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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

LIVING ROOM PLAN

10.30 pm living room

school night

i 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

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

http://www.beatthedust.com/beat-the-dust.asp?bid=390

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.

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.

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

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

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

GAS FIRE

oh gas fire,

this weeks as long as a catholic wedding

the new year hysterical drunk relative in its middle

i 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

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 

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 4^th 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 

I 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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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