Watch the Dying Day (The Grey World)


It isn’t allowed in this house

in this room


in this bed


dust on a window pane

old net curtains pulling

pale cloudy light

into the room like a leaking pipe

It’s having to print something


having to be somewhere

forms to fill

deadline dreams

to doubt

It’s a TV programme that shouldn’t exist

shouting meaningless words

into a dead afternoon

It sits in your throat

and stops you leaving the bed

it holds

you down

closes up your breath

and makes you worry about your health

It’s a radio in an empty house

in winter

and knowing there’s nobody listening to it

It’s when there’s fuck all outside

to interest you

just more faces pushing prams

wearing shoes

and holding coats

talking weather


and politics

It’s boredom





It’s what you could have done

if you had the chance

what you should be doing,

could be achieving

if you had the skill

or fight or


It’s what others are doing

without you

It’s rheumy razors

and old socks

tiny drips of tears on necks

It’s things not working

never working

breaking down and flaking out

a dying light

in an industrial womb

It’s no guarantee

It’s bad art

your bad art

it’s the truth that hurts

it’s the lack of belief over breakfast

it’s nowhere to sit


it’s taking tickets to wait your turn

It’s hollow office space

cold linoleum castles

desk here

cabinet there

a heart beat beating

beneath ribs, red blood


and seats

Cardboard dreams half unpacked

It’s laundry,

food shopping, begging

driving nowhere,

taking out the trash

It’s what you must do instead

and don’t care for

It’s no will

to tie your shoes

it’s wonky frames

and ordinary names

it’s classical literature you can’t remember


wish you could

It’s lamps you can’t reach

it’s bad breath

hungry lighters running low

scraping empty sparks across your thumb

It drags your cheeks down

to your chin

makes you look old in the mirror

makes you thin

It’s an endless list of chores


no one

to tell you



It’s icy sting submission sentences


“that’s just the way it is”

It’s all this and more

it’s the anger of god

and no fucking god at all

its your beliefs

bang in the bog

It’s here

to bite your heart

and to chew your eyebrows

I try to keep it out


it’s no longer allowed

in this house

this room


this bed

Related posts:

the unfolding head

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Danny D Ford is a writer from Bristol (UK), currently living in Italy. He regularly gets involved with various poetry publications and spoken word events. His poetry, photography and illustration attempt to offer honest, observational fragments from everyday life and he has a tendency to unfold his head out loud.

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