LETHARGY AND WIRE

arrives at 9 AM/doesn’t even say hello

powerful urge to shop online

lengthy

wishlists

don’t cut no mustard/i crave PRODUCT

packaged in postal brown

to fall

thru

the

door

and i want one of them massive bags of crisps

to munch thru like a machine

i'll

feel bad and over salted 

lobes 

clogged with carb

tiny white pill holds black at bay

but

smiles

are forced and from habit and coffee

i relax into them with effort and decaff and herb

but

the

fog

is heavy/rolls in on the sound of horns

not touching any bottles i write small poems

in

the

lean times about

almost 

nothing 

at 

all

SELF PORTRAIT 2

HAND OR ELEPHANT?  HAND!  AT 6.15

POETRY

poetry is a blind sport

exposing big truths

behind 

the sneeze-stain tile and the silver fish corners

you

were only writing mundane day honesty

about 

the good sandwiches

and 

heavy 

toilet 

visits

just a record of the day to keep the box sane

when 

you realise joy is in the maintenance

and the rush

and the urgency

fade

and you are filled up with simple MOMENT

OTHER PEOPLES PROBLEMS

used to be

if a troubled meatbag

conered me

with

real and ordinary problems 

i’d 

feel

doors slam and walls harden

and 

a cold freeze spread deep inside

if i knew ONE thing was wrong

then EVERYTHING was wrong

and

my small helplessness was frightening

i’d avoid this

buried in a beautiful endless stream of golden scotch

with ice or not

with coke or ginger ale or not

mainly not

from

the

bottle

or from nice glasses i'd hold up to dim lamps toasting ME

alone

in

a silence i’d think was safety

SELF POTRAIT

THIS LITTLE PIGGY
MADE HIGH-RISK SHORT-TERM INVESTMENTS
THIS LITTLE PIGGY
SUPPORTS EUGENICS
THIS LITTLE PIGGY
CHARGED THE TAX PAYER FOR HIS SWAN MOAT
THIS LITTLE PIGGY
LEARNT TO FLY A BOMB PLANE
THIS LITTLE PIGGY
HACKED A FOOTBALLERS PHONE
AND THIS LITTLE PIGGY
WENT MEH MEH MEH ALL THE WAY TO EURODISNEY

PEACE SYLLABLES

the hard and sharp spike syllables
of
the World Panic anxiety
that
come and whirl you bad
in the existential morning shower 
and its hot and hostile fog
clog
the
mind
with doubts and fears before sunrise
and
you
log them and file them 
compulsive

can be

sent to exile
only visited
for
cool and objective retrospective inspection
at will
with the safety of balanced pills
honesty and information

and replaced


after all the brave cold steps back from the precipice
where
you'd
ring
your
own heart out like a dish rag
and
the soul was a mirage of a sugar rush
and
happiness
a
sickness spread by grin-fools in the sun and on tv

with the cave warmth
of
small
blubs and coughs of nice and yes and yum
in
the
soft arms of satin and silk and peace
all rich with the smell
of
fruit

and not being able to recite 
all the dangerous passages in the holy books
or remember
all the job titles in Rumsfeld's or McNamara's career
seems
all
fine

and good

FOOD ROLL

FOOD ROLLS X 2, SUNDAY AM, NO SAUSAGE

SAT IN A WHEELCHAIR

in a hospital storeroom

in some kind of subdued resigned strop

supervising

a

colleague

who’s

weak/thin/immature/lame/a fucker/some malnourished Romulan

all

i

can

think

of is

beating him to a silent toothless bloody pulp

with an oxygen manifold

or

whatever

this is i’m clutching in my sweating palm

that’s got nice weight and heft and mass and corners and grip

and

the

strange screaming presence of my own mind

some alien projection . . .

i

frown

like Atlas before the shrug

SMILE

i smile at catty's wise Batman face

and

think

whats he thinking in there?

i smile at the sandwich

bubbling cheese

in the maker

looks like a pic off a menu

i smile

tonight 

its enough

CAT POWER

SEVEN PM CATTY POWER

FRIDGE JESUS

TWENTY TO SIX PM, JESUS THINK 'FISH' ON THE FRIDGE

DEATH OF AN ARCHITECT

their meat shines pale-healthy and red
   all
   juicy 
   and
   real
   and
anticipation-tense 
in 
the burn and glow from the fire

gone clothes are nothing on the floor 

there is
more 
in 
the room 
than two carbon-water processors
working protein into energy

