Monday 30 April 2012

MOVIE PITCH (not a porno)



Vinnie Jones stars in

COCK.

i believe, 
i will announce to the execs,  
that it writes itself.

its an Idea
and the Moon, all Woman above me, understands.


Sunday 29 April 2012

GTA IV


only 30 seconds of game time in;
already
there is red bystander blood 
smeared on my stolen bumper
and 
my 
breath hangs still 
in simulated cold air



Saturday 28 April 2012

I AM REMINDED


i am reminded of the righteous relief 
of ACTION
when yellow dawn comes bumping down 
chilling the fracture hangover of a waking night 
into the soft refresh of ice 
and warm wool coats

an old man who says 
HELLO MY FRIEND 
holds 100 different spanners
to mend all the doors

the light is odd in here/blue and bright and HD and CGI
the short nurses and the grey orderlies and the hard sisters
remind me 
SO MUCH 
of themselves

in blues 
and civvies 
and hats 
and paper caps 
and heels 
and plastic shoes
they teach me delusion and the essential fuck-lust of a new devil

the cleaning fluids flow and smell of almost fruit 
like school corridors and college toilets

by the flat gaze of noon the tension wires 
and i am reminded of the earth
i lived on
long 
time 
ago 


Friday 27 April 2012

CAT/PISS

wake in the night
black and dark and fuzz shadows climb and shift 
in smudged light creeping


i PISS/SLASH/THUNDER GUSH a racehorse tributary
nice ghosts watch my back


the cat in the hall on the floor like a furry hot water bottle cover thats empty/loose soft and saggy


i cup his tiny head/lay my face in his fur
his purring and asthmatic breathing a trippy ufo power generator


i could be anywhere and we lay still


i dream later of sharon stone shouting in sportswear 
and all the ribs in Costco get organised/march into the wet streets on plastic corners
bulging
with blood and meat juice


again







Thursday 26 April 2012

HAIR IS BEAUTIFUL


when i die
and am dead
sell my shit
to the inspired
1 million
because
hair is beautiful



Wednesday 25 April 2012

SUPERHERO DESTROYED


blasphemy sitcom evening salve after
horrendous weekday pop blink

now in the armchair of books (she sits)

i am breathing strawberry soft neck in hallway of eternity
energised
to crash 10 golden minutes in twisted tired sheets

(talking) the invisible man with invisible eyes
would suffer blindness rickets deficiencies in vitamins
superhero destroyed

the world eye changes again (she leaves)



Tuesday 24 April 2012

HEADSTONE SAYS UNDER SIEGE



i thought i must kill my feelings
hunt them down
and lock them 
out in the backroom thirsty

all
my
words 
i killed too
like innocent bystanders macabre and watching
i smashed 
them up into 
acceptable collateral

while i'm waiting now for the poppies to come up
i get busy 
on 
headstone

it should be only a list of movies
because i think 
i'm in all these shit flicks somewhere

crowd scenes or driving a cab

I Think i Am In Them All

and 
love?
love is someone else’s black dog now
the 
aftermath of pets

shit in a carrier bag they’re compelled to carry home 


Monday 23 April 2012

WALK THRU SEABROOK RISE

new orange semis curve away down the hill,
down the empty road, wide and dark, fall to the river
and the industry down there.
some kids, a man, a mother and a pram
cross an empty rubble lot.

the sugar mills a baby Detroit behind tall walls,
ringing masts in the marina are grey as the sky.
tower blocks and low rises entrances hidden by bars and brick
intimidate the new flats with river views of mud,
of the estuary thats black and white tonight,
rippling over sludge
dully reflecting Kents winking lights.



i'm crossing the tracks, its winter, i visited a friend for a little while and now in the high street gloom
sad rubbish blows over fight stained block paving.

i am attacked by memories 
like sunlight 
but its dead and black here now . . . even the Macdonalds 
is gone 
and the Seven Eleven called itself another name 
and closed.

i go for an Italian in the mall 
and reflect on the Everytown
and its brick libraries and hospital and old schools crushed,
only second storey fronts remain
but 
no one looks up at all.








Saturday 21 April 2012

POEM POEM

inside a paperback about the counter-culture and unravelling intrigue i wrote a poem


was
about
how the sky was full/rammed with dormant drama sliding across the tv roof's like an alien armada
and
how i found i felt gratitude by the pallet allotments of messy council zen/an industrious saturday morning peace lives there
with
the
practically dressed couples saying
LEAVE THEM ALONE, THEY'LL BE FINE
and
the jehovah's witness in the cafe who always remembers my nans open door and my mothers nice letters


home; 
i peep into the garage i was to clear out today 
and the cobweb punch bag i was to rehang today
but 
instead
i sit out on the broken bench
and look at the yellow fields 
laid out behind the house 
like 

table cloth





Friday 20 April 2012

GLORY


i have lost my muse
and opening the front door
to look south to the refinery flare there
i know my pie is small

when i was high in London
a strange god asked me to take photographs
of the handful of glory that glistens 
without him 
out 
there

and i know i am never in a comfortable place
to view beauty 
or real art
but i click away anyway
cold

i have lost my muse
and Kerouac’s sad face and bad shirt
accuse me
every time i pass his paperback
to
get
ice




Thursday 19 April 2012

EASTER IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN XMAS

because 
of 
Jesus
we eat chocolate
except all the girls
all on diets
all the time




Wednesday 18 April 2012

EASTER JOHNNY RISEN IN RAIN

The shit I shat
Was black as shit
Because
Of all the wine

                                 Johnny A13


because of Life,
of Time,
Human Actions,
The Big Wheel and The Great Parade,
Johnny is a different man now
drinking different beer now
on another sofa.

