november 15

the mouth, dustpan makes its journey down, rippling in a slow spin carrying its carcass rubbish, tiny leaves, pens, cup pieces, an orange peel, a gull

tapering , lingering, like live oil smoothly manipulating itself down in an ooze of mud-grey muddle, undertowed elastically, smoothly inexorably, hunted, haunted

tiny leaves pass others from the same family why so much faster why twirl so, bypass, underpass, swerve delicately, slow motion tumble, they are deeper deeper is faster stronger the pull more receding, reclaiming, lumping, raring,pulling, I watch a steady stream of insults, deep catastrophe after deep

the dustpan, yellow plastic, faded maybe even attempted to be orange in its prime, holds it sharp edges, rubbish collecting rubbish, well not rubbish, mostly fallen leaves, willows, a stick, holding water rather than flowing like a microscope it holds a living world ready for examination, a moving river microscope, cherish the rubbish, the holder of lifetime of dust and dirt and perennial tidying up, holds this river, holding it flying down in slow motion its mouth open it faces up, from my dream lying on ones back swimming but arms as wings…this this dustbib, I have forgotten its too familiar name, know I’ve just written it but it has gone on – is now rippling in a rhythmic hip to hip wiggle a big bounce, now another rim ripple the thin end the place where dust and broom met edge and plastic, more leaves drift on and it begins to be held handle towards the river bank filling, filling with moving water, more sticks, more leaves, tiny red dots, slim yellows, nearly orange-green, a stalk of wheat, it ripples hand is held now filling itself, drowning itself in water debris leaves and grass, dust, the rim is heading skyward and the part deepens and drags down its held by its own weighted water and forest of leaves, open container of autumned life, held in moving muddle of water to the sea, my own speciman case still useful to hold the leftover, the dust, the remnants, I never thought I would pray to that rubbish, find my altar in this plastic shelf but looking at now its edges are like angel wings, straight, lifting, holding up, the base drawn together at its shoulder, it is my own out stretched outheld edges, out of water, clarity-defined, holding an opening shelf. I never thought to see an angel in a trashed dustpan or an epiphany in a sinking shovel

we leave it now, we hope it follows all the way, but it is stilled, weighted and inert now, until the next  lurch of water

ok there’s the pen again, white with green actually its a broken toothbrush, I see cuttle fish and fethers, leaves and cotton dust, underwater plants dense and pulling up, so not only the drains of humans

orange polysterene lump like a misshapen halloween vegetable

just found cuttlefish pool sign!

a bird flew out under my feet, a quick burst, I am just above some reeds and mudflat grasses – it whipped out horizontal

water and rubbish Charlotte’s mantra

bubbles pouring upwards from a tiny spout in the mudfloor, like a miniature geyser furious with energy, is it a worm

now every piece of rubbish hols the possibilities of altars, caught far out in reeds a white polysterene box missing a side, one edge, forms a holder open to the sky, why is it not found face down, tomorrow it may be as water moves but for today i have these open shelves

the river has started to run in all directions like ornate flowers twisting and twirling back baroque and patterning, what pushes it to go upstream, be antagonistic, to confound, I walk towards the shore it suddenly dips and shifts away and meanders back unperturbed, the turntable of the sea and river, this blooming, bursting, contradicting, chromozone counting, torn, tortured, tumbling, tagging, tremulous melding of matter, liquid hurricanes, liquid earthquakes, so many people must stand here and feel baffled tangled by its

river mouth sea

mouth river sea

sea river mouth


one’s own restless mind

a few pieces make it down and out, black seaweed, odd stick, stripped and red, a tiny tiny leaf, a popping seaweed like a sycamore bird/twizzle, dark leaves, a string of long seaweed, here it seems only the natural returns to the sea, all that rubbish holds itself back, not wanted

its cold on this edge as I stand watered on all sides and wet rocks under my feet, cold held back by a sun’s glimpse and the noise of water is blanketing in some unknown but comforting way

its gone dull green with yellow highlights, the colour I have chased for much of my life as my eyes, beckon towards it when close, to have changeable eyes affected by light like the water suddenly makes me feel natured and close



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