Sunday 30 September 2012

JUNE FRENZY; SNAP POP



got a
hash tin
full with
seven types of weed/pill pot rattles reassuring

ETC

and
booze is freely available
from local vendors . . . mmmmmmmmmmmmm

BLAH

so
-   i’m away/off/hidden in sloth and shouting

(for months/years/decades of fug)

got a
buffer
of
Organisations i deal with for cash to extend
pages
of
drinks on ice and blind mammal stasis

i ignore my birthdays/age is a surprise
so i halt and seize and stop the tide

AS IF!

soft clothes
child’s rags
around hunched shoulders/i’m hiding
in
FUG

buffer of bus time
of
downtime
of
blindtime
i blurt and scribble dysfunction and fug

BUT change lives on the horizon

Horrible Change -
come
to
my
ignorant arms
and hurt me better


Saturday 29 September 2012

DAAAWN


dawn is a bird

yes, a quiet bird

and 
the cat comes to say hi in the back porch mist

his eyes are wide with questions

i nod and tickle his chin
with the hand that isnt smoking

ITS DAWN i tell him

and when i go back to bed
he follows
and curls up purring under my arm
his
nose
touching
mine


Friday 28 September 2012

GRIND


epic five leaf grind; groundhog day

and every night i rest unfit in the dark short death
shared with batshit dreams 

dead presidents ringing funeral home telephones -

that
leak
into
the gloom-light reset

i waddle thru the invisible syrup
and whine,like this,
in pops
of cheap 
spat
art

theres a softer life that bounces -
heard the rumours
and 
seen
its
glimpses
in
the cracks of river-shine smiles


Thursday 27 September 2012

REALITIES


he woke late in his mental hinterlands

the phrase worked/he liked it

he wiped sweat off his body
and began to cook

autumn/kitchen door open wide to the outside
the cat looked at him quizzically, classic

and
every-time
he 
shut
eyes
he instantly began to dream




Wednesday 26 September 2012

POMES



a pome
is a headache
a thunder chunder
a shart
an eruption
a secretion

or a werded child babe

wobbly precision from chaos



Tuesday 25 September 2012

DEEP DARK DORK


its clear now
that
i
spent a long long time
wallowing in the numb depths of depression and denial
and 
other
D words

like DRINK like DRUGS

in the ignored back cupboard of pain-mind
i knew - in my BALLS and lower colon
that
i was waiting/was willing and creating
the 
Big Crunch/MELTDOWN/brain implosion/my Mars would attack
making
the previous under carpet breakdowns 
look like babies helpless laughter

thats happened
and 
time has changed

CLICK it went, and a tiny VROOOOM

i see the myth-light now
but meshed between medicine fingers
and
have yet to feel actually warmed

its clear now
i was swimming deep in the scotch dark 
deep enough in the backward funk 
to wear it like a campaign medal
and
laugh bitterly at fools happiness/laughing in pairs/hands in hands and - OUT!

deep enough to touch the dumb tip of satans anus
deep inside the hell-funk of mistake guts
where things screamed 
without words 
or end

so today
theres doom in my morning pockets
(and shit and panic and thick fug)
but my face is to the sky
and tho
the symptoms are ladled on thick as trowel make-up
i
am
able
to
hope
that
good days will paint the calendar one year soon



Monday 24 September 2012

STINK


in the 
space of new autumn breezes
and
in
the
conditioner damp of fresh washing
and
in
the
morning lather of no-brand blue shower gel
and

in
the
eternal burst of the infinite bubbles
of winter evening bubble baths

lies
1000
memories/unspecified and aching
all
calling
out

THEN

and

NOT NOW

to my reboot brain
in its off-centre fug
of monday headaches and isolated silence






Sunday 23 September 2012

REMEMBER EVERYTHING


i remember everything they say to me

YOU MAY BE JUST ONE PERSON IN A BIG WORLD
BUT YOU MEAN THE WORLD TO ME

if it lights the rare white glow of reality and knowledge

YOU A HAVE A LIMITED CAPACITY FOR JOY

i breath it in in hoops aware nothing is forever

YOU’RE A MAN SO YOU COOK ON TOO HIGH A HEAT

i remember the sentences they say and they

THERES NOWHERE ELSE I’D RATHER BE

live in memories and real places

I’M ONLY 15 MINS AWAY

in the parked cars and the Dry Street corner

YOU REALLY REMEMBER WHAT I SAY DON’T YOU

all survive the crunch of black falling timber

I WAS REALLY HAVING A RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU
ALL THE TIME I WAS WITH HIM

sentences they say surprising to me

I WISH I COULD BE THERE WITH YOU MORE

as the sudden touch of a new acquaintance
and i breath it in in hoops

YES





Saturday 22 September 2012

MONDOMAN



in a
slightly
parallel
muniverse
i
dance
like
Travoltas own motherfucker
at
the tiniest
hint
of some
funk
ridden tune-my legs spin
my
hips Elvis wild
in
tight flared
trousers

in a
slightly
parrallel
ambiverse
i’m
youngest
ever
head of
the country
running a party of liberal excess
FUCK ON DRUGS IN THE STREETS PEOPLE!
the White Panthers
got
nothing on me . . . 
enforced
with
the
iron fists
of a considerate
desperate right
 
in this
parallel
universe
i’m
crying
tears of
frustration
and homeless power
onto
my
password

