Thursday 31 May 2012

BIG WHEEL


the Big Wheel/horrible Wheel
of the world the wealthy and the wanting
TURNS 
(Christ!) 
relentless and endless; MAGNIFICENT 
at Home and in W1.

and my legs are both emptied from marching
and i clutch my holding hands together hoping
that the phone 
BOTH 
will and wont 
RING its rude alarm of need tonight.

so, i give up . . .
GIVING UP!
and rest outside by the quietly burning refinery
where no one but lorry driver blurs can see me
smoking 
in the soft and gentle caressing
hospital rain



Wednesday 30 May 2012

TALK RADIO


this parade of sleepless and inarticulate persons
worry me.
their well-intentioned ill-thought red-top causes
lack depth.

Jay from Nunhead doesn’t like death.
rung up to say he thinks
everything should be 
a Class A
and girls in Paris are fit.

Rob in Westminster wants to teach respect
with mandatory bootcamps and wars.

i drink all the wine except the stuff on my vest.
i will shit black tomorrow
and my head will be full of the sound of
hundreds of planes
but for now 
the radio kicks me hard in the chronicals
with half remembered indie
from long ago.

and 
the fuzzy dawn is a lightsabre line above the curtains
and the joint a fat black thing
no one should touch again.

youth crime/gang culture/slow dread
the Warriors and sci-fi
comes out 
the god-fearing spinsters/white-van-men mouths 
in chubby slices
urgent to be heard
looking for blind agreement and easy blame
and 
the dj is a dog and even he has had enough now
sounding like Travis Bickle
he hatches a crazy plan 
for one 20 year tutor for every 5 feral kids.







Tuesday 29 May 2012

SNAPSHOT OF MID 90'S


i dropped OUT
always frozen in panic out in the smell of new carpet hallway
or at the bottom of your old star trek stairs
i dropped OUT
all over you/YOU with someone else
always shakes in the 80's backroom/sweats in the 90's kitchen shadow of old parties running thru my mind

someone crushed a pill for my nose
drank drink 14 hours/CLASSIC
     this is Convent Garden
and YOU and N London industrial park/i had a post riot box of crisps/germans laughed at me on the tube

     YOU rang me up all alone
     scared of the sirens/helpless sunday nights


Monday 28 May 2012

OLD SCHOOL






Clooney’s old hollywood brows and superman chin
his deadpan mugging to 
Zeta-Jones
who rarely blossoms
cos shes too thin

recall in me

Grant/Mitchum
and any 1 of a dozen
50’s molls






Sunday 27 May 2012

HUNGER


red wine and scotch chasers
or the other way about;
a RAGING head . . .
booze and TV - i used to LOVE that/and quickly
scribble
the
whole
world
down
(keeping the next day free)

in conclusion then,
i want a RIDICULOUS AMOUNT of beverages in the common crazy night
mission is;
remain standing/scribbling/diving
the world experience
into
prose





Saturday 26 May 2012

MAYORS BALL


my glass is empty
a waiter is near
i pretend to read a flier
glass held obviously 
up

but no
spurned
because i am obviously alone
and 
looking at the floor


Thursday 24 May 2012

LIFE PUT SIMPLY


a stream of
COLD beverages and HOT coffee for fuel
a parade of
full plates to show off and thin papers to burn
and
occasionally/frequently/often - when ever
a Storm will brood and sulk and burst 
inside the neglected Soul

and always
rain rains like mice's feet falling from the uniform grey 
dancing down 
over
England's posh hats/secret horror and well bred humility




Wednesday 23 May 2012

LIVING ROOM PLAN


10.30 pm living room
school night
think my problems may be solved
by 
cheese on toast . . . 

and my glass of scotch - i hold it aloft like an olympic torch
the ice in it 
is
frozen 
Holy Water


Tuesday 22 May 2012

I WAS HIGH IT WAS EPIC


lose all my money at poker after the pool and the pub
everyone's rolling big big joints/i hog the scotch
and
we
listen
to folk and porn on a laptop

i become very very high/its been a long time
too high to capitalise on my two jacks/i fold give up
hide in the toilet

i am hole being sick 
is my lament/my refrain/my riff
but i am not sick/just very very high
i am a hole being sick

money for cab gone/feet itch madly for the road space air and solitude to come down - please

but i dont come down/i am very very high and the epic 
journey across the whole epic 
town 
at epic 
2 am is epic
of long grey shimmering shadows full of foxes and bats
and detail bushes of blues and black
and houses exquisite and unnoticed before
and rows and rows of hilarious mad pointing roofs

a high that grows and grows/faces gurn and time is uncomfortable
i am a hole being sick

and every car is a taxi and suddenly there is no one in sight
and thats worse
but i lost my money at poker so the training kicks in and i
(hole being sick)
march the epic miles/very very high
and
opening
my 
front door i feel the relief of a worshipped god




Sunday 20 May 2012

STUMBLED HERE FROM CHILDHOOD


i know
TIME
is a precious premium/it always is
and
i always try to KEEP it 
but its obvious and relentless
in the changing skies and the hurtling clocks
and 
i should always plan some/somehow/to do something someday.
but
i always think 
stubborn anger and mean derision and static inaction 
will keep it/slow it/let me hold it
for SPACE to think in/always waiting 
for the IDEA to suddenly come.
that’s
my standard refuge/an eternal quiet sunday afternoon
is where i landed
after
stumbling 
here
from childhood.


