Tim Atkins


Oh let me just flop down flat on the road like a big fat jelly out of a bowl and never move again!
Samuel Beckett

Baby sleeping / woman turning / man on fire
Bill Berkson

                                                       I am
Caught up in you, I admit it,

            As far as the north edge of Paris 
& Wild fathers,

Chalk marks between tall buildings
                        Wild fathers (=wild fathers)
       Out of gas, the fruit of
The bean    or the beast
              Or the bees
                       Drawn up at traffic lights,
   Covered with mirrors                  Bruce Springsteen 
                                                              Forlorn but not
       Forlorn Humming, the political system
                                Doing over beings 
Over being over doing     there is

One answer, just
                               When I showed you 
    You felt sleepy   
                  Oh   Really   Thing 1

                                         &  I did too
The Day Lady Di Died
                         The day Margaret Thatcher dies
            Be reborn a Buddha fireworks
   When all the evil’s gone  
 All the evils   never gone
 Where the money goes
Dottr of yr father’s eyes, with no room  
In this place    for a man here in women
Practice    always & only  of poetry politics emptiness eternally
bricklike yet
Forever setting out, never arriving

         Not building or bleeding
Bullshit, arms, abandoning, abandoned, yet
The good house  Varstik! Varva! Dearest! Hamster!  From Streatham
to Morden  
Written out of the canon, there were

                                Three in the bed)    the song goes
& I made it
Asleep on the carpet
    Unconscious among dust mites
                                        Never biting, always bitten
Holding the umbrella at the barbeque   burning the bad poetry  
 the notion of salvation, all dinosaurs are good
Flying ones, the best, you don’t
Follow the smell of a girl’s socks

You follow the smell of a girl’s feet

                         Getting on by pushing
At dawn

Crossing Woolwich Ferry, Whitman saying

Resist much, Obey little,   in his hand, on pink paper

             Old enough to hold a chicken, lounging
           Calling the local cats with catnip & sandwiches
Smashing down on the burp app
     Filming the fairy lights

                                  Oh how I
Hate epics

Cloudless at First

Spending millions upon  post-it notes & tippex    on the stairs
                                     Getting the first whiffs
Of mortality
   Eating the mould off goats’ cheese wrapped in oak leaves

In the distance    the faint sound of puberty
In the foreground  the faint smell of poetry, money

              Bumper sticker reads HOWL if you love City Lights
       Arm made of starburst 
Japan, imagine that
Twice in a lifetime

          Bawling down the spillway
Naked & sweating,Hari Rama

Hari Hari
                      Just a girl   made up
Or girls’ things, a thumb, a faint ache beneath the right eye, glitter, tell me who’s smashed the plates,
Lights in the smoke, dark fur past, a flower, and then another
Association, coming third in the international Beatles poetry competition of 1997, and then, suddenly
The Organ of Corti
A bead of sweat between the chest and the jacket
Nobody, sky, nobody
    A baby
                    Then eight years later
     Awake in the firmament
Made up words
             Buzzing fillings
What would Sun Ra do?
  Another baby

In a man’s dream
There are no novels, only poetry, beautiful cities
                 Red leaf of a Japanese Maple 
Brushing your eyebrow
                                 Strings of the ukulele
There are still so many good things in this world
                 An inch deep    a mile wide
Not dead yet  what
Great good fortune
             For you I’ll be   por ti sere
Oh honey