Daily

Wednesday Jane is woeful
coffee cups again

fears a hodgepodge
am I brave enough

to reshape Thursday
Jane fears the distance

cries out
“our minutes must be up to the minute”

gloom words dead time
time poor resource poor

glory words ad hoc
made-up bricolage

Jane is rightly suspicious
of the overly functional

demean dull luxury
it is another blank faced Monday

coffee morning Jane thinks
where are the weekday children?

rain concrete posters curl
cups a sticky residue

it is Friday‘s loving arms
in (not) her building

Jane fights the deep lead edge
devoured by work

we don’t have to be
drinks the thick dark lie

drinks it anyway
and drinks it another

it is a chancy Tuesday
when you search for heroes

here your peers
dowdy drowned away

Jane weary
beneath the shoulder

take stock of your rivets
rivets echo suspicions

– mine turn dried tear litter peel
my daily body into matter –

difficult talk the liquid pull
true communication a rocky gulf

words are new shared spaces
when I write these things

Jane’s infrequent desire
to bear children ebbs

it is any given Friday
before rationalisation

Jane figures
she’s figured by numbers

rent paid chairs owned
cliff edge proximity

threshold palmistry
tells a different story

– Jane was born at 9am
on a living Saturday

her lungs an 80s
late September gale –

it is broken hearted Wednesday
time now to blow

firecrackers fuse informal
remake organizing principals

unpick the murder-blur
bare blue Albion

keep a vulnerable eye on those
protected rights to protest

it is a Thursday
that took long to arrive

Jane makes index art
on the bosses time

re-vivifies texty
dull deed reports

reveals the paler project
behind a bonny blitheness

Jane has a hunch
the system broke on purpose

tells us numbers but –
it is a new love-filled Friday

Janes are power producers
with bricolage community

they face the gulf
of sovereignty

navigate bi-cameral
pseudo-democracy

minuted bilabial trills
from the gallery

raised in gale and rayed
aloft our daily matter

it is Refuseday
the future is not a

shiny bullet pushing forward
Strikeday’s children scaffold

a bony resistance
assemble grand plans with

a hundred fishbone details their
minutes are up to the minute

come fair Monday
Jane roams a moral dream

I am a ready girder
riven bone structures

break me fit for purpose
ancient river courses

break banked systems
on purpose

the liquid goes out of it
brown ware pot

in three pieces
in February

when the earth is still
when we were on strike

Jane studies
the language that laces

dissolvable walls
thickens space between

atomised heartache
steady accumulation

breaks something
worth it

 
Betsy Porritt has had poems, sound collages and short prose published in SPAMzine, The Graveside Orations of Carl Einstein, DATABLEED Zine, Dissonance Mag & Eleven Stories. She is working on a PhD project at the University of Kent. Twitter: @SameNewRitual