WAFFLE SKY WAFFLE SKY

there’s BBQs smoking sausages

under the blue waffle sky

and

monkeys

relax on fire

behind those faded pastel garages

cocking airguns for plinking

where the spilt glue

goes soft

sticks to kids three stripe trainers

under

the

waffle sky

waffle sky

WEIRD SENSATIONS

in a hosp
storeroom
with silver trolleys with wires and cuffs and stuff about
and a pillar
shoots up thru the room all rude and blank stare
and i
get
a
weird
sensation


i'm what?  three floors up on a hill facing south
and
this
is
a
room in the world/seems special
and
i
am
the Only One in here now/in this Room in the World


what things might this feeling mean?  this special weird tingle of 
supremacy? control? dominance?


its a moment/a morning to catch in my gut
and blend with the dense sea fug in there
and
my wire thin architecture mind thinks clear for a second
KNOWING
nothing special or weird is going on here


ONLY AT WORK/DUMBASS


but my feet feel the floating floor/the artificial shades of plastic
with
no
sod
or
clod
or green leafy structure to soften the harsh blank pillar
or creepy man meccanno


fuck it
fuck the world


tonight i'll shave my head close

STORM

the calm before the storm
lasted
six years this time
it
was
productive and coloured by gin and dresses


the storm was hot white and ferocious/a three month scream
and the aftermath
is
chemically
handled
and artificial/storm still rages shades of realities to smashed up shards
somewhere deep inside and blows itself out in slices
in
the 
therapists rented rooms

BASILDON PLASTIC SPOON 199?

we’re all drinking tequila/prob first time/prob only jose.

keep

ordering

rounds.

barmaid coming over tray with the salt and all that.

mostly empty in here.

blokes round the pool table start an argument/get lary and

one

grabs a

plastic spoon/threatens his mate brandishing it

brandishing a plastic spoon!

and

WE CANNOT BELIEVE IT/WE’RE LAUGHING/PLASTIC SPOON!

later

we’re all back in someone’s house/folks away/cheap lager.

we’re chucking fag butts down behind the sofa cos no one can find an ashtray around

and

no one likes him anyway and some go in the fish tank.

someone’s fucking someone in his bedroom and he’s pissed off.

his front door gets broken round the hinges

when

pizzas come and he paying pissed off.

and

i’m

spending some time on the roof/freaking out whoever’s upstairs fucking.

fish tank is getting turned off cos no one can sleep on the carpet and the sofa with all the noise and the tropical  light.

so

we’re

walking home

across enormous empty car parks/bricked up flats/skirting the mall and out by the station/down the hospital hill

and we’re resting up

climbing in an abandoned Citroen/roofs been cut off

and

smoke cigarettes

watching the dawn come up on fire over the

Fivebells roundabout laughing about the guy

brandishing

a

plastic spoon.

SCOTCH

instantly wasted

i’d emptied bottles

blue ½ hr

then

i flared

only ½ shot

of whisky left!

stormed about

considering

calling friends

taking desperate trains

weird journeys

for any

cabinet handout

hits me like a free wave

a

loose disaster

i

perpetuate

with only

big stellas and spliff

hard times

in

the

Whighut when the only scotch there is

is in my belly

LIFES NOT A VIDEO GAME

these moments

you know?

THESE moments!

its not

that i want

to change it all

DESPERATELY

(for my baby heart)

but just

to live it again

A LORD! hear me

and

let me live it

again

but

mission failed . . .

(in

video games

you get to go

again

instantly

armed with KNOWLEDGE)

A LORD! can I not

take a Billigan

on these late whining nights

where

hot mortal

promise

has merely

brushed

my baby motor and browning fronds?

DR PLEASE

hey surgeon!

draw your circle plans

on MY sad gut

and

i’ll

punch plum coloured bruise shapes

all over

your

Mercedes

face

save your talents for EMERGENCIES i say

or

i’ll

batter your knees with this oxygen manifold

then steal your knife-trim wife

who

will

spit black on your

shining

laminate

gravestone/cheque book in a bone dry mitt

your family album photo frozen

and

dated

in

a

plastic oval

your flat side-parting cheese forever

HORSE PEOPLE IN THE SUN

strange people

dirt-tanned the colour of the horses they ride

in bobble hat helmets

of 

fake crochet

in hiccuping tailbacks

on

the

hosp

back road/the bunny dappled giant rat hill

of

misty breakdown mornings

i weave thru spitting summer flies

thinking

I NEVER SEEN A LOOKER ON A HORSE

but thats not true

i have

just not many

and not around here

WEAKDAYS

‘man!’

i go

     (there’s

     werds-thousands of them at faster miles an hour

     and people! everywhere. . . )

‘christ!’

i go

default

‘cant help you’

i cry out

default

‘cos i’m not alive’

i

stare into office eyes

into

tied down gym system lives

‘i cant help you’

i cry out

default

‘i’m not alive’

TO PARAPHRASE IGGY

‘anything counts

     now,

     

     the

     gods

all suck,

     anything

goes around here’

f**cking A!

HOSP BED

another bed.

shocking decline.

classic says the nurse a friendly ogre with a perm.

fluids go in and fluids come out.

bed sides are up now.

hollow face.

white hair.

like all the rest now made of old grey paper.

nan has left the building

even

if

her

body

lays there breathing quickly in front of us.

