Undreaming Insect

In the walls there we hear screams of:
"Take me there. Take me there."

The bound of our emotions resolves
An anti-human drunk or sober

Love poem diverges in its opening credits,

The over-cautious worrying over our missus

Pushing away everybody got close

To even appreciate you - "Take me there. Take me there."
Her voice sounds like a time machine

A bogus rogue in a world of explosive energies
Do we ask the brown ash

Do yourselves a favour:

Old recipts reflect your yesterdays:

Sprays moisturisers blades
Canals the walls
Oasis Dylan Shultz and some recorded
Delivery off Lorne Road in Liverpool, England

A first class package dated and dies,
Dropped in smoke - "Take me there."

Truely the C captains itself overboard;

6 times stronger than heroin,
An ounce by the water
My Heroine delivers only me,
Its echo return dressed only in human skin,

The rest shimmers to fingertips

And works all day

And works all night so that the fading light

Never truely fades ...

"Take me there"
Make no mistake old microwaveable future
Already 8% of this century,
And not the least gonna to see the end of it;

Repeat take me away

- "Take me there" -
Christ, do you realise where you are right now?
A chemical bring-down already

Sexton Rimbaud

All my pretty ones;

All my ugly ones;

Come together like a great foundation

Of sinister sly memories.

White Pepper

A blue and white cat claws at my pant leg
Burying itself in the floor of its back
Rounded-off paws padded five times on each hand
Above its head and looking at me.

And I am drifting on by like a cloud of
White pepper dust caught up in the clutch of modern
Black pin-ball mechanics of our new generations
That don't stop their back-brain depressants.

Me on a high and feeling good like that cat
Who had all to live for lying on that floor
Clawing at specs of aerial dust, I come to roost
Like a pigeon in the sky going up with nothing holding me up

Naked Lunch - Cool Air - Laughing Drunk - Gig Tickets

Will publish 2 poems soon, but not sure about them. Just rushed words, which is all I seems to do with poems these days.

Listening to Ladytron, cool electro-rock band from Liverpool.

Reading Naked Lunch by Burroughs. Also got The Dharma Bums by Kerouac, and The Gum Thief by Coupland.

Getting my reading going again; poems are my enemy. Need to attempt fiction, will unlock that door tonight - will overdose on caffine (after football on tv).

Christmas was good, no family problems after it exploded a couple of days before. Like a kind of eruption that coolled down in the winter air. Xmas eve was legendary, I got drunk with 2 friends, and had to meet my family at the church. I showed up at the church drunk, looking round in the aisle for them, and they were stood right next to me saying sit down. I kept getting funny looks off people, but I just joked around with my sister. Had to run back to my friends at the pub, laughing my head off.

Got tickets to see Bob Dylan in May. Got tickets to see Frank Turner in 3 weeks.

"They only want you when you're seventeen, when you're twenty-one, you're no fun." - That's Ladytron, I remember that line. It's from like 6 years ago.

Brothers, Photos, and Paintings

Still haven't written anything, not even in my handwritten journal (hate that thing anyway), but I'll do some tomorrow.

Been having family trouble, which isn't good, especially a couple of days before christmas. My older brother sorted it out, but I think we (the brothers) are trying to be who our dad wasn't. I don't know what that means, my older brother is already a dad and a great one at that. I think we'd try to out-do each other with whatever we cn do; but me, I'd go out my way to out-do them for no reason. Doesn't say much about myself, really.

Been admiring the comments from my photos, which is cool. I'm planning on getting a proper camera, but I can't afford one so I'll just use my phone for now. Funny thing is, I might do some painting instead. I can't paint but I like it, plus I got one canvas board left. No work tomorrow, so I got time to do it.

Photos When I'm Trying

Thinking About Writing Stories - Ladytron - And Poets

Note: Listen to Ladytron

My friend at work taught me some Japanese.

Poets I've been reading: Anne Sexton, Peter Manson

I'm going to have to do my writing on paper again, because I just can't think in front of a blank screen unlike when I stare at a blank piece of paper. I keep writing poems but I don't want to because I don't really like them. I'll just end up reading something different and then my writing will become something different. Which is annoying.

Back in uni I wrote 5 great short stories that went into 2 portfolios. I got a First Class honour for them, (although my degree came to a 2:1). If you read my short stories you'd probably say "What's all that about?" And I'd say: "I dunno. What do you think?" I manage to take one set theme and work in in through dialogue and other stuff, and was complimented for stylising a genre at uni, but the one inspiration (or main one) for story writing was Hemingway's 'Hills Like White Elephants.' It's the only story I think of when I write.

But with poetry, I don't know what the hell I'm trying to say. The best poem I've written is 'Transition,' I think.

I can't think of anything to write,and then I struggle, and then it becomes like a chore. Then writing isn't something I want to do. It's not wrtiter's block, sometimes I can think of stuff, but I don't want to write it down. I just need to leave, go travel the world. But I can never do that, because I always seem to tie myself down to this place.

Some Notes on Discarded Songs

Here are some notes I can't find anything to do with:

"Here's to you
The one I never knew

Hope I find
A way back into your life

I like the way
You find your way into my world

I love the way
You hide yourself from my world."


Yeah, it rhymes, it was pieces of a song I imagined while laying in bed, but most of the time I'm way too lazy to get up and write it down. With this, I was tapping my foot to this imaginary beat and singing this song in my head, I sat up and wrote it down, but all I got was this. I sounded better in my head, there was music and everything.

I wrote pieces of songs on some paper at work. I don't know why I'm trying songs, because I know I can't do it.

"Where has the time gone/ We're waking up so slowly/ Waking up horizontally/Freedom."

"You think about leaving your life for another life."

"The parfume environment smells exactly like chocolate/ But vinegar or coffee."
(I was working with parfumes)

"Growing old at the table."

4 Photos: City and Home

Hypertext Production

Again the process of handwritten exercises
Fill the skin with the permanent non-rush
Of premium fading lights;

Those lights fill the skin
With investigation and thrill and forethought
It is beyond my hand
And prism waterloo plain -

The grass itself exists by sight alone.

Again the process of killing
Universe karma love missy,
I hear your prissy little flavourings

Of talk you

Walk a slow drogue
And assembly of writers

Uttering 'LIFE'
And weeping the resolved time shift

And foreward in time excuse the clear
Shimmer of the fallen; excuse me my sweet
False blood; but not yourself your

Sexy clone wavers another ego.

Again the glass lights personalities
And what we cannot believe is after work;

Really we rarely cut into the arm of attention,

This tint of green vile plumage fills the waters,
Unclear grass ages the wrinkles
Swap beds and kiss gratuitously

Your God is buried with his or her

Laughter in his or her grave.

The Condition

The human forms itself by television
Sequential 'Love Poem' becomes balding surface
Chopping onion rings that shrink
Burn and compose your dear eyes and skin -
Light becomes clear and the human form is,
At length, part of the song -
Only the song and nothing else.