-

the rabbit lays dead in the lane
   all
   Watership Down
   red
   cherry
   blood
fills a long still ear

more missing from him than air

SPRING

AFTER SNOW SPRING STRUGGLE, 4 PM

NHS HAIKU x 2

chief exec panics
forces early discharges
to nurses disgust


beds in the store rooms!
overladen NHS
waits for calmer spring

FOOD SANDWICH

A FOOD SANDWICH, SATURDAY

HEADLINES

wed 7 AM
grab yesterdays paper
off the coffee table
outside the dispensing pharmacy window
and
turn
the
yelling pages
while the kettles bubbles and then clicks
and
subsides into a neat spray of steam

footballers wages 
and MPs soft prisons
and proposals to adopt insurance policies into the NHS

i 
click
and fume
into a neat spray of steam

i see the bad and the wrong and the mistakes and the bullshit
clear as mediterranean summer mornings -
the
reward for haircuts
the
ignorance of dim quick fixes
the
bar for heroes and role models is skewed in cracked mirrors
and
slides
dangerously low

i bin it
drink my tea
no milk
no sugar

GHOST OF ELVIS

GHOST OF ELVIS IN FRONT OF SHELVES, SUNDAY 11.30 AM

SMOKE IN PHOTOGRAPHS/DREAMS OF FIGHTS

i'm always smoking in photographs

always in the same drinking shirt

the

sort

of

shirt

Bubbles would wear

and 

always they're taken awkwardly 

under the horse hair blanket of cloud

i look 

this way and that

burning chicken in the green flames of old spices and fat

i only drink 

now 

in lurid dreams

always shooting shiny glasses quickly 

wearing an exhilarated accelerator smile 

until

i remember i’m supposed to sober 

and everything stops - for laughter!

and

its all ok and good and fine 

in the sprawling wood bar celebrations where the light comes in golden and low/always a late summer afternoon

its like a gang

i'm like a king

we are all a victory army

in the unconscious gig night

where

flashbulbs freeze the smoke in newspapers

and 

all the songs are old and known and classic

and 

its in the unconscious gig night that tears come

a gentle salty tide

weirdly

neutral in the dream arena/prelude to violence . . .

thats

over

quickly - i am unwon and not me

in the shiny black and crumbled stone

of

a

cab rank - still dreaming/playing cabbie roulette

always 

giving the right address home

i only cry in photographs snapped in the dirty dawn

when the red ropes 

are all back 

in the broom cupboards

and 

the 

bouncers

count knuckle scrapes in the 6 AM greasy spoon

CRIME LORD

CRIME LORD, 10 AM

JOAN JETT

saw Joan Jett
on the Central Line

she is still 20

bored her mouth shrugs at me
and 
her big calf eyes roll/don't know where to go
looking 
inside

her small shoulders sag late night deflated 
and
her big hands are squeezed safely between her jeans

shares ipod earphones 
with a man who's a nothing - any man at all

he smiles 
and nudges her 
and pokes out his tounge
he taps to another track 
nods to the beats
oblivious 

she becomes a shade sadder

and
her feet
point inwards
like a little girls

CAT AND MOUSE

CAT AND MOUSE,  6PM

SOMETHING

need a Something

made of brilliant light and glass

a

free

tangle

of laughter and lace

need to elope with the dawn

but LITERALLY of course

not otherwise

i need a light for the darkness to

end

this

cold-black fever

and cast the shadows the other way

i've seen it in FILMS

where

i

am

the 

leading man

PREP

PREPARATION, 6PM

SUPERMARKET

middle aged men in no-brand wife-hemmed denim

and xmas present jumpers

prod

racks of neat meat responsibly

and

match

them

to the mature scrawl 

on the paper 

in their car key hands

old men 

wait silent and still and obdient

for

the

bent tiny-bird old ladies in stretched cardies

fussing

over

the small print on the grandkids treats

their only words weak jokes and bland banter

teenager 

chunky in black and chains and alien hair

is sheepish

i feel

he

feels

he is too large

his mum talks to identical friends - hes away and lost

nothing

to 

contribute

young manager 

phone on his belt and shoes that point his way

and

pockets full with long paper

worries

checkout girls with red talons or textured gloves

and smeared yellow hair

its like bosch in here 

i collect coffee/check the reductions in poor mans corner

and

leave

this place

WOBBLY JOHN RIP

working nights 199whatever/it was dark

we all got morning drunk

in 

service station car parks with tiny dancing birds

and we all laughed at wobbly john

he

couldn’t keep still

on the move/shuffling/shaking/gibbering

and

making

Bad Jokes All The Time

he was temping/passing the time

earning easy cash for christmas-pressies for his kids he'd say

'thats

all

i want'

