dead classy

dressing cuts in the shade why don’t you
go out and do it      get what
you’re left with and listing
sum things no narrative
cracks in the big wind     idling this
may-fuss point and stand out for you
thru the midgy shimmer                       

now the hard days over
and I promised on picking you up
from outside another memory-jail
spirals staples minnows-thud            
in the car park (it’s us                       
the know-nothings here and rebuffed cos we
aren’t training
              can’t be shown us                        

          in the mudmirror are one one another
           it is time to break down time to take
              time on its trace and supreme little
                  spur alright            
propositions but rotted to neutral
the ground   with faces    textures           
(reeling mute on the outskirts of town           

and grudging it the ears
                              were invaded by music
bin-juice pop          in seditional luv
pools lightly at the root that is one of us
spitblown mid air like doves of a tread            
like mimes 
damp peeling and hedging an offer           
        buckle unrinsed and nudged past-
         production    (there’s no mix
        luvlier for the red of a red with rays
            from a warehouse
 fire violet maybe            
           these fallen leaves
                                so loud that you can’t help it

touch the sky

cos other fresh forms have seen the failing
design fall-through unlit summer flats            
skennerys where no one lives the spray
off the tress gets mixed and amidst
the bray from low corn aisle

           (that’s why

you should go out and do it
in the garden of recreations (north-west facing
with all the classical features and fluffing trench
raw material                       
the hour of going

             in the garden of reaction           
no coats no graces            (getting up
getting bored getting everywhere            
our refusal takes smash-mornings
                   is better than real ones
                   dur dur deposit of a

                 lark-like radiance above
the passages we unlearned
before taken useless names
of things                to be variant
and into all hazards                       
internal mic still there     still calling it

what it is
   in the garden of bad chemistry
we are waiting
cows  in spring hail                                    
gross units 
      and you’re gone off
on provisional organs again
first spoils damp with a dog track fizzing

from a hummer bee hummo no laws
out of gear but still better than real ones

dependent again
on jasper vowels lard-facts
the slime from blackpool’s hands
am gasping tree rings donuts records

 punched on the path to the meadow
 information writ there
through the getting lost dope and the fishermen dope and sockless with a grin every office

our bet
on chance lighting
and hope came to stay

onto that pitch and away
from the squaddy mallows
solo the bang-head dawn           

    that we can’t fix it makes it better 
     a tools just what’s
        lying about
           
maybe conditions don’t allow it
fuck it

that greenfinch made my day 

 

 

 

we’re always one up

behind the lonesome depot tuff
your coat hair with two rings
in the blackberry style     (safety and landlines
the blood behind the eyes
and acetates for throwing
all that thorn apprehension

we move underneath it
not fitter nor agile
for the pink in the middle
of umbellifers

as if against low water
treatment plants our scrubby send up
right to left yeah this is the rose
on the node of the world

                   and it’s twisting!
steel into the trees
so the sound can carry
from my heart to yours
across our patch and eating spiders
in light rain without surfing
protection an aerosol puff

and police they work on reels
while songthrushes make their attempts
at snails in indecision weather
and everyone’s signing their contracts
and I am not doing that too

hard enough to spit
or sneeze
but hannah says neither
and I’m for that
wakey wakey forearm tapping

a vernacular shrug and now that we’re up
we don’t want to forget how this stuff feels
deep within the holding pattern

where evenings flowing backwards
thru a crack in my head            
resting against the bean aslant            
gruff little dandelions score the way
measuring the day out
in slug-pellets turquoise
where dryness settles
like a hand from under jumper

turning
 the colour
of the sky  

 

elastical melody cutting my ear
this side of drainy dusks balloonage
the magic words the sauce they come in

disintegration being the secret 
of all growing
things          (my forearm a rubber print

this stint at the whiteboard                        
windbreaker where are you
to give me clear music

bouncing through the garden of reactions            
sitting beneath
                   the generational steam

a kebab under one arm
tiny globe under the other
every single map ever
are these

caught up in hale and ducky
through butchered mouthwash backwash
fantasies of being infinite           
the world its precarious alarms

led in your lovage ace jut jutting           
in the freaky season
dancing like a black cap machine            

at the very least a party thicket
to run at at a gangle            
gain tangle
beach squabble
bonny ratter’s
                indecision            

 our bad splat thing

is so simple that we loose it
clothes line iregular the track to the pit
cuts across through the sandcastle            
flown  so dubbable
nothings          metal plate
bouncer’s knee

saving me a berry which you talk through
and it’s like slugging stuff
at prefects over fences

or writing poems for you evidently
the way that sap relates to amber
tooting thru soap scum build up
towards you
                then solved it with an air horn
           
before the guests begin to arrive
the mournful fumes of you
up          you up  your rope swing
over not much        is for us idled

under a pylon
so come start
on us tonight 

                           surviving still but not over it
                           we undercut the megaplex mind            
                         from scrub to metropole and living
                           it like a language
                              making good
                               on a promise to wake

up in a tangy with that nosebag brig           
no chase or calling to get true to            
(open sound
but do not stress it
       the lines are blocked  up
                                         and queues are
                                          mental    always           

cheap wings for us
or a cheese plant
with no dressing

                  no aerial route too big

or drowsy to complete it that’s my mission
means you can be my      lily clad
grease box no permission
however brief
that we get sung

refuse the day
to dive from

                          them fat white clouds

                           can’t touch us

 



 

[Tom Crompton is a poet from Lancashire, living in London.]

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