Friday 21 September 2012

ENGLISH LANE MORNING


the things i saw this morning
cycling down 
an idyllic english country lane;

torn porn

black pants with blue waste band/crumpled

a neatly folded checked tea towel

a yellow bird/half of/big and dead

a dodgy looking man in a filthy body warmer/waiting on his scooter in the church car park/dogging site

some sandwich embedded in a car squashed horse turd

oh, the joys of the
english countryside . . . 

i hope the items are not ALL related




Thursday 20 September 2012

A FIRST OF JUNE



dogs alive,
human life is cheap!

(its the 1st of june)

i say this probably because of watching
more news in 
more disbelief
mixed with numbness/desensitised and amazed at that i am 

i wear light slacks cos of the weather

there is a hole in
my trousers
where i
fell
from a kerb/messed on real dirty tequila


 i remember falling/it was still broad singing daylight
and i was going out somewhere
years 
ago




Wednesday 19 September 2012

GULL


soft seagull signals semaphore south

or he does
cos
he's
in a pome

man writing it has blotches from adult contained acne

sits
on
a
beach

wears a well fitted shirt
no on will see how well fitted this shirt is
because
altho he wants to be found 
no one is looking for him

his shirt is alone

the seagull is gone

we dont know where or how special it was when it flew away

the man
never
finished
the pome


Tuesday 18 September 2012

FEELING


wot is this feeling?

this nearly numb pearl
this camphor bobbing at a deserted dock
this slow jagged confusion rush
smooth and dented by habit and jade age

wot is this distance?

these flat echoes
these hands of mine
that move as skyline cranes over a cartoon cityscape

who's words are these?

they come so easily
falling loose as chalk rock
an automated rumble from out a sore smoked throat
dusty
and
all heard before

wot is all this . . . STUFF!

turning like carousels
like gone wind and reproduced clatter
like museum ornaments behind thick fingered glass
like lego
like toys

wot is it 
really?


Monday 17 September 2012

BACK OF HER HEAD


her face in the crowd?

the pony tail looks the same
but
i
dont recognise that guy shes with

she sits with the same composure
but
its
too dark to be sure

either way i've broken a sweat

this has happened before

i dont think it is/she doesnt applaud the right way

and what are the chances anyway?

but
she
is somewhere/i wonder where?

and
who
with? 


Sunday 16 September 2012

MORN'NG


the morning is a picture
the night drew
while we all rested/updating and defragging
in
watercolours
pencil
and a billion pixels

and when coffee plugs you back in
do you spot any differences
out there
on the old street of hatchbacks and dew 
in the
new today?



Saturday 15 September 2012

POME


a pome is a pop
a poop
a true faith fart
a follow thru of truth
a white pant smear
of dreams and drama
and
mundane
funk smells

is waste held up to shine 
in different everyday light
of 
bombs and ends
scribbled
behind
red black doors




Friday 14 September 2012

WHAT WOULD THEY THINK



these nurses
talking and working round the nurses station
in
hip hugging polyester
if they knew one cheap hollow wall away
i
was
sat
in the private suite storeroom
in the comfiest wheelchair
thinking
imagining
and
writing about them all
on
NHS
notepaper?



Thursday 13 September 2012

BEFORE SMART PHONES



London eats my a-z’s
or foxes do

disappear off the summer bench
left it folded all night
checking out
todays locations and connections

street to street and painted halls/the chaos held tidy in my hand

must buy another
in
Fenchurch again
and
fold and lose 
those
girl turned pages
of 
gin nights and lost hoodies
of 
early full buses of strangers
of
hangover marches
and
greasy spoons full with benches



Wednesday 12 September 2012

CLASSIC WERDS



I don’t feel well

- thems Classic Werds

its new morning on my rain doorstep/chipped tile

(just cos it is)

and
what does midnight look like sober?
I didn’t know for years
but
the
answer is; dry and tired with unglory/no accelerator momentum

I don’t feel well

classic werds, join me;

I DON'T FEEL WELL








Tuesday 11 September 2012

DOGS OF MY MIND



i must
burn those dogs
that
RUN and RUN
straight off the instant tips of my tongue

1st thought=best thought
and it 
has always been 
to
BURN and BURN
the running sinew-hounds of my dormant and default mind

RUN, and RUN away, burning dogs
and
i
promise
i
will
never
speak ill of you
if
you
only make thought-space for higher mammals to breath


Monday 10 September 2012

TAN LINES



tan lines
make
naked ladies
look
more naked.
see where they drew their modesty.
its
as if
their
brown skins
been
slipped off
like
a strappy top
and 
i
see
their pale under-soul
of
nipples
and
beard.





Sunday 9 September 2012

WHY FORD WRITES


And he does write. 

Also he doesn’t. 

He’s not a machine.  And Die Hard won’t watch itself.