Easter in Basildon Newtown
and a festival beam cuts thru all the thin cloud
Johnny watches it outside smoking
a light searching
shining,
stroking the crocodile ceiling
and council flats

Johnny’s deep in a Madams sofa
a soft giving home, like tits are
his feet are as high up as his head is
and next door
there’re playing cards with more than a full deck each
banging drums out loud and tribal
thru paper walls

and Johnny,
its 3 times you gone to Basildon today!
what the fuck Johnny?
you’re chasing hatchbacks over the blacktop
you’re rolling, racing roughshod
round all the roundabouts like a cock
Mr A13
  
Johnny still cannot believe it
cannot believe yesterdays bar girl was young as a catten
you stared at her didn’t you, Johnny?
at her face and at her jeans
but you never feel old, do you Johnny?
not in that wooden bar
where the girls are serving and young as cattens

and Johnny, Love probably dwells here
all alive, a wood-panelled desperate soapy dalliance
like someone else’s pet that’s drunk and out of control
but its just a dinosaurus
the cheapest carrier bag
a Hungry Vision of the Ego!
and Johnny, the walls exploding now

so Johnny,
the rivers run dark around us
fat with silver fish and brown with black soil
and MEMORIES, the Second Nightmare
are only 10 feet away
and you want to hold her foot like a slice of watermelon 
and bite at it gently hard

and the rugs are laid out all different now
because of the Imperial Cause
a dark underbelly that should be delicate now
but it cracked open the massive floor
and Johnny, you’re 7 floors up now
immediately drinking
a crystal cold beer

Johnny, that evening was cold
that evening was nice - she laughed Johnny!
but you had only beer,
and all the children were upstairs sleeping, Johnny
that’s amazing!
that
and that you didn’t cry

Johnny walked London street,
soggy, vague,
hungry, waiting,
under a bridge with office refugees
who don’t like anything,
Thames, churning river of gangsters charges out to sea
and Johnny, he walks in the gentle clay gray rain

your bubble is tense, Johnny, its skin too thin
you shore it up with empties, Johnny,
like the cold heat of war boiling within
we know you’re all or nothing Johnny
alone in the gentle clay gray rain
something or anything Johnny?
your coat is too small

the dark Johnny, the full moon that’s its eye
clouds of frozen surf hang static over the house Johnny,
lit like a den
The MUSIC Johnny, The MUSIC
a tourniquet that eases the flood to a flow
and dreams Johnny, shallow nights birth real demons
to stalk you all of the day

and Johnny, the days dull light!
horrible mornings hideous and empty
we know you’re in the corner shop, Johnny
or having another bath again
or sitting, just sitting still Johnny
wearing a coat and hat; take them off Johnny,
you’re here for the weekend

she’s comfortable Johnny
bare feet up off a new wood floor
she’s in a new house Johnny
with new hair
that grows on you Johnny
grows round her face
her feet are bare Johnny, and still
like sweet and stupid hands

you want to touch them Johnny
hold them with both hands
hold them like presents, like fleshy fruit
eat them with your tongue and your teeth Johnny
the meaty treats of toes
but you’re 10 feet across the room Johnny
your hands with just a bottle to stroke
  
its CRAZY! you cry out Johnny, all HISTORY is CRAZY!
he is undone overwhelmed uninspired
by Enormous Wheels, dizzy of Great Circles
Aaaah! you cry Johnny
because of it ALL . . .
outside the beam strikes a line straight up
to the empty moon, an exiled ladies eye

it’s a weird and difficult back seat journey Johnny
to Random Hell, that strange Red Meat Heaven
and Johnny
we know about the riotous solitude
where everything is rubbish the first time around
and you just watch there for the green rain Johnny,
when you can

you hate to leave her there Johnny,
but we know you love to go away
and you cant stay the way you want to Johnny
or steal her home
and Johnny, we know you could look at her
all the day
sit there sideways in the front of her car
drinking her driving face in like its booze

Johnny, your hands are flapping helpless
but appearing really still
they’re mad to grab her Johnny
find and feel her endless face and retard feet
but you’re one sofa over Johnny, a sofa too far
deep in some ridiculous DRAMA
10 feet away

Johnny we know you wail
scream like baby
but you keep the worlds
emptiest diary
its down there dusty on the carpet
prone and penitent in the gas fires awe
the first subject of the King of Recent Myth
  
and Johnny, honey, we know you want to say Things
urgently but in a dream
where steaks deliver themselves
and she wears everything you’ve ever seen
and Johnny, your new beds nearly known only you
but your sofa
has a different story to tell

so Johnny, go prepare yourself for the night
tho its after 3 am
go have some odd morning lie in
that’s more sick and hiding
than actual human sleep
let the shallow dreams burp their awful accidents Johnny,
let them pepper the real day red