Saturday 19 May 2012

LISTS


when things to do are done
the weird mocking endorphins bring some release
from the pressure 
of the chaos 
of the endless unmanageable maintenance
that the days stand or crumble on.
then there's a silence; 

i have become marginally less pathetic than yesterday

when 
tiny traumas exploding like dense planets in my skull
added essential kipple to the wretched lists
more small things
to do
and be done.




Friday 18 May 2012

INNOCENT AIR

the ether is
full of swimming lesson chlorine 
and melting butter crumpets 
and bbc dr who
of faking crop circles at dusk in someones dads hat
and second hand bicycles before all the cars
of pocket money before the wages
and the sweets and bangers before bills
the
air
is
Innocent 
walking the white therapy path
in bootsteps of space and silence
after
the 
addidas shuffle of a glorious and awful
sodden 
forever 
sunday











Thursday 17 May 2012

GRIP FAILURE


the words of earlier
i never wrote down
are beyond 
the grasp of red meat now

and 
outside bursts and sprinkles itself on the lawn
rustling and flapping
everywhere

i drink 
more coffee
words beyond me



Wednesday 16 May 2012

HEAVEN IS A DOG AWAY


heaven is a dog away
a leap a scream a bark away
woof-rhymes at eternity
and 
i hugged her/her coat was all tomorrows yesterdays
and 
then i danced alone
nifty dropout steps across the hall carpet
when
adoration burnt me cold like 
small 
small gloves
tight around my blasted onion heart 
and 
i danced crafty loser steps across the hall carpet
to a southern lovers rhythm
and 
though hammered
i don’t sick, no, i don’t sick tonight
the
spinning records and me - drunk/intense/motivated!
dancing 
small 
small steps
like i am in 
tiny 
tiny shoes
and Nilson is here with me screaming like a dog for me
a dog barking that heaven is only a woof away




Tuesday 15 May 2012

GAS FIRE




oh gas fire,
this weeks as long as a catholic wedding
the new year hysterical drunk relative in its middle
poison myself, gas fire, in the agreed ritual
of treated grape and grain

oh gas fire,
next week's a shrink wrapped sodden groan
a doubtful hope without legs killed by the starters pistol 
my flesh is spilt Bosch and photos of New York
and the
bottles of Jameson are legend now,
i stroke dust from their elegant necks

oh gas fire,
smeared black skids where i burned you with long matches
i'm grateful for the whooosh/the unasking heat 
the clean burnout/the peace in the roar
i know gas fire,
there is work to do





Monday 14 May 2012

FRIDAY THE NINTH OF MAY


the city was a city
full of lights and black 
people there
diverse

old ballrooms decadent armpits
shrinking under a skyline
busy with
cranes 


Sunday 13 May 2012

ODE TO KLAUS DINGER




Klaus,
i knew Neu! were for me/dammit Klaus, Neu! WERE me!
i knew it when i about you in Mojo/knew before i EVEN heard you
that was a
a long time ago . . .

Klaus,
reading your obit out loud/its Thursday;
just found it 
but no one here in the working day
cares
but me.
but Klaus, i count for 7 dumb Ignorists barking and
buying tunnel vision in tabloid
for vouchers
for horoscopes . . .

Klaus, 
since i read you died your Apache beats been drumming
binary humming and primal smacking
around my stumbling brain 
and in my heart pumping.
while 
work 
place 
Ignorists say
WE SHOULD BOMB ANYONE WITH A BEARD ABROAD
i quietly say
AREN'T WE?

i clearly see fast sticks wailing Klaus, favourite drummer.
Klaus,
you
invented techno before Detroit and the New York discos
but no one in the work place
knows/cares/is even interested
but 
me.

Ignorists dream of a town without 
A PAKI SHOP
away from high rents and
ALL THE BLACKS.
but Klaus, i am worth 12 of these Living Dead!
Enlightened; your drumming relentless inevitable
one tribal linear heart
makes me FEEL movement FORWARD.

Ignorists imagine an English Enclave/imagine a myth where they
wave flags on
Britain Day 
but
scared Muslims will take
there
money
Christmas away/Easter is bigger to real Christians anyway.
my vague ethos Klaus, is slim beyond words
but your drumming
is its backdrop/its heart/its Monster Metronome
CUMMING.

(and I want someone
to take Christmas away).

i know Klaus, 
you had to bury old Germany.
birth a new land with sound with experimentation
with DRUMMING
like a
like a
like a . . .
. . . soundtrack of late night ineptitude and mushroom cloud delirium when i Klaus, Attempt Art
naked
roll-neck and black smock crumpled interestingly on the floor.

we are only adults Klaus, children
grown to breeding age abusing the earth
like a toy plastic kitchen.

its 4.11am Klaus, and you
tick-tock
tick-tock
like a clock
like mathematical thunder
fuel me.

