Monday 30 January 2012

DISASTER CAPITALISM

absorbed by documentary on all the culprits out there
and 
Disaster Capitalism

eating hot chicken wings

crispy skin is crunching like arson
under
fireman
boots

grey bone is naked 
prehistoric and too real

it is ugly in here

it is Wednesday and i cant write tonight
but 
2 vodka snakebites in
and
i am absorbed by my broadcast world
and eating
for a change


Saturday 28 January 2012

SUMS

man
x
work
= money + words

work
x
night
+
scotch
= pomes and loud rock and roll

rock and roll
+
pomes
x
weed
= delirium

delirium
x
midnight
= Stooges or a power ballad

FRENCH NIKITA

i need 
proper pills that work well
with no side effects

i need 
medically governed highs
professionally supervised

i need
to lick
Nikita’s tears

murder 
from a bathroom window

Thursday 26 January 2012

CIGARETTES VS NOT CIGARETTES

smoking cigarettes
by the bowlful
now their funky jazz brother
has faded,
I am talking joints of course.
only
smoke them desperate
for
inspiration
or
weekend gaming.

cigarettes-
when you NEED something
they DELIVER it
right out 
you 
own 
relaxed
hand.

MOVING CHILLS

sky 7 pm is stone-cold blood orange classic/dateline is august.
way
over
thirty
now.
nightmare green shrubbery screams lurid/leers over
neat
garden
walls.
shops lucid freezer of infinite frost & blind condensation
glows like red delicious wine/like refinery sunset.
obviously
I
love
the teenage girl at the till/pale & small/pink flashes
in
her
hair.
shines white like Creation/like delicious red wine.
her
vest
is
a
toy . . . naked sober mind the product of New Intentions
that have blown equilibrium to powerful hell.
I
sleep
a
Reformed Monster.
wake
a
Risen Pyjama
baby heart moved & chilled by any tactile surface.

Wednesday 25 January 2012

TIRED

10 AM eyes are all-nighter heavy


artificial energy of noon coffee
makes the thin office walls 2 dimensional somehow


afternoon nagging headache wont shift
despite peppermint & green tea


cant go on but do go - the light on in here is startling


and when its dark and i am home and its not late
almost any music is 
excessively busy and dramatic


tea steam mixes with cigarette smoke
and i will the cat to be still - i hope to sleep well tonight


in life i am just managing the basics


i wont sleep well tonight

Tuesday 24 January 2012

DREAM ON COCAINE

Judge arrives
habitual
tied tight
and stinking
in a plastic corner.
Announces

the imported white lightening kingdom 
is the winner
I become blind
intense and rushing.

I smile
by accident
helpless humour
convincing me
Kennedy did it.
Feeding hard
my relentless tumor
contrives
incessant need
to feed it.
Plastic tracks in black
I will never forget.

Fat rush
harbinger
of intensified stares
and
ideas
late arriving.
Sadly
in cocaine triumph
I am
slowly killed
by advertising.
Television indemnity
in too
handy proximity.


I have vivid dreams
of tits
like god’s eyes
held tight
by god’s hands

fighting.
Gods hunting
in teams
reading maps
to tits
like god eyes
in gods writing.
Strange conversation with the introverse.

Snatching sudden
guilty looks
at the hard door
I remember everything.
A stare
solemn as old books
hard bound spines
pale
in December’s heavy sun.
My red eyes
ready for the country.

Soft power
from the lazy leftfield
saves me
and detains me.
Red power
of organic ferment

sways me
and maintains me.
And I do a line of coke in the world.

Post apocalyptic James Caan
just comes on dangerous and 
drunk
dredging the wet waste.
Angelina in danger
I try to save her
but she’s a gambler
wading off west.
Malicious military move in 
with green rubber sheets.

                       
Two stunted stories
of the Luxour
left burnt dog shit white.
          Squaddies stack sheets
in splashing rain
in the stories
of Judge White Shite.
I converse perverse with the universe.

Lying listing

in mending sheets
my eyes
howling and
longing.
Competing
in twisting heats
mind prowling
before monging.
I am, I think, the Apocalypse.

