SMOKING BAN JULY

fag butts fall from brown fingers

used/small meteors/dead tan flies

flakes of fluff soak up the rain/beige confetti 

all up the concrete steps

on 

the 

very 

edge of the ban

the very edge

of 

mean 

clean hospital grounds

we all flock there

              to laugh/die

fruitlessly endlessly bitching

smoking our wonderful fags

SOFA SNAP POP

tv; on

sofa; on it

a drink; sipping

time . . .

tv; an ad has fierce bass

sofa; i feel . . . 

that

this

Earth

would be better off more

understated

should barely be a 

     hint

(we overplay it all you know)

and from we where i am it mostly really is

ICELAND - A CANVEY ISLAND OF THE MIND

pretty lady in the supermarket

                        big eyes, loose white top.

she is delicate

          like an antique occasional table

          but much more cheap.

this is a point in eternity

                  

like Iceland-

          a Canvey Island of the mind.

RADIO

rock n roll  

blues    

jazz

are

the religions and the art

of 

adult-pretending children

tune in to radio hifi and phones

too heavy for seesaws too occupied too tired

too cautious on all the short school nights

too lost too bloated too ravaged 

too many miles 

in 

too many shoes carried too many bags down too many roads

we listen/development arrested

to tunes on radio hifi and phones

rap

country

fusion and news is mashed up

into sonic rain bangs like rifles

(too much choice - if anything)

we can only wash in the water of the world

pouring

from

radio hifi and phones

SUMMER DRESS

you can really get your hands

up a summer dress.

maybe in a meadow laughing at tiny flowers

or

in a North London alley

up-and-coming piss on our trainers.

loose innocence

pretty as a picture (porn)

and slutty - slutty too.

beautiful succubus loves to dress up.

today; a summer dress.

floral

has access and cover

and

all sudden surprises like thistles

rendered soft

or

glimpsed mice/urban crickets singing dawn techno

when

your 

hand is

right up a summer dress.

summer dress

worn with almost unbearable self-consciousness

or

with terrifying open freedom.

its from a department store.

your hair is down.

you cry stories down my fingers.

18/07/07

WHISKY IS A BOOZE

whisky is a god-

is a booze!

i bow to/humble

and weep . . .

if its gone again

or 

hurting 

me.

i notice i got green potatoes in a thin white bag 

on the kitchen chair.

green potatoes!

i am staring at them and pondering bigger things.

(whisky!)

 

datelines Browns wet summer

of clown car terrorists-

the doors fall off/hes on fire etc

weird wet summer fug.

SUN

suddenly

its not cold anymore.

the sky is a stretch of soft brushed blue.

my street is like a picture out a storybook-

young mother walking bouncing children home

her

arms

full with padded parkas and colourful flasks-

the white haired widow outside her ochre house on the corner

washing her hyundai hatchback-

neighbour opposite rolls out her bins/her arm not in plaster anymore.

they have all taken in my bulky mail and amazon packages for me.

but!

i see an apocalyspe/its like this is a memory of the before-times

and

now

all the dust is dust . . . 

wait!

i dial it down-

like a picture in an estate agents pamphlet/the apocalypse

only

his

commission.

i go inside and the big eyed cat happily shows me

where

he dragged

a tea towel over his curled turds.

WATCHING MILITAINMENT

mug on the coffee table

is unspecial - vivid blue graphic tanks show old war on the Golan

watching militainment again

on the death tv

             

outside is summer rain - the complete opposite

really

if i think about it

and

because its beautiful sweet and sudden June rain

and the bathroom window is wide open

when i go in 

it smells of festivals and tents and health and life

that i've

always felt

buzzes along just outside my reach - for OTHER people

and i become all sad

and 

piss

A CANVEY ISLAND OF THE BATH

laying in a lukewarm bath,

              it is the bath of the world.

it is Gursky meets Bosch out there

              but i can only see

              the blue grey sky

pouring weird June floods

              because i am stretching out

in the bath of the world.

              stretching out and not

              sweating yet.