A poem of 'ME' and nought else,
Shit indulgence of rubber and Lords
Shit in the process of hypercondria;
Shit thought-process processes the fateful shit -

The skin, the granite, are similar things;
Unrecognised: the 'US' is a great familiarity
To say the least, I'm held down
By walking bleak townships in morning light,
Poor young fellow by first light
Is taller than he really is.

Never that place in humanity
Is a real place to be secluded;
Humour and horror and red-faced
Understanding the 'Poem' by artificial light
Of treason - a kind-of exception
Walking out on the human a'ghearrach.

It seems to me you've lived
Your life this far: the form -
The form to wait here until completely ready
Or necessary to present the world all our habits;
The form in its naked reasonable face and body
Slender and firm ready to pounce like cats,
The form made of grey and usually no other colour,
The human form owes something to time and hell
And sexy electricity of warm adventure,
The form behind eyes schools and tortoise shells,
The human form in a style of public squares
Hiding our very decent pubic psychosis,
The human form a neo-joke
Grinding our ligaments into flour and then bakes
Into bread ... And nothing else.

Photos on Thurs 4th Dec

Made-up Dialogue

"I think that socially we become more or less adolescent."

"And that means what, exactly?"

"I'm having a hard time putting two and two together."

"Get out."

"What?"

"Just get out. You're getting on my nerves. I hate you."

"Whatever, Trevor, just think about my problems before yours."

"Why?"

"Because mine are more serious than yours."

"In what way?"

"In the way that I don't care about your problems."

"Funny, you are, aint you. Now get out."

"I'm going. But just remember..."

"What?"

"Remember that... Remember that time I got drunk and left my shoes here?"

"That was only yesterday."

"I know."

"...Just leave will you. You're grating on my nerves now."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I still can't find my shoes..."

NorthWestern Destructive (Or Drift)

What does the buzz of me signify?
You see me here, I am brought to you to destroy
Everything that you see - the fighter in the sand
Great expectation of the world in my hand;
It is mersion of mercy - I beg your pardon?

The devil walks in my garden.

What brings together the bud of your existence?
An unending dog at every great white guru fleet;
It is only in your heaven your haze of not one woman
Who bore our excess of nostalgia of the doorman -
It is a distinct Ki, Swahili, in another dimension;

I fell down in the desert where I will mention

My mind swelling like a balloon blown up by a trumpet,
And seeing above sand dunes and lying down to the landscape;
I am brought here to destroy you.
I am in the 1940's off-camera/settling the authentic aroma of being
On camera. And this is you: begging to the preacher

Such a strange and desperate creature.

Downstairs I hinder all well being of a recylable universe -
Non-recyclable Earth makes it's awful boom
And we make our awful booms riding the highway
Back into the snaking desert; an ancient child.
Your great phony process of lasers moves me,

You are great beyond NorthWestern stars above me

However, I read my newspaper back in Tuesday white morning
And man is not like woman, where life may never end
In pools of clear bright and marble-like creatures similar to frogs,
And our depressed relatives look like dogs
And the lust to destroy you is like giving you the world,

Have it all curled around your finger,

Then a great partition of days separate like oil in rainwater
Puddles in roadside gutter on way to school -
Great Atlantis vantage point from insipid cup of tea - sweet weak
Just like you or me a creature of the meek;
I am quite self-righteous, preaching to the devil

All that I have discovered this side of the sea-level.

This weak white morning froze ignorance in its grave;
Can't make me bide time worried in the middle,
Poor destruction already done suicidal version of creation,
I don't care about economy or astronomy or the death of a nation;
I just wanna know what brings you to me in your warning adept motion,

My brain is in a shoebox - I throw my heart in the ocean.

Tuesday Morning

Confrontation at the Pasty Counter

As I sit listening to The Doors, I'm squashing my foot sitting cross-legged. - problem fixed.

In work today I was talking to my mate as we put stuff on the shelves. He's into stand-up comedy, and it's interesting to hear about his gigs. I haven't seen him at a gig yet. But the conversation drifted and ended and went quiet. Then I smelt some food from the small cafe next to us in the shop. I say to him: "Those pasties smell nice." And he says to me: "Yeah, they do." And then I just generally smile, and that was that. Simple enough.

But damn it when I decide to smile again, thinking about the food, because the guy behind the counter of the cafe kept staring at me, and I noticed this every time I looked over. Now I wasn't looking at the food, but at him. Then, I hear him say something to my mate and I thought they're where just having a quick chat, you know? But no. I hear the word "dickhead," (from the cafe guy) and I say to my mate, "What did he just say to you?" You know sticking up for him.

The guy thought we were laughing at him and we're now having an argument with him. I stick up for myself, you see, acting hard on purpose. And he tells his boss and I tell mine (not manager, but a team leader) and she's saying stuff like, what a silly bugger or something. But we don't tell the boss, who walks over just then. We just don't.

We end up joking about it, laughing. We tell the others. One is quite buff, does karate. He goes over to the cafe but doesn't see the guy. I was angry, not fuming, I'd fight him if I had to. I stick up for my friends. But as we laugh, I'm seeing that this is going to be part of his act; the angry guy selling pasties and fruitcake.

One more thing: found out I have ADD. Makes sense for some things about myself.

Anti-Racism - And A Jacket Too Small

A Quick note: Coming home from work I'd bought Wall-e on dvd and some hair gel and as I got to the train station I found myself in the middle of an anti-bnp rally. They're those racist nationalists who hide behind a political party, so you can see I'm already against them, and I found myself wanting to join in. But it was cold, I didn't know anyone there, and there was about 50 policemen around and I had a knife in my pocket from work, which isn't the most unincriminating piece of evidence and reason to arrest me. So I was on my way, and got some leaflets off some guys who rather angrily protests "Stop the bnp" as I took a leaflet as if he was converting me away from racism.

I felt like saying, "Hey, guy, I've got the t-shirt," you know?

As the quick note goes on, I bought a jacket off the internet, thinking i'd be hip in doing that. I'm only 23 and i'm hardly down with the times. For the second time I got the wrong size. The first one was too big, now this one is too small. They're going to think I'm pulling some scam here, yeah, I'm buying jackets and sending them back illegaly. But I want my jacket!

Got Frank Turner tickets for january. These are replacement tickets (because he cancelled last time) but I've just bought some anyway! damn, I keep spending money when I should be saving. Mental Note: Stop Spending Money.

Metamorphose

Giving Nothing away,

An ultranova,
The small sediment
Travels velocities - deposits in its river -
Runs smaller than myself;

I switch lives
And kill off all cowardice - transfer my

Breathing,
Transfer my voice into Baby Jesus and speak,

Giving away Nothing
Like a Communist hologram;

The major pulpit
The journey

Journeys to Earth.