TAN LINE

razor thin thong tan line
on
the slim subtle exposed lower bent back
of the polish cafe girl
is
caramel on soft choclate
and
accentuates
the uniform grey of the gods turned back
low
and
breathing
and
raining in blusty fits
on soggy fag butts
and mud swamp corners
and car flood puddles
the
amubulances
WHUMMP
thru

SLEEP

when doing the

night struggle with the short death

staring at fuzzy night nothing

breathing like a Buddhist breathing

i

been told

by

friends on the floor in ratty sleeping bags

and

exhausted sisters on the top bunk

and

girls indignant or concerned

and

sofa slumber strangers

that

i

snore like a passed out drunk/like four tractors/like someone who’s about to choke

but

i’m

awake i think

AWAKE

i sleep THAT lightly now

TIRED AND STUNTED ON COKE 2

i am almost a nothing

as

i

thunder

piss

on the garden stones/waltz thru hot wet fronds

stroke me like fingers/like welcome

i am

like the last man alive

finally

on

his

first day over the edge

the swings are tied up

for winter

in a frozen

 scene

like

a

movie/where the apocalypse is quiet and neat

and redemption lies

a few

easy tricks

away

inside

i

confuse the

lights/switches loud like breaking glass

and

they only

uselessly

light

the empty rooms

behind me

in odd shadows

shaped like

the beaks

of night monsters

in the spare room

i

remember

all other times here with

a clarity i only ever discover

in the ultimate late fried state;

the Nazi drawings on my feet in the overhung morning shower

and

the long limbo

afternoons

sick

and

sweating on the thin mattress

mortal with indecision/my

bag

already packed

waiting for whatever or nothing or the something everything

to

show

a

sign

in the dead moth dust

i

anally

line up

my stuff

on the

book shelf

of

Kermaz

King

Leonard

& Lee

putting all my keys and drugs and fags and wallet and everything

in

neat

symmetrical lines

and

pile

my loose change

in denomination order

before

i try to sleep thinking that feeling like

an almost nothing tired shell-boy

should bring slumber suddenly

but

obviously

it

doesn’t

PEOPLE

i love people
who never exaggerate or embellish
anything
that
happens
to them 
at all/no pretension or pose
i 
believe
and 
enjoy
their drunken stories the most


i believe their hangover WAS the worst in the world


they
are mostly
poor and happy/with wisdom from contentment


but
rarely
creative


i love creative people . . . 

MONDAY

a wake up call 
when
youre wasted
and
most want
to
rest


the short sick tease
of
weekend
already a fuzzy forgotten impression


monday


again


and always

shit . . .

DAYS

its no matter what we’d all do

with

our

long hard or short and lost

Dorsett or Devon or Dudley days

whether 

we’d 

make a masterpiece or a disaster piece

or plead manically or manfully in monolith churches between glass cafes

or wallow in partition walls with huge numbers and clicking flicking function keys

or play at pretending skimpy or naked with products and ponies in pastures or malls

or weep professionally in black in council gardens for family or friends or folks on the falling hill

we'd all

scrub our sore scratched bum-bums clear of clingy tell tale trails

and

feed out yowling stomachs and thunder headaches and secret habits innocent harmless or weird

and

clean away

the

eternal grease dust and clump hair and flake skin

off

all

our

precious possessions and shifted furniture and staked up kipple dams

smiling bravely daily

into the ancient sculpted blank wall faces

of disappointment

and

we'd fake and hold in panic and fear and gratitude onto whatever and whichever

small-gasms

that

make

it all just ok

until

its time to hide and die all night in the dark with the outrageous reality of dreams

and flooding running sweats

and the rustle-thud popping noises we'd never ever identify EVER

to

burst confused and coughing and thirsty into more similar mornings

and

try

it all

again

13/07/12 MIDNIGHT TRAIN

pastel people young and drunk
check square hair and plastered side partings
in
the
night window/marsh and yaks outside


four-shoe girls scream
when a superdry bodywarmer with a brown takeaway bag
catches
them
pissing/they never pressed LOCK


wobbly blonde announces to everyone
that the facilities are awful
that the toilet wont flush
that theres piss on the seat
and
so
on/they never press FLUSH


looking like he escaped from an 80s rap video
tall-haired boy
touches
his
clothes
the whole journey/fingers his brown elbow patches
on
a
denim
shirt/has only the top button fastened


grobby roadie wears huge ID
plays
with
two ipods wearing fingerless gloves


at my station - Fuck Town
pink shirt office boy holds onto two
plastic bags
like theyre land bound lifebelts
gets off and walks the wrong way up the platform to nowhere


girl with olivia newton legs and ladies tattooed on her feet
breaks a wide smile
and
when
a
forty-plus bicardi bird falls out the train in a summer dress
(surrounded by her coven
who express
sympathy/concern/disgust/embarrassment)
her smile
grows
wider/'good here aint it?' i say
and
she
says
laughing that she just wants to go and 'noodle up in bed'


she tooters home on tall pink heels
dancing round
all
the small
puddles
peppering the torn tarmac of Fuck Town


i walk home two miles in the soft rain
wary
of the hoodies mumbling
in
the bushes
wondering why i dont hail any of the passing empty cabs

BUNGALOW MULTIVERSES

i wake and dont move


not
for
ages


look at the coloured bed bumps


foot under quilt and throw


quiet 
then bin men rattle outside


i didnt put mine out again


dont move - 


my point is when i do rise
take
my
pills
and put the kettle on for the first time


everything will be instantly DIFFERENT
outside
the bedroom
walls


i will move thru the bungalow universes
experience
the hectic
with the calm


it bothers me the bed wont be this comfy again today
and
tho
the
rooms and the garden
are
connected by architecture
i
dont
feel
this connection
in
the
scrap of soul i retain