He can be found sat on life’s sofa like a sad bear,
held there,
hugged there,
trapped there,
by the arms of myriad and unremarkable fears,
lurking on the cusp of bad nap naps wasting the short hours in a safe stale pointless funk. 
Not writing. 

Myriad and unremarkable fears;
scared to write in case Rubbish Nothing comes out;
scared in case Rubbish Everything does and he ends the evening sobbing into his balls like a gay baby. 
Scared it will be bland and defeated, lacking in any spunk and zest. 
Scared he’s delusional and will experience a sick moment of clarity, put out his jazz cigarette raise his hand and say ‘promote me I will take work home and I’ve products to buy’. 
And he is delusional, Ford, he really is.
Scared it will be really difficult and he will be really bored. 
Scared of Living.  Scared of Not. 
Paralysed by choice he finds it is safe to just sit in between nothing and a vacuum
but comfy, still. 

The hard work between blind inspiration is his downfall.  Its too much like admin.

And the hard work of exposing his work; too much like admin.

But he does have blind inspiration, when the night has landed black and late and booze stains his shitty vest.

Its daunting, writing, raw creation.  Its daunting. 
Fill the abyss.  Just Me?  Little Ford?  Fill the abyss?  Daunting. 

So, night. 
Night; the answer to all the days questions. 
And out comes the scotch to loosen his balls into spoilt  yells and ill gasps. 
Twitching on a wooden chair now like some R-tard doing robotics. 
Balls out rock on the player. 

Ford writes. 

Whys are not in his hijacked quicksilver mind.
He carefully builds it up concentrating like a stoned bricky.
And he tears it down again like a monster child. 
And he slaps it around like a beer dad.

Ford is real.
Ford is 3D.
Ford is a fucking person, an angular god, creating . . .

and its all down hill from here . . .

but he is Fully Occupied. 
Fully Occupied Alone.
Distracted from the bigger dooms. 
His is Involved, Absorbed.
Ford is Functioning Mush before his fucking murder. 

Dumping gold from a happy arse. 

Experiencing the Frenchgasm.

And he’s like a dictionary helplessly vomiting all its small words. 
Vomiting up the refuse of the day, of other days, of all the nights. 
Prettying up the side product of a life of a nobody.
Painting glitter on lard.

Ford tries to avoid cliché and fat. 
Or embarrassingly he embraces them with drunken needy arms. 

Vomiting, yes vomiting. 

He vomits, Ford does. 

Like a teenager in a car park.

Vomits from the heart of his balls and the balls of his heart. 
Filling the abyss at least a little the best he can. 

And tho before the report is filed he would rather do Anything Else,
Anything Else at all,
Anything in creation but fill the abyss,

after  

then he finds Nothing Else appealing,
Nothing at all.
Nothing in creation is appealing

but

drinking scotch and chanting his own words over and over like a chimp wanking in a cage.

But this isn’t Why. 
This isn’t Why Ford writes. 

His reports are filed in dust. 

Only leaked out in motivation born of brief sobriety. 
A sobriety born of panic.  Panic born of sobriety.

So Why? 

Because he wants too.

That’s why. 

Because his balls tell him to. 

That’s why.

And because he can. 

Alone is the perfect time.  Ford is alone in perfect time.

The evenings when a workday bleeds out a sudden biro. 
That’s when he writes the bare bones down and throws on the wild wild flowers.  They catch on twigs and on thorns.

And because he can’t earn much,
can’t do careers,
doesn’t dig people;
is empty, default. 

Ford is default.  He maintains but he records.
Ford files his reports,
maybe not on time all the time
but diligently. 
He knows their importance is ironically beyond words. 

Ford likes cigarettes and the stereo and glasses heavy with ice. 
Ford likes solitude so he can think about people; but his hands and mind need expression.  Activity.
So Ford writes.

And Ford writes because he has to. 

All the day his head is full of sentences. 
He sees the world in sentences like Neo’s seeing the Matrix; in a fall of green streaming rain. 

But its not those sentences that come out alone in the evening. 

No, those words fade when the front door clicks shut. 

It’s a different world of words Ford spills. 

Fatter than the bare bones he hopes for and less pretty than the flowers he dreamed he could say.
Darker than the daylight thoughts he had. 

And Ford writes because he has before. 
He knows he can chase the perfect pome again like it’s as simple as fishing for a white whale. 

And Ford writes because he’s told people he does. 
He’s claimed to be a writer.  He has claimed the weird mystery.  The inherent romance.  Now he must do the work.

But sometimes he doesn’t write. 
Sometimes not for days. 
And this makes him moody.  Backed up. 
This makes it all harder to sit back down at the desk.  Sometimes he doesn’t even read. 
Not for days. 
And he never really knows why. 

Sometimes sitting in the baby dusk of the garden with the mini beasts and the exiled moon is enough. 

He grandly calls this gestation but he knows his is no genius machine.
He must wait.  Marshall strange forces.  Must concentrate.  Breathe.

Ford writes.  Ford has written.

He knows writing is only a fundamental form of communication but it holds so much mystic, glamour, and destruction that he feels compelled to do it while no one is looking.