Roadhouse Blues and Jogging

Today in work I wrote some songs on some paper, while I was supposed to be listing items that needed replenishing. They were shit, really, and it's strange how hard it is to write while at work. I just can't think of any words; and I ended up with a tune in my head of some song I can't remember.... Oh, it was Roadhouse Blues by The Doors. So I was ripping off Jim Morrison writing this shit and I call them songs because I took the rhythm from a song and I made it rhyme. What's with people wanting poems to rhyme? I don't care for rhyming that much, it just seems childish if it's not done properly and if it's not a song. So when I don't use rhyme they say 'it's not a poem 'cause it don't rhyme.'

I left the pad of paper in work, but I might bring it home and write them on here, but they are shite. You can just tell how forced it was. And it gets me thinking, how do I write? Or what do I write? I thought I was good back in Uni, but now I don't know. Whatever, I need to concentrate on my short stories, which I might put on here.

Another thing, while I was going to work the other day I saw two joggers. Now this is like 6 in the morning. I mean, that's commitment. Maybe if I could commit to work like that. Work as in writing.

I got an email from Uni, says they still have my MA application and I'll find out if I got in or not in the New Year. I'd sent them an email because I was worried they'd lost my application since I'd sent it in the Summer and then was told the course won't start til 2009. But I hope I get in. If not, I've gotta leave this place. That place in JMU is the only anchor I've here right now. I think.

Hotel England

This house holds me in - Oh no;
Recluse is a social no-show
Cannot be driven by goddess living room
Coffee queen or set loose but

Reckless -
This house is a
Freedom house;

A house of freedom
A house of free-dumb - Wheel of Fortune
Extravaganza manic-street episodes;
Pre-disposed table, gully and lampshade,
House I am a brick wall,
House ten years old, 11 years, 12 ... 13 -

I mean it stops time,
The point is, house, it is
Going up going down house
Mutiny house;
Mad house on the inside terrace-
Disjointed/detatched - mug house;
Further down the road house;
Work house;
Economical downturn house;
Druggie/alky/loud house of demented
Madness on all fours, Oh abuse me house,
Use me house, November house;
November rain/Screaming house/Inside house/
This house with its glasses on reading this book by Coupland
With a haunting sensation of heade
Stockpiled up against seedy walls and his shuck
House replayed your living space - a room with you and your risky hands;

I know the right way house
No, I'm not a gemini
I'm that horse-man aren't I?
Your words are caught up in Hollywood
Soapy adolescent morale
Bi-polar dog is calling me
I don't know how I feel.

I don't hear a thing.

Black n' White in '06 - Crosby Beach

I found these photos I took back in October 2006, and I did quite a few and I tried to decide if it was worth it to have them in black and white, and these three were the only ones that I thought looked good that way.

Backwards

No Sun Here
Day Broken Fly away
Scarf warm dehydration driving
Head To mind
Hollow Sounds
I like to write this
Sdrawkcab forwards
Splled wrng wrds
Tell Tale of Death
Mmmmm, lovely and bleak
Fragile eyes Fragile ground
Favorite Song: Hey Joe
I know what you're thinking
As you read
And And And...

In Korova

8 arms & I must be high
Half-naked in bed
The high-tide wind comes in
And in the darkness I've taken
You all in my hand ...


All this time the taste of tea and blood
And ticking weather sound in my head
Of clocks and car engines resting their bodies
In cold starry wet grit,


Buddah is more reasurring
Because he hardly speaks;
In an instant before he speaks
There is the soft mellow of reality
Sandwiched together between my hands ...
Lying in bed ... Bare skin my blanket ...


4 brothers at one time,
Firing echoes of words no one hears
(2 half-brothers), heaving a coffin on our shoulders,
Don't let it drop,
Don't let one teardrop fall I mistakenly thought
He believed in whiskey and nothing else.


Most sick of death
When death becomes you -
Or that taste of blood;
Stalking your 70 year old feet,
Stood under the bulky trunk
The stink of shit and antiseptic
Like hospital wards of moaning croners
Wishing for whiskey
Like the Irish and the Indians.


Thinking I was great after I turned
To the blood cut-up into
Voicless pieces of meat
Where am not a man: a boy
Miles away from monday
Mother of hatred;
I do not hate you
Suicidal modern city is drunk again,
You'll rot in your grave for that.


2 friends drinking themselves to life;
We cannot be left to our own faint shiver of reason
Found shallow breathing at 3 O' Clock tables
Such specific nights at the tip of the world
Leaking neon and hydrogen and music sweet music
Made me a man to act this way.


And general music zombie from beyond the grave,
Farewell to the flesh
Crows their falsetto following
Buddah with his own problems ...

The Unluckiest Weekend Ever - And The Best Bar Ever

Didn't see Frank Turner because he'd gotten sick in Nottingham and finished early, so I checked his blog to see what the score was. Only when we were in town I found out he wasn't coming. It was the only thing me and my mate Dan were looking forward to after the worst Halloween. We sat in Lloyd's kind of laughing at how this has been the worst weekend, especially after Dan said last week it was going to be the best ever. (I mean, my dad died, Liverpool lost, Frank Turner cancels.) We went to a friend's flat to get my jacket I'd left on friday and walked all the way back to see if the support bands were playing. They weren't. Town seemed completely empty. Well, it was completely empty - I mean at one point we were the only two people in the Office and you could hear our conversation wall to wall when the song changed. I felt bad leaving the barmaid on her own.

It was a choice of going home and sulking or finding somewhere to drink. It was about finding a place we hadn't been in before. And we found it. We saw some guys taking guitars and amps inside and we walked in too. Got some drinks, sat down. Was a strange looking place. But we liked it. There was a band playing downstairs so we went and saw them. Didn't know if we had to pay, but we'd already bought tickets for that night anyway.

We stayed there until about 2 or 3am. We decided we couldn't tell anyone about this bar, because when that happens, everyone finds out about it and it turns into a fucking night club and 'the place to be.' So I'm not even going to say what it's called on here. We keep saying things need to change, and we got some of that change. But what it is, I need my own place. I'm getting a flat next year when I'm back at uni. It's the only thing to stop us being bored with life - that and learn to play guitar quicker.

Worse Halloween - And a Funeral

That was the shittest Halloween ever. With no costume, I had a half-assed zombie make-up thing put together within 2 minutes before leaving for a night in town that lasted a total of .... 2 and a half hours. I didn't go on the tour with the others, so 3 of us in costume walking around town while drunken criminals in old-man pubs got all rowdy and we looked for anyone else in costume. We found a place. Not only had it gotten shit in there, when the others came back we left for a club that was £8, so I didn't go in. 3 of us went home. I left my coat in the flat in town and it was £15 in the cab.

On the same day I buried my dad. Me and my brother carried it (along with our 2 half brothers). We didn't expect it to be that heavy. It made me sick. It was a Catholic funeral because my dad was Catholic, so me and my brother didn't know what we were doing. When we got to the cemetary we carried it to the hole and we had to lower it into the ground. Threw in soil. Threw in a flower. Family members I've never seen before began crying. My little sister was crying. I felt myself wanting to cry but I fought it back, couldn't be having that. But I have to say, as much as I hated him, it's the saddest and most difficult thing I've ever done.