Johnny, take on that bed!
and
fly in driven slumber
till noon
NOON at least Johnny,
noon tomorrow
noon the next waiting day


Tuesday 17 April 2012

DAWNS UNFURLING WAVE

do i die some in this unfurling wave?
in this nearly dawn of night?
my insect heart racing all one summer day that was a mystery even as i rode it's anxious rolls
and the fresh air stimulates my sodden heavy mind and the wait for the transcendent moments when i am still a small god.
do i fly somehow round the daylight beacons?  do i fly ok?
soon i awkwardly land to crash again . . . 
and i am magic in my sloth of grace 
and subtle white flab of enormous dignity
though 
admit
i coarsely fart a bit with relief
when i see there is no light just yet in the changing sky.
it is not bad for a small god like i
to wind out the epic day and the saviour night
with scotch and scotch and scotch till dawns unfurling wave.
things that are AMAZING are only ever on TV
and the sky out here now is dreaming its vista of the worlds end
and the crazy people do their madness so close to my quiet paths and blue hesitations - they are all background gold
a silver barrage of horror and smiles
and time; TIME exposes the experience of the small god like i
his clarity moments
his insane instants
are helpless screen burn as the same song coming out the kitchen again
and he (the small god like i) 
thinks he has something to tell someone . . . 
but his sad belching and baggy slouch habits
shuffle the small god
out to the garage and 
aimlessly
up 
and 
down 
the lawn.





Monday 16 April 2012

BULLSHIT FEVER

on the toilet/of course/and again
no escape from it . . . 

my life's scattered around me in this 
dusty one-floor tank.
like in here;
a newspaper is drying crinkly 
by some socks.
and 
realise
i am Useless/i AM/don't say i'm NOT; we ALL ARE.
and 
i
realise
it is all BULLSHIT; it is . . always/no escape . . . 

and Things/living or conceptual or habitual or delusional

they DIE

they burn out like green bonfire branches disappearing in steam and smoke - BULLSHIT.

now i had a fever.
thought i would DIE/it was BULLSHIT.
and when at last i’d had scotch again/always/no escape . . . 
i knew i should tell her
WE MUST ALWAYS BE MAKING LOVE
but 
it 
is
BULLSHIT; useless always/again/no escape . . . 
and
am 
actually kissing the Bottle
my fever
less than one day gone.


Sunday 15 April 2012

BRUTAL STORM

i'm speaking to the Storm/i say this;

i am a MAN 
and 
i am walking here/to the shop
i need milk for an omelette
and
that tiny brunette, Storm
her hair bounces in new waves/her eyes sparkle this week
like she got brand new perversions waiting at home
and Storm
this Rubbish/these Gasps 
are falling from me/are branded on me/bouncing in my wake
and
are running like the unstoppable sweat of an anxious condition
so come on/Come On Storm
blow wind and hail and rain
into my
shopping face
blow me out in front of a BMW again/make me stagger like the drunk i'll be later

will 
get 
milk 
for my omelette/you'll see


Saturday 14 April 2012

i bath in the bath
of
bursting bubbles/cat noses them
balanced
cautious but solid.
the toilet's a table now.
warped wood 
for books beverages and small blunts.
a silenced cell phone.
i
run
in
more
hot water/steam mixing with incense 
and
cigarette smoke
all whirling in the 
open window
draft.
tiny moths come in.
they'll 
never leave
dying
on
the dusty tile.




Friday 13 April 2012

Thursday 12 April 2012

BABY STEPS

TV is a remake of a classic political thriller
hollywood has no ideas or balls anymore
this is no golden age

i am reminded of
JFKs smile and his sex pills
i am reminded of
Dallas and the assassination decades 
i am reminded of
Sinatra's golden arm
i am reminded of
Raymond and the solitaire pond

reminded/as i sit like Jabba in pants and stains
of Baby Steps;
the only way 
to 
fly





Wednesday 11 April 2012

A LITTLE BIT OF DELIRIUM

JIMMY! 
twanging beeping singing Jimmy
where you bin, Jimmy?
lost in eyes in the breath before we die?
the breath that blinks death announcing his grey bright intentions?
and she takes you into the big hall . . .

where you bin Jimmy?
you bin where all the cats and dogs say COCK, Jimmy?
and all you say is BOO and WHO?
you say you want to say GOD, Jimmy?
like all the children used to
but now instead 
we all 
say 
FUCK

and its rare as meat outside, Jimmy, its livid and smelly
its an ECG sunset of mad painters poisonous latex red,
and the TV is on twice, Jimmy
and i milk this epic crawl across your endless enormous rug

where you bin Jimmy?
you left me to sleep on the kerbstone
a hero without missiles or headphones?
and Jimmy, you found my Montezuma sick on your Volvo roof
and spilt in your Spanish guitar,
where you bin Jimmy?
you 
bin 
far?