walk

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in the t-shirted midday he jogs away

the three kilometres, sheep seem profound

considering things less than last year,

perhaps more alive / or, a blanketish blasé

it’s the crows on this stretch of road, big

fucking things, that make themselves notable

he notes them later, legs sharing a blanket

with her, the adjectives of light that

make things gold / i copy thomas

uncertainly, wondering at

birds & death on a birthday

yeah i appear at the end

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marking

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hi james. i’m sorry i haven’t even started reading your poems.

imagine business, trade, traffic of any variety as things.

but i saw a girl hock & spit into someone’s front yard.

yesterday, a (different) girl tripped, hard, corrected herself.

both quickly glanced around. whipped their teenage hair. the car

envelops me. what is travel like? i’ve been listening to talk radio, but

everything will pass. like girls ambling the suitable footpath.

i am privy to all the ‘what does he want for his birthday?’ texts.

imagine your life without decisions. you’d have far

less freedom, but might possess a high-speed car.

people were clustering for chats in the supermarket.

much more than usual. i overheard ‘i just wanted

to move some blue into the room.’ will i ever

decorate interiors, james? i’m a terrible critic.

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capz

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i’ve had this shoulder ache

since childhood. since watching

the olympics from a bunk-bed.

one woman said i’ve just come

to get my umbrella & two men

said we’ve just come to do

a bit of sanding, this in one day.

i fumbled with two sets of keys

from the right pocket, then,

two keys from the same ring

that appear similar. the clouds

sometimes look purplish with snow,

like now, but it never  snows here.

there’s olive trees everywhere.

apparently you can pickle them,

but i haven’t. reheated pasta &

orange & mango juice for lunch.

the car seems to be running

smoothly after topping the oil.

no notifications. wait.

the sanding men,

that was yesterday.

how have you been.

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part three

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i climb mountains now. those within a day’s drive

of my home. at the top & of the past &

now none of this is what i meant.

having not noticed the sunsets in a while.

this thought meaning we are through. that thought

meaning more, akin to the final gasp of a screenwriter,

tacky, clichéd, blankly lewd.

where were we when control was wrested?

part of a plaid montage, a featherweight bout no doubt,

me shrieking gorse bush blues & calling it ‘song’.

things are just like in the movies, see.

this fleet foxes soundtrack & a breeze are a sort of proof.

your sexy tattoo & the duplicitous story beneath

guide my private jet through re-entry, through this

alley with shrubs, a slide into town wherefore i’ll keep

all romantic processes loose now: cuddle myself

kiss girls, but only faceless, in the dark

we’d absorbed so much were

more somber than a sea captain’s wife

(one lamp plus her figure a wan shadow

seemingly swallowed in grey paint…)

in this way we are none of us commuters      or alone

but at the same time, i don’t like you.

we’re not close enough. she said.

do you understand?

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exploit the exchange rate

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have you been to other places? it is easy enough

to get there. feign ‘calm’ after a/the Thunderclap

then imagine yourself a painting in a gallery

‘Man battles Rain’

(you are a woman)

you artlessly suck at the day’s pith but

no matter

we both hit the ground breathing.

two doves preen each other & love at each other.

what creatures will mate for life? you should

commission a study / eat pizza.

make it a friday in a place

the depth charge of dollars will spread evenly:

fey lines emboss distance, things proliferate

separating an abstract you

from every villa in the villa district

(a lack of sloth but local colour a triumph!

everywhere maids & cooks are attractive

& freshly showered

(we should trek about & learn the rituals, probably

(don’t act australian (the jut of landscape

ably mirrors your suntanned swagger &

protruding drunken words, or nipples

(besides, we work hard (the beef eating the

water sports the couldn’t-give-a-fuck-ness

part of the culture (telling the story

buying the object uploading the

experience sitting at

a dining table,

that too

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rhyme

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let’s go on a health kick janine will say anything

maybe i can stare at this out-of-rego caravan ad till

i get cancer wear this ornamental thin cardigan,

designer specs, & secretly plan a new eco-business

seems she’s traversed every village this side of

of anywhere they’re all extending skateparks &

crediting the youth with potential & like fuck

she has there should be a funding category milf

or a language more effective than all the others

did you say that out loud nan lives hours away

with her aching gut & watery eyes but she can

be edited out knowing our humour sets us apart

let’s download a tv series american writing is

good there’s trees i can’t name out front janine

can but she’s never turned autocorrect off &

it’s cold & it’s overcast & this guy wears an akubra

& walks past now we have just the one stained glass

window if i smash it that’s it let’s hate shopping

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bank teller camaraderie

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she mounted the octagonal table thinking

something careful of councilors concerned

they’d intimate things she’s a fort builder a

bmx enthusiast always arriving a day late

torn from the old clock like a battery

she’d prefer anonymous emails

to the polished oak about the toes

people don’t think about that she

thinks in this instant (a rabble

rouser raised by inefficiency she

corrects her bra & smells tobacco

on the wind, parts her narrative

like it’s possible with a pencil, the

ex-lover killed at an old train

crossing a momentary time persisting

as if an unused postbox she dismounts

not planning to use the ideas she’s seen

for later, eating from a tin

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splatter

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so it looks like i’ll be attempting the splatter poems again this June… it’s been a few years, & i’m looking forward to forcing out poems again, 1 per day, 30 in all.

let’s all (all? are there any non-spam readers left out there anymore?) also follow richard lopez, fellow splatterer.

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