             

mayhems probably rioting

beyond the quiet toiletries

dusty on the windowsill tile.

people are flying out there and

              birds are hurtling 

              reflected in the shiny dirty walls.

hurtling like when they were falling all mad

              on the fresh bread i'm putting out.

THERES PLENTY BIRDS!

i'm saying to them,

BIG BIRDS DON’T BULLY SMALL BIRDS TODAY!

theres people out there

flying . . .

             

and

suddenly humble

i'm placing a flannel over my essential bits,

              my bits of the world,

bobbing in the bubbles.

              i cover the shocking hair

and the spot on my hip

              fades low in my pant-line.

it is like Gursky meets Bosch in here.

              clarity fighting abundance for my headache.

how would it be if she was in here,

              in the bathroom of the world

shocked by my hair

              feeding me Swedish chocolate

for this headache-

              this headache of the world?

  

              but

i only relish the thought

of the shop new underwear

              waiting crisp and unstained on the bed.

DOG HOURS

8 hour job

lead heavy legs 

feet boiling in sock sweat

overloaded trolley rattling down the corridor miles

i am too busy/too lumbered 

for 

lunch 

today

we live

LIVE

for 4 o’clock

8 dog hours

then Home

where

mundane maintenance is

FIGHTING

dreamy creativity

i am sitting too near the fridge and the ice

beware 

the Lurid Exhaustion

that will throw you off the graffiti desk

when 

the 

music 

is SUDDENLY TOO LOUD

8 dog hours

killing the poor story you're made to live

and today i saw

a nurse takes the earrings from a dead childs ears

the 

screen 

hid nothing

8 dog hours

i'm walking them out

eating on the run

then a lesbian's driving me home

UGLY/BEAUTIFUL - MORNING VODKA OBSERVATIONS

first the clouds;

FUCK ME!

the clouds are AWESOME!

ships with black arses

foaming heads regulated in military focus

CLOUDS!

i am FUCKING stunned by the FUCKING clouds!

then

in Supermarket its all ugly-beautiful

wide-angle drunk 10am

and an

ugly-beautiful bony blonde buys own brand vodka 50cl

and a shouting tabloid 

and an apple pie in a box

she’s talking about having

an Anne Somerfeild party

     ugly-beautiful is homey blonde 40 and beyond

dull blue eyes staring at my black shades.

i am ugly beautiful too . . . flooded with the colours

fish eye drunk

then

the SKY the fucking CLOUDS!

panoramic figureheads stately degrade

up in the heaven dimming

all slo-mo

i bath; ugly-beautiful naked and sprawled in bubbles 

popping bombards me and assaults me

then

though still GREAT the SKY doesn’t thrill

i am uncomfortable

and crashing

JUNE CLOUDS FROM A DECKCHAIR

a wish

falls

from the slipstream of a dove –

and

the

sun bleaches this vision blue.

clouds like mountains are chess pieces

on planed flat bases.

slowly

steadily

they move forward.

they degrade on a mighty journey.

patched with grey like engines

they're

brilliant.

they

travel

slower than a plane 

on a breeze 

that touches 

the ground.

MIX A PALE DRINK

NOW is

NOTHING.

NOTHING

is all there is.

i am at work . . . NOTHING.

there is

LATER;

HOME.

 

there is always that.

but

LATER

will be like

NOW

NOTHING

but       more comfortable.

i mix a pale drink.

IDIOT MOON

massive full moon conquers all the night.

owns

the

whole

black

sky.

looking right in right at me.

front door 3 am.

neighbours hatchbacks all look silver.

hedges

all

black.

one shining cat is frozen still.

i am exposed as a white night secret 

unsleeping and

full of wine like some vamp

with

nothing

else

to

do

at

all

but stare up deep into the exiled white eye

sick with loneliness and delusion and age.

night TV got nothing for me

now

the

lingerie

sale

is

over.