Holes in the House

How cold is the house when there's no windows? So bloody cold! We had new windows done and so it was like living in a giant block of Swiss cheese ('cause of the holes). Well it all got done yesterday - and a new front door - and now the kitchen's getting a 'makeover' and it looks like a construction site, which is all I saw of the city 2 months ago. I'm living off Cup-a-Soup's and coffee.

I'm off work for about a week and a half starting friday, and Halloween is next week. I was going to go on a tour of haunted places but that was booked up, so we'll prob go get drunk round town. On the 2nd Nov I'm going to a Frank Turner gig. (He's an acoustic musician, look him up). But it's just time to get away from work; the early starts are driving me mad.

I haven't written anything in a while. I just haven't had the energy. I'm falling behind. I don't even read that much anymore. I've started and not finished 3 books because I got bored of them. I have a low attention span, you see. I'm far too easily distracted.

My dad died on Sunday. In his house. Prob drank himself to death. Don't know when the funeral is, but I'll be carrying the coffin. What's that? A Pallbearer? I'll be one of them.

Notes in a List

1. Staring into space is tiresome...

2. Laugh 'till you cry. Hahahahahaha!

3. Saturday the weirdos come out. Sunday seems kind of illegal.

4. Read plays as well as novels.

5. Memorise jokes. Especially other people's jokes.

6. Smoke in Winter. All the cool kids do it.

7. Give your alter ego a name. Mines Mikey. I knew a friend whose was Pedro.

8. Play around with music.

9. Don't buy shit.

10. Steal edible things.

11. If you (or have been) in a place where you can't see for the smoke, you're in the right place.

12. Smell drugs before you take them.

13. Act like the person you look up to.

14. If you haven't a person to look up to, then get one.

15. Learn to speed read.

16. Tell lies. It's like reading a story.

17. Make up back stories for people you see in the street.

18. If you wake up drunk somewhere with green hair and eye liner, lie back down.

19. All the spirituality you may need from yoga is to sit cross-legged.

20. By all means, break all rules.

An Examination of Earth

Us thousands have been used to
Abandoning the ascent chalices
They were scaling no many years
Terfalls on the island aren’t usually a subject for pan
And where I snapped discussion in the pub,
Women are generally much.
Some waiters migrs told her as a monkey
But vital safety feature
Yat-chan serves crashed in Iraq,
The traditional sacked yesterday
Fuku-chan hands tended to put explo –
Instead of tipping in 2003.
Bluster when the subject of the primate barmen
Located and stimulated bar north of Tokyo,
100m (300ft.) lorious sunshine
The ice snapped and could not save
And then the cord its load of ice at (14in) of rain
And who has 12 this Summer?
To the right lining of the horizon
Early Autumn continued up before some of the past
And escaping to small weather.
Children are top RAF commanders,
About their parents cules aircraft needed
But acted only –
One in five young men dies when a plan
Their parents have, fresh evidence confirm the past,
Children think their sive suppressant foam
Ther parents are still taking tanks in 2002.
Fought along narcotics seemed in battles over 200
Thirds of parents tremendous and his bout the effect
Restores the honour and children, the survey soldiers
Whose faith drugs and alcohol
Majestey’s armed forces showed.
To Emperor Akhito, who lives love honey is now selling one,
The moat is separated from the generation
The world isn’t surprised;
Poor summer generation of the stream of fast winds
Only one in ten which blocked war
Lebrities taking Southern Europe ‘cool.’
The first half at Sept addicted months rain 8.2cm.
Frozen on camera the most vulnerable
Narrowly escaped potential solution.
Battle the air which is just
Settle in Britain. The way we like it.
British troops focusing on our Winter.
Dead Ghurka brought away we’re starting
In the wings with an event that is
To reduce risk is guaranteed to be super.
Tactical analysis cool, super early:
Farm and a model taken drugs
A cow in ten of those
A hot knife is young people
Spend up to a month work
63 year drugs more complex designs
Fairly easy say today’s par-temperature controlled studio.
Must maintain a face uninvited inside the grounds
This butter artist deserves a date with the Lord High Executioner.
The Imperial Palace smaller in Tokyo,
Visitors to an artist failed to demonstrate,
Studio could forgive country.
I can’t believe it is wounded Falklands,
Before 1997 night out on Saturday night
Strong ties instantly while her friend dies later.
A jealous woman tried to kill a British artist,
While crossing herself by drinking acid at a wedding
Moving to New York slashed her wrists
Hit by two taxies three months after.
Crowd of onlookers high over Britain
The season was blamed on a jet
An ironic weather from the warm week
A policeman who saw cow riding a motorbike
And a girl lying in bed
Cool enough, but it was unlikely.

Pass the Time

Tell me now tell me now
How long am I going to stand your evil ways?
Tell me now (9:31):
Babes built out of blocks,
And the village just for you.

Tell me now
Except at night on the real town
We make ourselves come true:

Tell me now we can
Try we wait
And complain;
And if only we made the move
Before the darkness folded.
If only, tell me now,

That freedom’s just a word,
You know, and
To stay healthy you eat nothing, don’t you?

Let’s see if we can attract some hatred.
You know we never win at this,
Just make the poems come true.

And the village just for you
Like a stony lover for you,

If only,

Tell me now,
I saw this fly on the wall
And it don’t move an inch,
It was asleep:

Take this season from me,
I can make ourselves come true.

Tell me how long I can stand:

(Cooling mood

Transfers me out of here;

Dogs dogs dogs;

3-string pick-up stand evil ways)

I can make your lights
Blaze – the sign I am coming:-

The weather.

The cool sure outspoken wind
Howl-
ing at the past and
Future
And the now

And finally death has stopped.

Music Envy

I have musical genius envy
Like Mozart and Beethoven fighting
On and on and on
Violin – Do Do de Do

Quick,

And on and on and on...

UNDERCOVERS

AT NIGHT;

Private and confidential:
030 supply chain shop:

Payment
Deductions
Cumulative figures;

£304 plus overtime.

The seagull flies in white morning.

Three days since last drunk,
Can’t remember where I’ve been,
See the white walls turning green,

– Note: See Dan about flat.

Piles of paper on the floor poems books socks dirt
Stale food a tower of Coke cans on the bookshelf

A mountain of nightmares
A pack of chewies, an M shaped keyring, books upon books,
The Journal of Kurt Cobain and The Brooklyn Follies,
A bad bad feeling that all these train tickets

Lead no where,

Or where these books appeared some music
About fifty stolen beer mats,

– Two Chinese men stuck in time

Playing checkers;

Over the hill is night,
Over the hill I can’t see what the days will look like.

A List of Poets

A list of poets that I read (inc. musicians).

Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Charles Bukowski, Ted Berrigan, William S Burroughs, Guillaume Apollinaire, Arthur Rimbaud, Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Sylvia Plath, Philip Larkin, Dylan Thomas, JH Prynne, Wilfred Owen, William Blake, Frank Turner, Robin Purves, Jennifer Moxley.

Rabbit

Something I drew a few weeks ago. Looks like a crazed rabbit.

Moving Jobs? - And Guitar

Over that last week of work I realised about 10 people have left or are leaving, which is kind of weird because I hardly know them, I've only been there three months. But what I'm thinking of is what new people they'll employ over the next couple of months. I'm going to be working there, maybe showing them the 'ropes.' But I only started there in July.

That gets me thinking of moving to a different job. I got told a couple of weeks ago on the train going into Liverpool that I should go after a better job and do what I'm good at. He said don't put barriers in front of yourself. I could write for a newspaper, but last time I did that was the University paper in Preston and I hated it so I quit. They never published my work. I don't know what writing jobs there are, but I sent some poems to some literary magazines to be not read. I'll write a book and publish a book of poetry soon - like after I've done my Masters in Liverpool. It'd look odd doing a writing course when already published.

I've picked my guitar back up. I started in the Spring, but I've hardly touched it since moving back home. I was talking to a guy at work who plays guitar and it got me thinking about playing. Maybe I could sing some songs - people listen better to songs than poems.

Transition

Silent stillness a heartbeat in the thick air your only
Pulse in the world at this moment in time mesmerised
By the tiny mechanical Clack clack of clockwork days
Recent surf going out and in a delicate Shh over thick
Heavy empty sand Starry slush in its eyes like the skies
It stares at all night; We remember driving like lunatics
Half-drunk freedom soldiers out to seduce the world
With our radioactive blood – A distant orange summer
Slick hot and golden and full of eerie practise
Of life and practising death by bottle screaming
Butterflies every now and then in some bold wonderland
With sharp enemy fronts held by our explosive eyesight
That never stopped starring, starring and seeing
The North held by South; A grass and a sky a soily ocean:
Everything wide-eyes and in a daze no doubt
Some unwelcome Vega to come and ruin it
And you said something along the lines of:
“What’s the fucking point?” I don’t know. Why don’t you know?
But you calmed down sometimes we took turns going crazy
Hidden from the country and the political death ray
Around us, sick bureau puddles everywhere;
I climbed a fence and fell off, then a tree
At 2 am in the South of England: I grew up you grew up we all
Grew up like children long friend dope fiend
Morning philosophy; eyebrows raised and set forward
On the horizon were “stuff” was happening –
Separate ways – there and then meeting again –
Fateful artificial deadly water lilies if we ever took serious
The new times: Happening now.
We pass the time around like a bottle of mixed cocktails
And where are you going with that gun
In your hand? Hey? Born victims jelly eyes:
Blackcurrant skies appear over there in wintery morning
Before work at 6:15 am, it’s a slow change you got there
Transition onto next raining slowly grinning.

Sunday Work - And Old Faces

Working on Sundays is always quiet, feels like you're not supposed to be there, feels like you could just stop moving and everyone would walk around you. I'll have a 12-hour shift over night on tuesday. That'll feel like we're robbing the place, like we've been locked in and all we can do is rob the place and throw all the clothes, toasters, and soap dish holders off the roof, so we can get it all in the morning.

I'm seeing old faces, you know from high school and that, and most of the time I don't want to see those faces, I mean, I went through years without seeing them and that was enough, and now they're popping back up like fucking weeds. You can't really get rid of those fuckers. I think it's because I'm living at home again, but some faces I don't mind having a look at, it's just I'd never accept that they were there again. If you know what I mean.

I need to move somewhere else. When I do it will be genius.

One Two

When you live
You will see the harsh
Complexities
Of life
Within life within dreams
Driving cars
Walking waiting
Wailing wearing shoes
Shoo-ing away pigeons.

When you die
You will hear
A voice
(Dark light)...
Tunnel?

On Writing - And Sleeping

One writing technique I like to use is this Surrealist or Dada technique (I think it is anyway) where you cut up bits of your one-line notes to make a poem. Burroughs used the cut-up technique a lot, and it makes the piece hard to read but it's ingenious in its own right. If used properly.

I thought of a technique of writing one word a day. Then over time you put those words together, but that would take ages. But it's all about having them make sense with no sense at all. I like to think I coined the phrase 'Song Line.' This is a line in a poem or a song that sounds almost exactly like the previous line, but with different words. (I found out it's a real technique called Mondegreen, Hendrix used it in Purple Haze). John Lennon could do that. You find it happening in songs, and sometimes it doesn't happen and you only think it does. EXAMPLE: 'Romantic young kissable lips,' from a Frank Turner song. I turned around to be 'Manic unkissable lips.' You see? Also, Kerouac gives the idea, not to cut-up- but to write as first intended. The first thing you think of is what you write. EXAMPLE 2: 'Gorilla lightbulb, hat sits down, lamppost bags paper plughole, wet frog night day lights pushy.' That came from the top of my head, it sounds rubbish, but a technique like that can be worked on if there's a specific theme going on.

Also, you ever get that weird feeling of loss when you sleep during the day? I did today, I slept for 4 hours (2-6) and I lost the day. I had been working all morning, though. I also got the feeling of being watched. There's a strange lack of peace in day-time sleep.

Give Me Money - A Free Spirit in Debt.

I figured it would take over a year to save up enough money to pay course fees and rent a flat in the city. But I've only got a year, and I'm going to work my ass off through all those months and not reach the amount needed. It comes at a time when everyone has high-paying jobs after graduating and even though I've graduated, I'm still only working in a shop. It's a lot of work for a little amount of money. I can't spend it, so I can't see anyone. So it's going to be a pretty lonely year, me thinks.

And I don't want to get a loan, but I might have to. I want to travel and see the world, and you know it's getting bad when the plans you make are a year and a half in advance. Kids like us are meant to be free. A while ago I wrote this line: 'A free spirit in debt.' It's happening more and more to us; you want to be a free spirit or not - take your pick.

Coming Home After Saturday Morning Work

Manic

Today tilts and screams out

Your life’s all your way!
Tonight we will apply our wills
And stand and shout that the world
Is laughing and the night
She’s full of the night
She’s full of the night while
It tilts Moksha! And inside
Wide-eyed our naked eyes
Are selling our souls the old ways

Of thinking,

Culmination the human form
Dog of Dharma,
In a shining world
Where your actions are your best intentions,
But I feel the prize is perfection
Perfect participation in the eyes of growing old.

Best lives will see a glimpse
Of everything:
Miniscule lives the alcohol raining
Ages of dining with dangerous gaming
Working for hours forever complaining
Always embracing the lives of Yogic liberation.

