Dream too great for dreaming | Slipping through the | gaps in the law | in the rain | in the thoughts | Leave me under your | cushion | tuck me | into the waistband of your | knickers, and run, run, run | Vault the | clouds and the river | Oh | You spill me | backwards and forwards | I am always | falling out of your hands | The heat in your mouth | The sun in your diary || Aztec and | worth all the | winter | I’ll close the door | Lie down | curl up | in the clinical light | among the ice, the fish-fingers and the milk | of the | dilapidated | refrigerator | Oh | Life too small for living | Your throwaway words | are tidal pools | littered with the scuttling | whispers of | the Devonian and the Jurassic | Oh | Hey! Listen! | In the rain, everything is | related to the rain | Fire too bright for burning | You put the | darkness back in the | shooting stars we all | miss as they | pass us by, you | stress the line at just the | wrong place, you | are too bored for the | rapids, for the | spinning chamber, or for the | umpteenth game of | pool | in a Malaysian bar | Oh | And your King is too | exposed for taking | Days too sure for waiting | Ride too fast for | riding

Echoes of the swords of her promises | May they haunt me forever | Broken beautiful things | cut through the tedium of | curricula and stratagems | You want a place to | throw your heart? | She will | give you a | chance | She doesn’t even | mean | to be | anything to you | And you will both | be arch-deceivers | But you never listen to me! | She will throw you to your heart | like the Tartars threw | children to the wolves | Echoes of the swords of her promises | will ring your head around and around | and all you’ll ever remember | is the shape of a | meteor you half | guessed | was passing | and in your sleep, feel the shadow | almost touch your | head | as it goes | a ride too fast for riding | a dream too great for dreaming

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from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)