VALENTINES DAY

cycled 6 miles home
down deserted dual-carriageways and black lanes
and 
going thru the flyers for gold and block paving 
and the bills and the bt internet pleas
piled
up on the doormat
i find a card from a florist saying they dropped my flowers at number 2 because i was out


wondering if its too late to go knock at number 2
and wondering 
flowers 
really?  
i never got flowers before . . . 


i find another card from the florist and a note from number 2
explaining

the flowers arent for me


they made a mistake


the
flowers
were
for
the next street over


i walk up the shop for smokes in the last of the snow

SPECTOR WORK

incensed outraged before sleep that genius goes to prison

for

shooting

dead

a

blonde

waitress

with

a

gun.

he is Phil Spector/it was on the cards.

ashamed in the morning/sure that of course he should.

BUT his sentence must bear fruit.

lock

him

in

a

studio.

hard labour in mono/mic the drum/that lost art . . .

line them up and send them in -

shut up Radiohead/get a real single out of them again.

original Massive Attack do a fresh EP.

Detroit Cobras - a dance crossover album.

and then Beck.

bring the White Stripes back to basics/then add full orchestra.

Dust Brothers to soundtrack my film; i’ll

have

my

sci-fi western

scripted

by

then.

  

no more guns in the studio but my own blasting

over

the

intros

and

codas.

NURSES

work in a hospital eye always out for a compassionate and giving nurse

with

dancing sparkles

of

intelligence and silver wit

in

her

sleepy dark eyes

but 

even all the rough and dull and dim ones have bland and bald men

to

drop

them off 

in hatchbacks in the morning.

APOCALYPSE DREAM

dreamt the apocalypse came to my town
i am back at the house on southend road looking out the front window


it is deserted
and
looks it


my old boss going past warns us 
and climbs fences followed by fire


i pack a bag with band t shirts and a tent
i feel fine


the room burns/all my stuff is floating in a flood under the floorboards or burning next to me
i feel fine


i think GOOD, NO ONE CAN USE ANYTHING NOW, NO ONE CAN USE CORRINGHAM ANY MORE


i wake and feel fine
thinking
only
why didnt i pack my big black knife?

RESTRAINT FAILURE

be strong Mr!

but i want some . . . some intoxicant!

so BORED.

be strong Mr!

no! i want some . . . intoxicants!

even if fear nerves and worry come.

it really won’t matter at all/still be dead moths to flick out

the

bathroom window

and

nothing

on

TV.

RIOT

35 and warm rain falling down on A Road shrubs

smells of 90s days.

smells

of

ages

ago.

vague and powerful memories of army coats/smell of new car magic trees/college mornings not getting up hoping to be missed.

other

memories-  

80s marsh of knives and back packs. 

glass bottles of stolen drink. 

70s front lawn back lawn and the iron gate. 

thin apple tree wall to climb.

side

alley

of

cats.

it’s a ball in here! a ball! and a riot!

triggered by warm rain 10 am and sad brown shrubs on the

A Road verge/punctuated and anchored

by a dead great tit solid and upside down

on

the

pitted

tarmac

road.

ABSTINENCE

everythings pale everything pales/in front of my pale eyes

because

of

shitty

abstinence. 

mind empty/no self here/11 am is a wasteland

lasts

for

ever.

now this evening i drink drink down to live

to

be

soft

and

hard.

it is good storm air that comes in past brown window plants.

i drink more

and

now

more.

i try the typer old tappity but exhaustion ghosts

my

weak

fingers

to

incompetence.

silence/hands still/flatlining.

waiting on autumn/i can write well then as

Things

Die

In

Gold.

DAYS

i got to get the hang of Mondays

but

i just can’t seem to

get the hang of Mondays

i got to get the hang of weekdays

but

i just can’t 

keep it together 

i got to get the hang of Sundays

but

i just can’t 

stop drinking all day

because i got the hang of 

Friday night and Saturday night

too 

god 

damn 

well

and sometimes nothing gets written at all