And I will Surrender –

The naked skydive;
It is the Maniac
And we are the Sun,
And yr own sun’s bein lazy;

And Sacrifice –

People remote so wishful inside

And I will remember how it used to be

Mukeshpuri the lives intact with yr loss forever

And I will remember

The half-hearted second thought,
Rubber arms pink elastic muscles
Move like agony sometimes,
One who lies there all day
Driving his headache to sleep,
Seek the grey bathtub-water sky soaking

The patchwork wooden tiled floorboards
Of dawn of time dust asleep

Just waking up like an Indian God

Now
Rolled over to one side;

And I will remember
How it used to be so great;
And turning to the old ways
Surprise yrself with a collection of books lives and music;

Hyper action for my own safety
From losing it

Again,

And I will remember losing it,
Visionary thinks the world of you
It’s all coming true
But it lacks a bit of essence,

And I will remember

Us waking up like Gods.

Delusion Calm

A fat ambush of *sparkling* people
Out seeking wisdom the Sun
Slipped into daze death crazy unstable
The able are able to go
But the lazy are able to stay;
Say why don’t you go?
Away from thick grime and sulphur
Eggy-smell of the old =railway= lines
=Parallel= minds a deuce doth go easy,
What? You say what?!
Go! Leave now and be gone!
Peace! Peace be with you – and all that,
Karma Sutra and Krishna –
Have a nice day, which way?
The order has left its un-artful courthouse
Of spiteful odours & wigs,
Plenty of those overzealous monsters –
Leave me alone!
Leave me the hell alone & find yrself
A spiteful harsh reality that spits out colours
Black pink green
Unseen in – No, always seen!
In sleep, we dream!
At night, we dream!
U n s e e n
Weird eyes skin cocaine-white
Slipping unconscious *sparkling* against granite
With the middle-karma, with dots, man,
With smudges on the windscreen, girl,
Wet wiry filaments in yr eye
Experiencing yr affections;
>
t
urn
<
Train is a long dream train
Short pain a plain pain to go all that
Way and it was a long dream along
A great ghastly obnoxious lovely sexy
Adorable profound sweet
Beautiful wonderful dream
Of everything of everything of everything of...

Cow in the Sky

There was a cow in the sky and I took a picture of him..

Untitled Painting 2

A mania is a mixture, really, like red and blue, fire and water; it's like one thing can lead to another and better yet, one thing actually is another. It's all really nonsense like bathwater in a whirlpool going down the drain all at once.

A friend once told me the best way to feel better is to run; I remember I ended up chasing him around midnight in some field in Cornwall because he stole my bottle of Vodka. When I caught him, we woke up some German campers, so we had to run away again. He ended up going to sleep in the tent and I went and climbed a tree, I remember sitting in that tree in the wee hours, so many miles from home.

Radioactive Bookshelf

Right, say, look this way at certain thing you bring
Then that way at next thing and thing
Turns to be no “thing” expected than what’s
In front of your radioactive bookshelf
That warble red green bloooo –
You will find the old radioactive bookshelf
And it will find its poems
Miles and miles away on some London day
Where a musical parliament hates the bass
Wall-voices – that could be us!
With our heroin socks miles and miles away
On some terrible day watching us go by
Kept divine by the best generations,
These demonstrations wake in morning –
Dartboard stomach shoots by –
Headache-stricken scarf wound hot,
Rock n’ Roll screaming red tongue
Sausage roll screaming tongue red,
We touch the Universe with callused fingertips
Tip: open toilet door with pinkie –
Feel voices remember like afterwords,
Forewords word words worming their way in;
And now the stark bright naked voices with a gun
Your parliament hopefuls are deaf next thing and next
To nothing the body kept divine by practise
Of darting away, half-used, half-abused,
Half a person in trouble
Hoping someone will call to me.

Untitled Painting

I painted this and it took me around two hours. I used oil paints on small canvas. I didn't know what it was meant to be, I was just putting the colours down; but I was going through stories in my head as I painted. Like the green at the bottom was the typical green fields of a normal painting. I thought the black and red looked like fire so I made grey smoke, then the blue-ish sky. There is a red sun at the top, it's the only thing that seems normal in a messed-up world.

Stoic

So it's like, Stoic the way you could be leaning to one side with a cigarette in one thin hand and rabbit ears, and you look to one side and then the other, deciding on your Karma or someone else's Karma and nothing goes so quick, only as slow as your cig; and so what the hell is all this stoicism about when the Fonze was much quicker than this guy? What I'm saying is, it's all about avoiding time.. you see? Is that Stoic? No, stoic is so slow that you end up watching the time, all the cool kids wear watches.

My Guardian Angel Hates Me

The arch of the world arched inwards
Silent sunshine
Like some unbalanced wood house

Construed to be meaningless...
Stop!
I say,
Jazzy temperature of nuclear lightbulb mojo lights up,
Working hours a day aches feet arching forward over

These lips haunt me plain milk
These eyes fringed love of eyes of silk,
Why she hates me is another reason.

Up the alleyway rains for teeming doused
Roads jumper sodding jumper hair and head
Totally wet.

Okay. What black world sky!

What milky bland glass
Plain tabula does she think she’s writing on?

She disappeared for months vanished

And then comes back

Just like that.
What? Just made of milk? Or what?

Cider. A fringe of happiness. A pout.
What a fucking waste, half-misconstrued
Half wasted; what a waste of time with my
Guardian angel,

Green, grassy green...

Red, blood red...

Blue, ice

Bad

Stoic

Unpleased.

Her hair is cut over her eyes
Her tongue behind her lips.

Fast

Things go fast:

Not eating.
Starving shrivelled stars;
Skinny sky in stars,
Moon the world the verse
The song the worst the best.


Quick.
Like swallow a clump of food.
Or like

Nothing but air

Like who’s got nothing but air.

Every Time She Turns

She passes her weather shelter
Fr evry suave young man
n evry young young man
Wnts 2 meet her

In evry way they can.

Bt she pays the world 2 turn
Away n board the walls,
n she smells o’ rose n apple

n alcohol on ‘er breath
n evry time they close in on ‘er

She turns away evry way she cn.

Read About A Cat

Read about a cat
With four ears
For years handled about bars,
Now hangs around bars for kicks,

He hangs around most places
Like outside my place,
Nine tails flow flow flow in the wind,
Smiling smelling of metal and burn.

When I turn my head 9:00 evry night
5 evry morning,
Cat kisses fleas vermin on their backs
Cat scratch fever covered in rats.

Hats off to the catch of the day,
Thank you, disease, ill o’nine,
All mine unclean All mine,
Not yours not the captain’s daughter’s not anyone’s.

Outside

Living for warm layered bodies
Seeing friends disappear,
Reappear, death and love,
Becoming themselves slow & bashful taste,
Becoming mindless & musicians searching for a future,
Mindful washcloth;
Showers scalding,
Blisters bathed and nursed in white
Plastic rooms
Unnatural foliage, unreal people,
Crawling and dragging
Our bodies over hollow grounds,
Waxy moping dump, showing ourselves
Hiding ourselves selling ourselves hinting
At nothing that exists between concrete scarcely speaking,
Books, pens, paper unlimited writing,
Fingers bandaged shoes soiled
On water-soaked floors
Glistening too much
Sweat washed with rain
The smell of half of my life
No money standing
Smoking calling the girls,
Frightened rabbits at every
Slammed door at dawn bearded sunlight
Does not even echo
Poetry to die for, to kill for,
To keel over without eating for hours on end,
Ribs showing muscles still there soft
Atrophied shrivelled tongues
Being put
In the most natural of places
In Hell with everyone else.