it

never

occurred

to

any

of

us

laughing and thieving and toking winter nights away

till toast and fry ups and Three Guns whisky after dawn

in the empty Bell car park till opnening

that

there

was something wrong with him

he died/he had a disease/it made him shake

and

when

the news

reached us/saner and slightly sober in the new year

his

Bad Jokes All The Time

made

all

the

sense in the world

BLOGGING

BLOGGING W/CAT 5PM

INTENTION

thinking
about thinking about thoughts

and
then thinking about that

AAAAAH!

draw a hard line between thoughts and the self
and 
then what are we then?  sane mad on a sofa . . .

sofa 
SOFA 
SOFA!?

. . . some blotchy meat bag blowing in a shit storm
an accidental organ
out of the loop
on the edge of cosmos

I DRIFT AWAY i cry/cant move my hooves NOTHINGS A THING

DEPERSONALISATION? he said/jumper is old skin OR A SHAMANIC STATE? 

so really
i decide
snow outside the window and hatchbacks rolling past
its
ok
if
you
do it on purpose

PARADISE SEMANTICS

we
paint 
our gifted paradise a grim and soiled grey
chasing
our
created abstractions

IF

you believe in the social constructs
that 
blur
our animal teeth and righteous hunger
and
subscribe to the semantics of innnerspace

MUSH

brain is mush
fried up hash
a
collapsed
aftermath
of
a lifetime of hard reasons
that fell 
in the afternoon as thin march snow

now 
i am almost blind
but
for a small shouldered silhouette thats indelible
whenever
i
blink
the complex blueprint of WORLD away   

there's new knowledge 
and a burst of ideas 
and twisted ammunition
to
hastily
jot 
but my hand is a jelly baby and words are squashed spiders
a 
chaotic un-language 
of black legs 
settling 
in goo

i know REASON and REALITY live in hot blood
and 
its better-than-normality now that aches red and blue 
deep inside muscles - still
i
am
a fuzz
a blur
a tired buzz
tired and crashed on the mat under a new high bar

MOVING ON

well its time to make friends
with
the
memories
that stab nameless nostalgia into my guts

they're 
gently drawn in sepia squares
or
drenched in old colours 
with
sweet
round corners 

time to play those avoided songs 
and lift them from out their cold street bottle shops
and
hot
afternoons
from
long ago

its not them that are are sad

it
was
me

HURTLE MIND

stand in the grey fingers of rain
outside
the 
clinic by St Mary's

i had nothing to say 
sat in the corner room
smelled of must and rust and damp
and
the
cushion on the chair
had gone WHUMMF softly and gave no support

i
searched
my blank files

i opened up slowly/a book with a bad start
a rushed second chapter 
of fits and starts
backtracks and dead-ends

stand outside in the fairy rain thats soft and clings and seeps
and
my minds like going online after MONTHS
and
getting a ton of updates pile on top of each other

its HURTLING with things i should have told the nice man
who
slumped and sagged and relaxed the more notes he took dawn
like
he
had
no muscles at all

so
i make notes too
on paper blotching with drops -
missing
buses

DELICATE ENOUGH

i am delicate enough

like a white ice flake 
that hangs on spiders thread 
after hes gone
just before 
it shines and shrinks dripping in the days slow nudge
or
a
small child in that shock after a fall
face all open
deciding
laying rocking like a turtle

delicate enough
to breath heavy as a horror show at nothing
and it sounds like someone else 
piped in in THX
and
echoes into the deep ringing and tunnel vision
of 
Breakdown

delicate enough to pretend 
you're all
gypsy princess's
thatched and oiled
and
common exotic
out of time and timeless with floral dresses and bangles
and
knives
stolen to use at night

and delicate enough to see the sun as we used to
and
tie
its image
around
a
strangers head for hope and health
in the fear of the next life
either
way
it
goes

NHS HAIKU

the bloody surgeon
yells loudly at my mean boss
happy days, suns out