The rebel’s day job | On small neat hooves he prances by | just a kid | and the devil sits back in his deck chair | licks his ice cream | the beach | a parp of trumpets and the hoot of steamers | evil is tiring, same as good | he’s earned his vacation | Made for kodak and instagram | clean jawline and youthful angst | looks into the mid-distance | of a dead Midlands town | eyes a Siberian void | remembers the tenderness of the baby rabbits | and the blood, of course | wipes his hand on a scarlet rag | wonders how his world will end | in a field surrounded by | carburetors and cams | the carcasses of ridden machines | At night | flowers and lovers | poise for the blossoming, the poets | harnessed to their readers’ art | hang from their chutes | paratroops | shot on descent | settle loosely when they reach the ground | and, slowly dragged | across the wheat | wait for the great adventure to start

More of the same | Scratched on the back of a postage stamp | an alternative bible | She’s doing drugs in the toilet | of a club called GRIND | she keeps a typhoon in a jam jar | on the tip of her tongue | sometimes | and the inner | bottom of her upper lip | a taste of marmalade | and the knife held | from daddy’s royal veins… | She has no flesh, but her hair is long | as if she should be carrying pistols | and have a small blonde goatee | In the malls | the crowds mound up their skulls | the weekend needs bombing flat | the cities | are being razed, but no one | notices… | The genius | uneasy with her smalltown friends | the tattoos of angels and daggers | and crumbling dice | it’s another | boring murder | and the mechanic is at a loss | only cares about Triumphs and Nortons | Inside his sleep | coffins are opening | and dead engines rev | the gangs | feel April coming | or winter in the driving sleet | and prepare for crashes | and the long, long hours | poring over agendas and spreadsheets

from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)