Market corrections | Another argument, who is cuter | Jiff or Boo? | Rails round the day, moving on small oiled wheels like furniture | to hold you, to be a man | Blood’s | mortgage | paid off | so | slowly | rise up and then | in a slick of mud | landslide lounge | slip back | How to Fail in 43 volumes | the hair on your tongue as you make love | An area of | cold shadow | no secrets left | in Area 51 | Memory, autopsy | and Scorpio on the move | The new phenomenon | Death of the sun

A pot of phrases, put your hand in, take your pick | A part of the sky with the percentile moon | A bad mood like finding lizard eggs | in your bed | How was your holiday? | Oh, it was amazing! | A secretive glee when the matador | is hoiked into the crowded air | gore already messing | up his suit of lights | Coming to the end of the summer sales | the lease | on sleep | running down | Waiting for the police | the same old suite of shadows | what have the thieves taken, after all? | Limping on my wheels | squeaking | called thinking | rolling on | We’ll start with the lips, then move to the breasts | and just hope | the rest will follow…


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2014)