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.

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

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

a 

long 

time 

ago 

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

HAIR IS BEAUTIFUL

when i die

and am dead

sell my shit

to the inspired

1 million

because

hair is beautiful

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

a 

superhero destroyed

the world eye changes again (she leaves)

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 

a 

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 

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.

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 
a 
table cloth

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

EASTER IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN XMAS

because 

of 

Jesus

we eat chocolate

except all the girls

all on diets

all the time

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

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 

i 

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.

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 

i 

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

i 

am 

actually kissing the Bottle

my fever

less than one day gone.

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

i 

will 

get 

milk 

for my omelette/you'll see

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.

CROCODILE DUNDEE 2 HAIKU

sinister birds

fly across

Australia’s Japanese sun

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

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?