Everything. Wire-strung hops and apple trees.
Cow parsley and Caroline, the solid-state. Up from the castle, spring rolls and chicken-chow. The ton-up kids in the coal-scuttle kayak, climbing their broken statue in the sandstone forest, the dry river tunnel and the night garden and, on the road out of town, we set fire to his tie.

Army-surplus, brown and slow, Dostoyevsky and the river reeds by the dead grass bowl in the motorway night. Death and the fiddler, the farmer in the dark room, and charcoal drawing moment by moment. Dartmoor granite on the flashlit cliffpath, doubled figures falling flying fighting laughing howling, in my hand on paper. Marks on canvas, on time, on the warehouse roof, sunlight from the empty room.

On the island deserted, the dogs were baying on the cold, metal highway. In brick fields we bowed to Atlantis by the river and down the country lane where vines entangled, strangled in the tunnel gateway on the rotten carpet, with the stretcher-bearer sleeping. Life measured out, out the window, with a teaspoon backwards in a yellow Ford Capri.

Typesetter, red letter, lover and the lone-wolf, the stuffed crow drawing gridlines tracing photos back to soho, with passion and grief and a grant enlarger. Lost lives and great composers: the zodiac and syquest of the violet sky that hides me from myself. Rhymes with shelf. Desperation animation, kick-start motion, running cheetah. 235 West 46th. Dry Martini basement horror, the long-haired biker, Life and litho.
On a cold morning the serpentine,: roaring, graceful, hard as iron. The pigeon-crashing station sleepers, the late night burgers (cat-fight rat-bite) and from my bed, the red word - State - in the night and in the wet-bike morning.
Bates motel and the carpet carpark, basement-grey and the boardroom table. Nights and night and orange flame, the fireside story and the push-the-buttons that gave birth to the god of lies and the veiled pictures of the man from Chelsea.
There is fierce fighting but only Rothschild can, internecine on the great white screen: Borneo one, petfood shell; Amnesia international and the wall-full of clouds. Pinstripe-beachwear, white-mast ticking, the clockwork-orange nightclub fantasy chainsaw-hacking at the trash-metal breastplate, and dancing endless in the tortured garden. 

A slow dawn chorus. The ripped-up floor, the collage-face and the sky-bird nightmare. Smoke filled the air on the kingfisher lawn. The tail-lights streamed by the late-night prison; the side-lamp on through falls of empire.
Ropework, seagull, cold grass sky. Spread sheet bed-sheet strangled vision, stripper, stalker, corporate banker. Sell-out buy-out scratching clause, night-flight iceberg IBM. Shameless. Nameless. Let’s pretend. Diamond geyser stopcock flood.
Theft bereft abandon shipment. The red deer hotel and the snooker ball.
Aye and I and ‘I am the river’. 

Tebay. Motherwell. Petercoulter. Road-kill night-fall Darwin firelight. Hushed by trees, the window watched over the garden overgrown.
Snow on the hills under a slush-tyre sky, guitar and stone-drums, cold-fingered and Drumnadrochit. Aberlour. Cairngorm. Icegrass. Shelterstone, being only bearing nowhere.
Nightrain redweather darkgasburnerblue, the skymirror diva and the soundofravens hauling cold.

Air given, unforgiven.
Wet-gloved fingers on damp green bones.
Skeleton hillside in killing fields with scattered skulls under hawk wings calling.
Capture cloud, mist-lung fog-bound city-mission oil-man. Raw charcoal.
I buried an owl in the earth among fumbling roots, scattering stone photos on the studio-floor, in fragments of black and tattered white-stain paper moulded in a bare-bulb, a black-run phonecall.
Mountains. In mountains. A grey fish city trail, the written word and the bearded smoker, distant now but calling still. Demanding tribute, borrowed time on laid on thick, the clean clear outline, an island stillness with cormorant and man-priest. Cave dweller and the bird man.
The sighted zoo-keeper and the bellman cried.
The oil-rad stone and the warm painted drama: an open-witted, timex journey. A small child outwith.

The broken, break-peace mile-on traveller and the white-cube tunnel-reader farther Thames.
Bone stitcher, feather-struck. Heart of darkness, clockwork photo, process motion, lifeplace footwork, finish sky-light, building junction, meaning railway, sea-girt collage, layer on layer on layer.
On the M2, the written word - spoken four.
Clarity, complexity, synchronicity and sea air.
Hunting and home and sword fights with loaded weapons.
Nightlight firesmoke, homework studio, conjunct disjunct liminal fall. Ludwig Camberwell, narrative powder-monkey. The drawn word. Lives and lives and lies and curling edges, lost threads and water-stains, truth and ism, story and stories but - you - do not exist.  Complicity and history and unnaturality.
Dog-face newborn boat-burning ceremony. Torn genes and lair on lair, the crockery family disputation: the dinner-plate insulted the wounded cat. Delicat.
Drawn to love, love child to fury
battering the door down to care and not stumbling, falling chaos in the garden. Wardrobes in flight and bones in the cupboard.

Bookcase guardrail treetop sunlight Beekman Brooklyn trainsmash. White and white and wall-written promise. Us and them, we now, they then, forever never heaven in a basketcase in point and line and plane, all coming back to me and them in their flailing shouting carpet-stained Brazilian adventure. Open box, skin light and palm tree toucan tragic. Gunshot unshot in the wide-high city spread seaward like Pandora. Like everything: the street-slap sleep suburban, colour-coded dog-bark roaring negotiation beyond purpose, faceless beyond without identity. Drawing life. Writing smells. Watching birds, birds in the wire, swallows in the pool. Blue shallow and nothing and films and angry. Heating drums in the high tower, blood veins under the city skin to a village hilltop helicity hell on the edge of the forest, the long dark forest far from the island. That same synchronous thing: the Island-City.

The hill behind is the hill behind where the sea sounds is the city listening in red-white radio masthead and written on the telepoles is the poem. O poema. The city marches the island floats a sea wanderer archeo-logic, eyeless house and sea-cave street-life. Record the music. Leaves. Dancing to the hip-swing post-master lady grind, the faghag magwitchriverside Friday Night party.
The ferry draws away, flies again above Funchal beyond Mindelo, Fernando do Noronha.

Requiem. Victoriana.
The Last resort of the sand-blasted glass-drawn Vauxhall curse hearse, home of the rope and the twisted cliff fall. On Dancing Ledge the seahorse trots its whitemare and the jellyfish hangplant cashmen stand in their rucksack beach-wash tears, dreaming of dreams and white horses, and death.

And then death. 7a tidal Nepalese illness, sunlight and sugar-plants, sirens and peace.

It’s a cracked-up warehouse. It’s a paint-peel concrete corridor rooflight, it’s a fire-escape to the creek-mud from the tomb of the unknown maker. The archeo-portrait, artist logbook, the face-mould darling partisan chef.
Chinese sky and the private butcher, the long street night arch, cadillac sick with a twisted running-board. The sand-blasted London shock-jock, spitfire dog-fight over the nine foot wrap-around pencil landscape in a dancing monkey swallow-dive.
Elegant ladies twist their parasols. Paranoia podcast creeping shadows. Darkness and drums and Argentina. The desert and the fireland.
Faces written forecast wartime firefly trenchfoot communion wine.
Hands unhand the antisocial, the non-com graphite inkling with revolutionary beards whose evolution never comes.
Driving poetry in the dust garden future.
Drawing insurrection and all the people multiplied. Insignificant glorious muchness: the van man standing corner moment. Over and over. Dead and buried.
Run sun chariot, race mother-face cliff-top. Ordinary skies. 

Everything. And simultaneous.