I’m not sure what they’re calling it these days. In my time you were “gouching”, “nodding out”; there’ll be some other name for it, no doubt, as language shifts its shape. But this malaise remains unchanged: that head-down slump betrays the use of morphine (or her daughters) like a shout for help in silence. Mud-caked…

The why of my wanting you differs each time. (The wanting, returning, is always the same.) So strangle my reason and drown it in rhyme: to query the telos of love is a crime. (And I know there’s only one crook in the frame.) The why of my wanting you differs each time; this quiddity…

It isn’t unpredicted, more unplanned. This failure-state inheres in poor design a limitation in my arm, my hand my robot heart. This space, now undefined degenerates, dimensions folding in collapsing down to null infinitudes; the target sweeps through zenith, and I spin rotating through the same old attitudes. My wrist is bound by singularities: a…

for the cat to have calmed down for the walls to have warmed through for the walk in the dark to the toilet to happen on autopilot   for me to know why this town is a ghost-town to have dug up the history down at the foot of the hill to chant the road…