MORNING TIME

and it hits me so hard
sometimes
it´s 8 or 9 or 10 in the morning
and the world stares at me
as if ready to eat me up
gobble me up in three bits
and this cold stare
drives me crazy
and, mummy, i don´t know what to do
and all roads closed
jesus  ! why me ?

my birthday

a Geordie´s son
some wrong done
ni hanna kenna
kanje
wit witless
wot tailor?
why witch ? bitch ?
so apostrophic
apologetic
so he keeps driving onwards

a morning

wake from tears dreaming
walk out onto the lookout
east the pitiless life-giver glaring and screaming at me
west the moon
the recipient
incapable of love
sigh or scream ?
my north is south
and in the affairs of men
this all has no import