Show Saturdays
death
square on my face
in a shitty
Sunday morning.
The Judge sits
pretty patient on plastic
knowing the day
will draw in.
Law is never cancel out on this high buzz.

Judge turns thief
busy wronging
on the
feathered
weathered
shape of Britain.
Is relief and is longing
the end of my
shredded wedded
mono breath in.
My analogue needs quadraphonic chronic.

So strained

and purified
I am too
Jekyl
and
all Hyde.
Too drained
and vilified
I am all metal
and riptide.
And I do a line of coke in 
the world.

Monday 23 January 2012

PLASTIC BUDDHA

these loose easy hot coffee days shine like a Mars.
but
the evenings!
the nights!
are slow cold
are stale tired
are difficult and stubborn.

attempt to file accurate reports when home safe.
but
uninspired!
dead!
awful blank head!
demented clock hands spin round/I am sitting in the kitchen hands still as stone.
midnight
comes
minutes
after
4 pm.

so light so late 
sky rich deep rock blue blooms black
and
the
orange
feathers
fade.
air is empty/eager for autumn to rush in and die.

Saturday 21 January 2012

TRUE

i ponder the things
              we do
              just
so we can tell others
              i was there, i was that
     we were flying . . .

when the moment was just sweaty
              and a right chore.




BIRTHDAY 2

my birthday is only 10 mins young
and
already
it is
suffering
from too-flat ginger ale
and
not enough ice.

Friday 20 January 2012

YOU THINK THATS AIR YOURE BREATHING?

friendly old movie time again 
hard to believe you are so old so soon. missed you on the big screen;
crashed out on hatchback backseat/we were on the way there
but when I sat back up
we
had
gone
somewhere
else.

somewhere else;
prob drink and prob a pizza/prob smoke and maybe coke 
it was
prob ok.
but
there was confusion and tension.
a
weird
dark
high.
some one pissed in the garden/maybe in the sink prob aiming past the washing up.
the stereo on/music the topic of conversation all this in the kitchen where all the action is
where
the
ice
is
and where the chicken is.
girls go to bed early/someone fainted on the stairs.
     some
ones
wife
left
a
note
in
the
door. 

no one knew why we missed the movie but we all agreed
in the wasted
small hours
that
we had all wanted to go.

Thursday 19 January 2012

THE GHOST OF EVENING PAST



last minute screaming angel eyes of 
yesterdays accelerated glory are 
now small cold pools 
without depth 
struggling to continue spooling your movie
and
 with a canceling hand 
i review the schedule
 - refine the escape plan
as 
(quietly) i look around . . .

soul is a cold white sink 
and daylight pink 
touches last night’s stains/no opinions survive
 the tight rigid sleeping 
in the small night 
of my 
twisted and dribbled plight

eyes both cheated and guilty
- overheated with self pity – 
see 
in 
lurid
Technicolor sight

and 
i was riding a plastic horse 
of course 
- under a slick amber dome
as 
the sudden shouting freedom 
bled on 
in a strange place 
outside my home

and 
i wailed too 
in the dark of the night sailing calorie high
and the loud and spitting whispers 
close up 
in specific ears 
mean i do try

and 
i was fractured 
but 
i showed it mattered 
by tidying 
before hiding
and 
i would be grateful now
 - not hateful now 
nor 
spiteful now – 
if 
could 
be anything

and 
i was the blind drunk 
leading 
the blind drunk 
all around the houses
now 
i am up before noon 
wearing 
yesterday stained trousers

and 
i’m teetering 
on the edge of rebirth under alien day skies
and 
i’m wavering and i'm woeful 
and i'm
wondering why i don’t die

and 
now 
these last morning minutes mercilessly mock me 
without enthusiasm
as I wonder 
- post amber cataclysm – 
 DO I STILL QUALIFY AS ORGANISM?