Streets

On some dark street stronger than I
We practically gathered enough sense
To mark the drizzle between us;

We drizzled between streets at eleven.
We met half-faced sometimes half-human.
The sweet echo of return,
And to the same spot again
Noting the sour gong of bronze

Under the eyebrow of the brutish conqueror
Of nights – the psychotic clack clack
Of a stick against concrete pavement,

Our reflection truly does not exist,

Nor even the song of the denizen.

Our upheaval sings itself awake
Between bus stops the ink blots through clouds,

Looking at self: the eyes are lost at sea,
Grey/green, slit-winded the sand weathers me down;
And cheek-to-cheek not dissimilar to the iron face,
A surface cast like rusted bronze, as hard as a peach stone.

Delicate mousey eyes like caviar,
We bolt for the door the rain begs for touch,
We hear noises in a twilight Mexican standoff
Makes me love desertion – let me burst!

You carry your eyesight wherever you go,
Giving til now to carry God on your back.
Your shoulders perch and ache arching forward

The bicentennial peace talk with its enemies.
You use the bathroom to escape the desert,
Such moments you hold in your shoes.
Such Kodak moments never hide the moments

Of the diazepam or sloppy vegetable grins.

I awake at 5 am, under sick-pale sky
Weaving through the birds, the sparrow at its prime,
Each scattered pubescent landscape at their own
Herbal scream; the petal echoes

It’s hardly guessed work.

Ma Boheme

I walked hands in pockets,
Suitcase in car driving home,
Travelled from ideal star-wrinkled sky
Away from sick ugly egos
Their hands in their pockets.

At home no job; a big ache whole
Great memory stole my life from me.
And the young-aged sun shelved spoke:
“You've got venom. I need a smoke.”

And unless peace a war with peace
Shall fix calm again and again,
Then unstoppable wild motions
Untame me like mad ugly egos

Ma bohéme the rested the bare-feet
Chalky skin concrete smelling in stains of grass lavander and mint,
So no where to walk now
I will travel again with my ego somehow.

Baby

Love heart tramp thanks alot
For lift I’ll walk the rest of the way
Red heat dormant evil street
Women heavy brooding loving singing
Songs of sixpence each with their own itch
Each buries their own
Love hate reality black/silver universe talking
Nobody said
A word says: Baby,
Parental advisory, we like to take the town lazy
Language between sexes maybe heavy,
Red sixpence loves brooding alot,
Black/silver reality universe, hyper real,
Karma quick advisory, baby,
Each buries their own itch,
Thanks walk rest loving evil street dormant,
Lift up love itch hate dormant evil a word:
Baby.

To The Perfect

To the perfect
Who perfected everything down
To the very littlest detail of the cockroaches’ shaved hair
The jungle crossroads of all the millionths of cotton,
The wink of the flea who bit me on the arm.

This perfect
Chinese letter I cannot read,
These cluttered bookshelves with my books,
My hungry pockets wires and the blue L shape
Of my inhaler.

The smell of food: is that potato?
The smell in the shape of steam wavers
Into the room,
What is perfect in clarity?

The divorce of rooms and bare toes
And unshowered bodies; and the music deconstructs the sounds
Of air and central heating.

A great roaring cough scratches my throat,
The limping cat in the garden,
In the hair of grass, wishes like chinese letters,
And disinfected love smells bleachy,
Almost hindu-dotted forever,
Ca a l'air de rimer.

Experience Reincarnation

Sick dog sitting coughing, guitar struck glottal meaning,
Cut skin limp in foot no nasal breath
Wrist pain, drowsy,
By lamplight this place is dusty,
Coughing thru night: headaches
Wheezing shadows behind TV,
Must the dust beg you, says I?


Cloaked man, unblamed and free
Skinny xylophone chest the stomach
Dipthong

the Karma
Jimmy is in the courthouse
Riding his drink to Hell.


I come back to my
Voice kamikaze singer
Having experienced
The great laughter in the first semester.
Tissues banked up,
Lamp dims orange light slim feminine eyes

distanced
The yellow sun spikes
Cemented chest, the heavy –


The avenue's bright photogenic citric death
Just as fruity indoors – gratzi governo ....
Just as the lamp empties the room
This empties the world outdoors.
Too exhausted

to dream of the powerless
Marvellous windowless hops on wets rocks
By the lake with deep impressions

of

balance.

Now one world pining for life, the other pining
Yama running around
Narayana
black clouds part blue sky storms
half-dead drenched experience
Becomes your meeting place.

Sacrifice

This time we are still
As silent as ever;
Unmoving spoon,
Sock uneaten sweat immobile
Stomach empty

Sacrifice –

The easy-freedom
The ever-so-quiet mouth

made bland the newspaper

job listings

Give up quit let go
Honestly the free go slow

lying down

The poverty of
Stolen hands rest
Rotting skin boat and armies;

Pretending my jacket's convenience
In Summer
Is convenient for nothing?

This Machine

We described each other with invisible bodies of imagination,
Lying down 3 hours a rhythmic beating
A good solemn witchcraft by ourselves – sounds good
Off to bed still like my guardian angel –
Too Late! She said. The damage has been done
Like a broken doll describing her features touching her smooth
Porcelain face – hard/cold nothing could touch.

The heavy not-so-glorious-now clouds my horizons,
Wet grass smells like shampoo, newly washed hair,
The glorious monument to our bodies – To Drink!
All artistic radio and the small microscopic antennae of the masses –
The mesmerising backsteps of anxious children,

Sing into a lightbulb the light comes from my mouth,
Heavy rain grazes the garden

Fades away a leaf floats in black puddle.
This machine kills

Kills you all,
You shouldn't be talkin' to me, I make you drunk,

Buy your own kitten – I will and I'll name him
Mikey.

I should stop drinking – you think?
I said what do kittens drink?

Milk.

I want one,

She said they're horrible,
I'm a kitten in disguise.
The warm cake smell of thunder bars my mortality,
I am Immortal!

For as long as I can remember,
I see brown misted pools winked exhausted
Breathless shattering the heavens about possibilities of beating God.
If I humped my physical gait to the highest light-surpassed
Mountain I would let the hard-nothing hard-summer
Half-light and unreal diamond my un-immortal mists of imagined life;

More real than the never-silent background, always like cranes.

Sunlight! As if someone is waking up,

And shade as if someone is tired

And this tarmac, crossroad black sky mixed light so

Frighteningly different,
Electric as my body –
Purple pink black – the sky changes,
And we are all in the sky, mourning the lost sexual
Angels, taking the world by the hand.