Klaus, my hands appear real and living for the first time today!
not false and paid for . . .
and
my blind blunt working legs Klaus, march me past every interesting face leaving murmurs of weak hellos
in the faint sparks of my wake; Klaus help ME thru the night. prophetic garbled words
buried above the mix ring out now Klaus,
ring loud like Marx and Celine in my backbrain
as i, trapped in a weird building
become helpless and driven 
stalking
an unknown woman.

i am late Klaus,
can only watch her magic in the car park
from a 4th story window
and she
won’t
ever
know.
i am helpless Klaus driven chasing fascinated
by her childless body/her unexpected youthful burn
but she
challenged me Klaus, 
she said 
WOULDN’T LIKE A MOSQUE NEXT TO MY HOUSE, WOULD I?
and while i could only mildly agree
for reasons special to me
i was saddened
to discover
she was BNP.

so Klaus, 
you’re dead/still drumming my heart regular
from old recordings
while
my winter friend gas fire
burns.


Saturday 12 May 2012

ZOMBIE FLICK



deliberate dumb blunt intention puts me down 
low stable and unmoving.
viddy a film i seen before
another zombie flick/third this week
and 
relate to the lost men and women.
real horrorshow 
soulless
of clay.

living an undead waking memory of low percent participation.

i calmly coast/just coast/in meat time
maelstrom ignored in the hurricane basement
with no heart 
but an old concrete machine
scarred and kissed and whipped and held
by war 
celebration
and deliberate dumb blunt intention.

here in front of the tv/the eternal googlemother 
her colour bleeding out across the walls.
i know/can feel/that someone
someone
like Time has tilted the artists black mirror 
refreshing dark eyes with new shades
and i see things a little different now
and
i rebuild a new heart of dogs
for my soulless body of clay.

plan to script and write and pitch a flawless logical story.
a zombie flick/dull but perfect
told from the perspective and impact
of local authority logistics
only.



Friday 11 May 2012

JOHNNY GORE



2AM Gore Vidal's hardtalking the Googlemother
thought he'd died in b&w Oz odyssey
Johnny sees all of it/calls for Natures Glue
looking down her top all night/remembering careful dream nights
and that lace bit there

Johnny meets mothers/hidden in younger skin
oh Johnny you’re so basic Johnny!
Johnny Basic ate her delicate chicken/flavours in his eyes
Johnny’s no Nimrod Engineer but falls like bombs
down her full low white top/car is blue and red flashing
and home!
home Johnny!

where wine is drunk on a poxy Friday/boring reasons
that's all mecha-nothing now/nothing new
Johnny falls over Van Zandts bonfire never spilling a drop
Johnny is drunk
and he likes the sound

too chilled for blood tonight/drink boy-drunk!
with fierce energy of the stars/of the sunglass dawn
when Johnny goes madly outside
and sweats in the old streets/in front of interesting girls
all Wharhol and Mitchum under 4 masks

but
Johnny's charm dies faced with brave exposed inner child
with painted dark eyes/deeply interesting like ancient times
some one should write it down/someone who
don’t know Johnny
don’t know Johnny 
at all


Thursday 10 May 2012

NOTHING DAY

slate grey sky of dirty hoover fluff
like from behind bathroom doors
lies over an eternal mid-morning of dumb chores
that were essential yesterday
but 
hold 
no 
motivation or reason now


warm out
but still see my breath


damp
but the rain is gone


and the pretty pink petals and escaping white blossoms
cling
irritatingly to my shoes



Wednesday 9 May 2012

SPRING IS CRAZY


jimmy, you done did all your chores
your bills clutched in sweaty hands 
queued confused in the empty bank
shopped in the supermarket of lonely men 
buying ready meals in the cooler aisles
rushing mothers baskets stuffed with reason

jimmy, you were out breathing in the fresh spring air 
of repeating life 
thrilling 
very mildly
at the 100 memories unlocked by the blue bushes and the wet mown council squares

jimmy, you watched the ground walking in front of your feet
examined the world down there/its infinite detail was claustrophobic jimmy
all the million tiny stones 
and landscapes of bitten turf

and 
when 
back home jimmy;
you blink a flash of torn mutton that’s screaming
and
the house is silent empty/zen acceptance in mortar 
and wonky bricks 
paint 
peeling 
in peace




Tuesday 8 May 2012

WINDOWS


all the white english windows are open
dusty blinds at jaunty angles
over dusty thirsty plants
the still british breeze and tiny friends come in
with all their legs and curiosity/knock about in cobweb corners
they find me/low targets slipped
slithering elegant wasted contented 
in the fresh air of quiet night
under my lowered bar
happy 
all the windows 
are all open



Monday 7 May 2012

STREET KIDS


kids herd flock glut 
awkward cool pods of mum catalogue fashion
BOISTEROUS OUT 
throwing gestures to learn and pretend
TOUCHING 
in fun and in hope in mimicry in habit and need
faces all bigger than their small bodies 
say same things over and over and over and over and over
LOUDLY 
friday night precinct takeaway LIFE HATS and CIGARETTES
clear knocking order clearly challenged
petty crime graffiti tags and man-bought booze 
still eat the candy of children too