if needs be

makes slipping into whatever

easier, thirsty? but thirst

implies longing and there

isn’t any such yearning

and now is borrowing

its bland self, am over

and done with please,

please stop borrowing

me

depressive

spoil me with

internal flickers

with oily nudges,

accept the tide’s

bleak unimpressed 

blither

inertia has me

growled down

borrowed to the

bed like hesitant

life support or

thin paleness

can’t let that

sky in, can’t, won't, daren't

rubs the blood’s dire

song into something

eerie, a wound if

you will a hole where

stars are damaged

sprawling

against what is up

only knowing that

basement or tatty

thoughtless strewn-

cellar, bodies of

groped incest dark

there's no such

constellation given

light, no compliant

gesture of hello

but severe feelings

of being murdered

this is how the walls

are squeezing, tightly

rejecting, a room of

one breath, consider

me an illness that is

inconsiderate

appalling with it’s

shoreline, where

voices should have

been, skulls only

on gape, on fading