Cubism

Everything is a shape, cone lampshade, the cylindrical arteries Earth the sphere
The moon shines like a torch mesmerised by little dots of dust hairs and flakes
Falling and settled to soft bone, the subtleties by the North are everything by
Nothing – Suspiciously eyeing the paradise, Blowing away the wind –
Forever the insect, the whisper fleeting whisper almost hum almost exhale,
A mind explodes and sees EVERYTHING, like this head has eyes behind eyes,
A baby sitting between my ears, on the leaf-shaped brain, Do you feel a little bit sick?
The moon shines like a torch and water in a glass held over a lamp
Trying to pass away (Not really succeeding in that all we cry is Hallelujah!)
As a person I wasn't really worth looking at, but as I play it was,
It goes like this the fourth and fifth, A revelation a miracle, a violin made easy,
Brick laying on your mind forward motion and foggy Chinese bicycles,
Palm mapped the grandiose, the avaricious, the move in you until holy,
Everyday sent back the words: We are humans the most evil of species,
Or the female more deadly – The ripple in the waters; the water ripples when I drink,
HOW MANY ROADS, the nouveau never reaches itself, the poets studying
And studying, The hand writing and writing and occasionally waxing on and off,
A steady white/brown atmosphere landscape-still hums invisibly like insects,
Bleached clouds, white-washed the walls the wallpaper music, the nail-polish
Smell of paint smudged over the windowsill and the city behind the tourism –
If you're lucky your food will make you dream, Yeah, dream of girl I can't dream
Enough of, Remember she said You're a clown and laughed,
A place filled with Laughter (said with an American accent),
Mesmerised by clock ticking I wouldn't sacrifice my life for anyone else's life,
Ma bohéme the rested, the bare feet, I am a horse on acid,
Je sais d'ancien et de nouveau, Without caring much for my friends,
Without for loving for one, for daring to live, Give me your drink my friend,
I'll drink it for you as a favour, your window-framed eyes could adore either
Me or the world, trust me that I wouldn't spit in your face nor hide
From bodies bare the cramps, hot/cold turns hungry unable to breathe,
I love none and the sonnet is dead – Shelved and old chains
Wrapped in a girls singing voice, forever talking to me between the ears,
The baby who listens remembers like elephants,
Hiding from her sight body wants another,
Not trapped but relaxed – Or not relaxed but replaced?
And here I am before you, not so sensible now after schooling, A frightful acidic
Bare foot nostalgic man knows too much of death; forever talking
Too good to be true, Dragonfly-styled too fast to sit down, The room
Smells like half your life – Do you feel a little bit sick?
Hair is greasy feels a bit heavy, tongue tastes of spit and sour milk,
Mind explodes and settles in wind, rain never ends like dreams –
Dreams never end; Dog in the bath, stupid mutt,
A life squirming like amphibious creatures, the NHS plans cost of life is £30,000
The mise en scene Leibovitz photee, Beckett lying in bed,
Life is to rest until we die, the moon shines like a torch – white/grey wind blows,
All these shapes, exploded with the mind, taken away by the dragonfly.

Minimalist

Death is behind blind window
Heat rises
Unseen in shadow

All thoughts run to my armpit
Cupped by palm
Asleep.

The Stillness

The days say to go away
You say no things you are not here

With your songs,
There are no movements, no effort

No one gives a crap anymore
For your dreams and slow-like skyscraper presence

A slow woman like a whore,
Just like the day to give up on trying,

NO WORK has been done,

Not even my shoes are warm

The laces are loose rounded and fallen

Down hair in long striding walks
Around the old cities I despise
With no poems to read or write,

NO LAUNDRY has been done,

The walls are empty
Give me a glass and shrink

Ask Baudelaire what to think,
Of their roomy little hallway envy
Of gunshot-sounding thunder lovely headache
Of their closing windows tears in their eyes
From staring hard at the wind

Staring and staring at three in the morning past
Pornographic angels and lights in ceilings far off
In someone else's bedroom;

And I have nothing to do,
And I am down there a rough-edged no-sleep thinker,
Down there a clown without its make-up
A coffee cup imaginary

A boy with no shoes on

Who hasn't touched anyone

In a million years

Or slept

In a million years

Like some heavy-eyed turtle with too much weight on its shell

The Future

Another day

a great big X

It goes across
Great big future

Lead by lonely empty

Courtyard stomachs

Continual metallic whirr

Simply because again

The sun is setting without reason

Again.

Her mouth looked at me

Great big O

Staring un-wrong pagoda steps

For a long time,
LAARNNG laarnng TAHYM

Sounds almost wrong

(White sky pushes)

looking to future

like window reflection ...

(... until fall out window)

– toward earth.

Outcome

Tempting fate
To change the world
As all four walls speak

Uttering Who are you?

Everyone shouting
My ugly ones

Weeds kiss motes of dust
The sleek winds cry out for change
The changed socks are just lying down.

– We imagine places

Places turning different colours

And then difrent clrs etc.

& dfrnt ppl etc.

& dfrnt plces etc.

And smoking and lighting
Up and
Down
And allowing certain

Freedoms

And when fate comes back
Like cold walls

I'll go to bed,
And I still won't have it all
And I adore you for saying so,
And now you can settle in the darkness
And knock your knees together
My ugly ones.

Heat

Glass and playing fields in
Ancient civilisations

Glass civilisations a playing tree
With no ego, we go from one to the other

HEAT;
And so much heat

Heat

The hum gasp fan

Given off all kitchen drawl,
Small the evil sandwich rots to green dust,

Television viscious ripped out our guts –

Protruding hunger

Dry spit tongue numb flesh
Empty;

Easy slick soft sweat

Pulls matted the dead moustache,

Who is not married at this point?

It doesn't matter,
The whole of Europe high on heat,
Coca Cola cans, hot melted chocolate sticky bodily fluids

Ray Charles singing Hit the Road Jack,

No more hot road beedy eyes sticky glass fingers touching
So damn hot;
Warm wind music thru blinds;
Not Hit Married hot,

Fat heart,
Girl thin sinned world's soul
Means less;
Earth's crash means less;
Hunger means less.

Blue

Blue
Chained to things

Waking up late
Like bleu raincoats of blue jay

Blue striped jumper
On each torso
Streams of blue lines
Living writing
Working advice
Of spiritual impossible
Friend self-begotten
Slow voice stars the blue – the sad intellect
Smoke-blue,
Icy showers and bruises,
Blau and always
Blue
Cold
Feet walking forever

We can all join hands
And hate life as one
And be blue, biru
A blue cat will neel with you

The love for lonely blue
Blue cheese in cold fridges
Bored blue eyes in need of love
Blue of little sexy birds, with their blue chests
Blue of clean magazine water
Blue of dirty plastic slides in hazy summers
Of wonderful static and bright dust
That makes you sneeze like communist lovers.

The blue chained to things
It changes us all.