Spring seems a good time to write poetry. Actually, so does winter. We will see what happens in summer.

So Slow

I forget. A lot.
Thé sponge goes round the dish.
The list of emails seems
Warned, I was, not to do things
I studied the others.
Those who read the instructions.
One hour before responding.
At least.
Unless it was
That it couldn’t wait.
Thanks byeee says the nice lady on TikTok.
She read the instructions too.

Now there is a bird outside.
It’s singing.
I remember now.


We’re just English people
Did they get here and think
Oh fuck
Why did I bother
This coast is the ocean
Now I want to go back
But I can’t
It’s the same sand I tell myself
The same grass
We brought a Rowan tree
The witch tree grows
One day it will be tall
I still want to go back
Even if it is the same coast
The same sand
The same ocean
I keep repeating
I can see into the future
And the tree will grow
And the land will shrink
Under the weight of people
They made us come here to escape being under the yoke of royalty
But I watch them build their own
Gold thread only holds so much ocean water

By Formula

We’ve all become programmers
Or maybe we always were
And this is just another step
The formula
The meet cute
The repeat before commercial break
Which allows a run to the kitchen
For advertised snacks
Ding goes the microwave
A release
Like the gong calling to the prison yard for exercise
And we’re back
I work in publishing she said
Where the point is to make money
How tiresome any philosophy is. Like road works on the way to the bank
Will she always gaze at her paycheck in wonder
Willing it to grow larger
And in her own consequence
By formula?