download instagram, download twitter, download what’s-app, download flickr,
update I-message, update linkedin,
restore photos from iCloud bin
back-up Tinder, back-up Scruff
X’d twitter, doomscrolled enough
access Pinterest, access Ring,
screenshot snapchat, Grindr ding

face-id open, passcode close
settings, delete find your iPhone
close friends, bank app, sort code,
messenger, poke, block, link, follow, repost livestream selfie be real location tag pin dropbox camera notes volume up siri off
Wi-Fi on,bluetooth disconnected 3G 4G 5G
which account do I logon?

safari, google, duck duck go
buy apple, by android,
huawai’s cheap though

forget this for you page
forget this Alexa home
forget this algorithmic poetry
forget this phone

pale flowers pale proprietor pale ale
i have ordered you to the table
almost funny how quickly you arrive
and funnier
ethanol ice, roots and glasses crash in
celebration
oh branch, gnarled wood with a numbered
engraving - i send thanks
via application
payment as in a pitcher - forget
taste -  order it
sugary with a bit of weight yet
you never took credit for
sake of appearances
I only entered you
knowing you wouldn’t ask as much as
the others past 5pm
to sneak out your doors by 11
into gravel’d outposts -
into the dark crying out for something
like your lost beauty.

it’s only i get a little scratchy across my shins at 1:33
forehead against work desk
leant down to run a track on my legs
phone untouched, shortcuts retraced
HTT ..PS//
ishouldntcheckyoursocials.      us.

couldn’t make me an addict of loss
which really is the untapped potential
for the future internet of things
safari, waystone.
safari, favourer of webpage rerunners,
safari, guide me back to a bookmarked
cliff-edge of ache.

cookies know me better than my housemate who’s sweetness blocked his accounts before something broke and we’d have to talk about it.

once the whiter lines appear on shinskin like my algorithm
I can sit back up
if not satiated at least appeased
the sound my lungs make isn’t really laughing or crying but
a wheeze.

i already cut my hair once
to feel like progress had been made;

and every new year isn’t December
it’s March.

wonder if you still recite my name backwards
the vowels around a tongue;

remind me
that things broken open may never lock again.

he cuts roses to
feel the rain.

Mother’s Day.

a downpour in the garden
he tilts the stems
to sever them
from the root.
he tilts the stems
to drink in
a little more.

corrugated;
this love like
an ugly curve.
draining the airpocket
dry.
nails, wood wounded.
all right, all right, all right then.

it’s -2 degrees.
the sun can’t warm the chill.
overhead, the clouds
blotch daydreams paler.
all im thinking is
it’s been 2 years.
sighing on the glass makes
condensation collect.
like a river,
hold my mouth to the runoff.
i can’t run from grief in the cold sunshine.
but i’ll never let a loss leave me thirsty
for more.