(no subject)

[real_chips]

grey of old newspapers and walls that could still use a paint
suburban grasses as fields of shelter and cold
mind the gasworks and chipshop fumes
mind the jets descending on approach just below a metal grey sky
mind the spreading feeling of abandon and despair
mind the cracks and lines and fade that now call me old

there is some bright life and neon draw out beyond my trees
that which calls me to crawl there on my knees
I wonder what she is doing now
her dark blood and hair mixing in the spacious lots
of concrete, I get confused, I fall in fields of weeds
I can no longer use, a helping arm brace or refuse?

street lamps, lambs, argon sheen that sets the clouds
a billion candles, and a million folds and I
I fail, I fall as if white siding and shutters somehow retrieve
but falling dry and wasted in the direction I still believe
southward, treeward, homeward if only to keep your arms ready
for I am knotted and curled and now I am alone with the sky