Who Counts

you are sneezing through your hands,
twelve minutes past just over 300 degrees

you head, no-necked man
on the sit
ticking to the rain inside
purple meads
lego blocks crowding rooftops,
lonely attachments

fingerless man,
holding the feeling of just then
museumed
for the privileged
few who pay their fees
with footsteps through second
hand-me-downs

look at the wallpaper rocks
decide there are violins. et
you have a metronome

We Call it earth

The eyes
in curved glass containers
under-roofed
closer to birding.

The mouth
a faraway topiary
for a gnome small enough to
wicker through.

The eyes are far from the mouth
like the dangling pair of feet
over
incredibly too much soil.

Sew me a Machine

signs from a heap,
chords around typewriters
I sit here lilypad;
take a jump and sprocket 
into places that aren't yet wistful:
unyet made
with unyet made bed frames
and unyet made wallpaper
inspiring unyet breathed out 
gaseous humanities,
us planets made of toads
and organised socketry.

shake your hands,
I'm with gravity
I might take up storey buildings
and day over to mendicancy
in frames remindent of 
somewhere you can knock
to hear an echo.

up beat

the shivers try and unfold
beside, it's colding

beneath my awning eyes,
mistaches palpitate

Cups and Spoons

sound
little prints of heroes
riding south
on shadows mowing the grass

used saccharine contraptions,
these fulls in mouth
cavitying principles
down boulevards of second hands ticking

and
 
figures waking up clocks
with a halving palm down on twelve,
losing count of morning sidewalks

they tick over flavours of coffee
on the register
and sit as cups and spoons awaft

they hope in whisks,
plated soluble trajectories
from ceramic lips to ceramic sequences inspired
by busy nostrils.

Sprigs

leads nowhere
tied to a cumulus
along the bolts and rocks beneath the train
the wind behind
xylophonic.

sprigs struggled through
past breathing
past sitting down at dinner
to become
connected parallel vines
next to bitumen containers.

The Trajectories

the beaks of surgical thoughts
pin above 
collars,
fair white threads,
stood-up hairs of panic

agricultured wishes
billowing through
inchoate knots,
the trajectories
pull-backs and dashes
mark the slow weight of changing
calendar boxes

et you
without whispers of time
said

(

because gravity let us go,
we all went flying
grabbing stars along the way

so in rivers and the lakes
those pincer lights
were really dimming

and those skyscraper windows
gleamed
to empty parking lots and
easy-going sewers.

the rat scurries
we missed while upping,
awaying in siphons of 
breathed theres
we never could place
in frames

and the contourings we left
back on shelves and the night stand
were held back,
the corridor light on
with an eyelash on the sink

Empty Swaps

irregular bubble wrap domes
hived together adrift in sink

empty swaps
with the skin slipping off
for the unfilled dotted line
pencilled in by my brain mouth:

change toothpaste,
like
change shampoo
and have bald cells with toothy grips
remain after day halves brushing.

where dentures used to be,
lacunae
 

20,000 brain cells

slight lights peppering off
in the paved of the road
between the

painted silly rectangles
ants get confused about
following trails sneezed down
by the hardy.

have a thought
coiled around a filament
holding on with its many fingernails

want to give it a back
to stretch out onto and dot and number
and then get the many little legs
to feet a trail
to be as quiet as possible on,
in pursuit.