and 
reborn 
and
disgusting 
out the brief darkness and light of drunkness and height
that spat radical thinking
and 
I am 
shrivelled and shrinking 
away from last night’s 
wild conception 
of 
drinking and smoking

and 
now my dry thick trembling thumbs
- fumbling as one – 
rolling a needed nicotine stick
shocked by flames too bright 
and 
parched twigs too tight 
- still i force down smoke 
for the chemical hit

and 
i am a pale shadow 
empty of light like a cobweb 
hanging 
in a desert dry breeze
reaching for any bubble packet 
-  not coping - 
hoping 
that the chemist’s racket 
can help me leave

and 
my stomach 
is a sad low pile 
in foul need 
to squeeze out 
nicotine brown sick
and 
my white knees come to see me 
- see through me – 
as the fugitive suddenly exits

and
 i’m 
The Ghost of Evening Past 
drifting damaged here 
- with fluid floating guts
and 
i know this
won’t be 
and 
can’t be 
the only load 
to show me 
how my insides suck

and 
i fix my testcard eyes 
on the door
waiting 
for what they saw 
in the epic evening past
to surface slowly taunting 
- like visions unholy haunting – 
taking my attention 
off my arse

and 
habit tempts you 
with some artificial placenta 
to chew on/at once 
lumpy and empty 
- the grumpy kitchen zombie is you son!

and 
an emotion free zone prevails
- preoccupied with the cold vacuum
head mercury boiling! 
- bubble packet nurse 
helpless and consumed
and 
tracers 
like drug angel’s 
frolic out of synch 
behind the bright edges 
- so ill
leave an insane craving for soft suds 
- fizzy present 
to hug my insides still

and 
from loving all around me 
in the warm 
late night storm
to loving nothing 
around me 
at all 
after the dawn

and 
deep in 
The Heart of Drunkness 
i ran before the sun
i had to be finished 
and 
i made sure I was done

and 
i am reminded constantly 
of the Nazis 
that are after me
by the 
bold black writing 
that lurks 
like old slack typing 
smudged across me

and shame - but  
grow you must 
and 
go you will 
from 
The Heart of Drunkness
stumble away from this sick land of old beasts 
that you know best
ignore this bloody rebirth/leave 
without 
ACTUALLY looking . . .

keep denial in style 
and 
let your car crash legs 
do the walking
but
- the kitchen is a painting 
honest and expensive 
on the hospital walls

and 
the world’s a two-dimensional mirage 
of endless shoes
 in 
lurid front halls!

and 
outside 
a sadists movie 
is lurching 
from a hidden lens
and 
my acting 
is intangible now 
despite the evidence
and 
the first fake lightness 
of strange escape 
is passing away now 
rancid proof 
of a 
dirty fall near now 
– feeling thirty fear now 
and 
you are still teased 
by the 
blue light insight 
you hunted 
for all last night/the ghost touch 
of evening past 
carries high 
the host torch 
of jagged hindsight 

and 
all my angry tolerance 
is held like 
madness 
in one glance
brought on 
by healthy straight fools 
around me 
that 
can 
jabber 
and 
prance

and 
the booze splashed hurricane 
that tore me 
from my Novocain
was to others 
straight lined 
just one more evening 
much the same

and 
- nobody loves me 
and 
everybody hates me 
so 
i’m going upstairs to wear shades 
where the phantom guilt 
under the clammy quilt 
is billing
me now 
for fictitious debts 
unpaid

and 
still 
the shattered reminders 
are 
creeping 
through the haze/the torture 
and the relief 
will strobe me 
deep 
all through this day
and 
i'm a slimy man 
calling out 
HELLO 
again 
- to my 
Own Private Overhang

and 
if it answered me 
- in a trance i would be – 
not saying anything

and 
i am dried up 
and 
useless like an old fridge 
grey and hanging open on waste ground
waiting for the miracle touch 
of Morpheus’s 
brief 
and 
careless hand

and 
why do I do it?  
because of the modern world in my face?
a classic reaction 
– the search for distraction – 
a textbook case

and 
in this state 
i cannot be hurried 
nor can 
i be stopped
as 
i shuffle at a constant pace 
– suspiciously watched

and 
when i’m free from the tunnels 
and 
the screaming train faces
HOME 
at last 
and like 
GOD 
i collapse 
– in horrible stasis