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.