Issue 25: Tom Crompton

dead classy

dressing cuts in the shade why don’t you

go out and do it      get what

you’re left with and listing

sum things no narrative

cracks in the big wind     idling this

may-fuss point and stand out for you

thru the midgy shimmer                       

now the hard days over

and I promised on picking you up

from outside another memory-jail

spirals staples minnows-thud            

in the car park (it’s us                       

the know-nothings here and rebuffed cos we

aren’t training

              can’t be shown us                        

          in the mudmirror are one one another

           it is time to break down time to take

              time on its trace and supreme little

                  spur alright            

propositions but rotted to neutral

the ground   with faces    textures           

(reeling mute on the outskirts of town           

and grudging it the ears

                              were invaded by music

bin-juice pop          in seditional luv

pools lightly at the root that is one of us

spitblown mid air like doves of a tread            

like mimes 

damp peeling and hedging an offer           

        buckle unrinsed and nudged past-

         production    (there’s no mix

        luvlier for the red of a red with rays

            from a warehouse

 fire violet maybe            

           these fallen leaves

                                so loud that you can’t help it

touch the sky

cos other fresh forms have seen the failing

design fall-through unlit summer flats            

skennerys where no one lives the spray

off the tress gets mixed and amidst

the bray from low corn aisle

           (that’s why

you should go out and do it

in the garden of recreations (north-west facing

with all the classical features and fluffing trench

raw material                       

the hour of going

             in the garden of reaction           

no coats no graces            (getting up

getting bored getting everywhere            

our refusal takes smash-mornings

                   is better than real ones

                   dur dur deposit of a

                 lark-like radiance above

the passages we unlearned

before taken useless names

of things                to be variant

and into all hazards                       

internal mic still there     still calling it

what it is

   in the garden of bad chemistry

we are waiting

cows  in spring hail                                    

gross units 

      and you’re gone off

on provisional organs again

first spoils damp with a dog track fizzing

from a hummer bee hummo no laws

out of gear but still better than real ones

dependent again

on jasper vowels lard-facts

the slime from blackpool’s hands

am gasping tree rings donuts records

 punched on the path to the meadow

 information writ there

through the getting lost dope and the fishermen dope and sockless with a grin every office

our bet

on chance lighting

and hope came to stay

onto that pitch and away

from the squaddy mallows

solo the bang-head dawn           

    that we can’t fix it makes it better 

     a tools just what’s

        lying about


maybe conditions don’t allow it

fuck it

that greenfinch made my day

we’re always one up

behind the lonesome depot tuff

your coat hair with two rings

in the blackberry style     (safety and landlines

the blood behind the eyes

and acetates for throwing

all that thorn apprehension

we move underneath it

not fitter nor agile

for the pink in the middle

of umbellifers

as if against low water

treatment plants our scrubby send up

right to left yeah this is the rose

on the node of the world

                   and it’s twisting!

steel into the trees

so the sound can carry

from my heart to yours

across our patch and eating spiders

in light rain without surfing

protection an aerosol puff

and police they work on reels

while songthrushes make their attempts

at snails in indecision weather

and everyone’s signing their contracts

and I am not doing that too

hard enough to spit

or sneeze

but hannah says neither

and I’m for that

wakey wakey forearm tapping

a vernacular shrug and now that we’re up

we don’t want to forget how this stuff feels

deep within the holding pattern

where evenings flowing backwards

thru a crack in my head            

resting against the bean aslant            

gruff little dandelions score the way

measuring the day out

in slug-pellets turquoise

where dryness settles

like a hand from under jumper


 the colour

of the sky


elastical melody cutting my ear

this side of drainy dusks balloonage

the magic words the sauce they come in

disintegration being the secret 

of all growing

things          (my forearm a rubber print

this stint at the whiteboard                        

windbreaker where are you

to give me clear music

bouncing through the garden of reactions            

sitting beneath

                   the generational steam

a kebab under one arm

tiny globe under the other

every single map ever

are these

caught up in hale and ducky

through butchered mouthwash backwash

fantasies of being infinite           

the world its precarious alarms

led in your lovage ace jut jutting           

in the freaky season

dancing like a black cap machine            

at the very least a party thicket

to run at at a gangle            

gain tangle

beach squabble

bonny ratter’s


 our bad splat thing

is so simple that we loose it

clothes line iregular the track to the pit

cuts across through the sandcastle            

flown  so dubbable

nothings          metal plate

bouncer’s knee

saving me a berry which you talk through

and it’s like slugging stuff

at prefects over fences

or writing poems for you evidently

the way that sap relates to amber

tooting thru soap scum build up

towards you

                then solved it with an air horn


before the guests begin to arrive

the mournful fumes of you

up          you up  your rope swing

over not much        is for us idled

under a pylon

so come start

on us tonight 

                           surviving still but not over it

                           we undercut the megaplex mind            

                         from scrub to metropole and living

                           it like a language

                              making good

                               on a promise to wake

up in a tangy with that nosebag brig           

no chase or calling to get true to            

(open sound

but do not stress it

       the lines are blocked  up

                                         and queues are

                                          mental    always           

cheap wings for us

or a cheese plant

with no dressing

                  no aerial route too big

or drowsy to complete it that’s my mission

means you can be my      lily clad

grease box no permission

however brief

that we get sung

refuse the day

to dive from

                          them fat white clouds

                           can’t touch us

Tom Crompton is a poet from Lancashire, living in London.

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