XMAS EVENING

tv does a countdown of xmas movies without finesse
all low grade critics 
and soap faces
talking personal experience
not
objective 
critique
and when they've done Die Hard and Trading Places
she
goes
to
shower
the long day
off
herself
while i sit cross legged on the bedspread
in a crisp white towel
and
meditate
to the sound of running dancing water
for
one
long
minute

NOT QUITE DEFEATED

hate 
the commercial careful
niche
placement

the 
fame-forethought of airport paperback land

the 
demographic planning of unread ill teens

the 
essential considerations
discussed over skinny lattes
and
cucumber
water

a compromise success asks
but
doesnt
NEED

its
making
my werd-art fall like small turds
almost
still 
born

success
is
sitting
here
shattered and defiled

tapping worn keys
in
wilful
ignorance
anyway

ENGLISH FUNERAL IS A STALE CHEESE BISCUIT

the crematorium is laid out on
thin
flat
land
busy as a mall car park

hard to tell what theyre peddling in there

smoke hangs over hatchbacks
heat
haze
hovers
above
the stacked brick like industry

black cluster-fuck in
black cluster-fuck out

the 
wake
is
better - everyone pops beer tins
and
looks
at
the photo albums laid open by the door
and 
smiles at the past

acremation.com

I PLAY WITH LEGO

in many ways i return 
to 
a  
childhood 
state 
of 
mind

now i've put
the
mans
booze
down

the pharr side blogspot

NEXT DOOR

knocking and drilling
for a year
next 
door
pauses
for a row

wild raised voices 
a
bellow - GEEEET OOOOUT!

i can feel the hot heads tight panic
the
destabilised fire
the
icy eyes - like i'm there/like its me

front door slams/shakes the masonry
and
of course i look out the window

the
daughter
drives her hatchback angry
free hand 
hiding 
her 
eyes - i feel her desperation in one glimpse
and
it
rings
primal
bells

its
apocalypse for a quiet man

even
when
its
next
door

DREAM

saw my dead grandfather
in a train station waiting room
clean
white
hair
clean
blue
jumper

he was back with news

he had found his grandson
missing on a train journey
nine 
years 
old

happy tears in his eyes

and when i speak and call out a farewell greeting
he turns into the 
missing
grandson

he is still nine and full with news and joy

none of this is based in reality
and
anyway
i
got
a
jar
of transparent jam in my hand
that needs to go somewhere urgently
and
i
have
questions
about 
that

Photographic Print

|

By John Coletti

DAY OFF MORNING EFFORTS

dull with hologram rest
but
fat
with
creative
need
i line up cigs and the coffee pot
scoffed
toast
crumbs
fall
to mix with scattered cat litter 
windows open - cold! to bust me awake
as 
the 
binmen 
rattle and huff the wheelies to the truck outside my window
my
shaking digits hover over notes and keys
but
my mind is crammed with dream images
of the factory terrorists
who blocked
the
roads
with piles of white sludge and laid out huge guns
i
did
my
best
to unwire the walls
hiding the screws and the broken cubes under mattresses
but
while
every one worked hard with the mudgaurds and masonry
and
families
tried
to escape
over window cleaners ladder
the
terrorists stole my boots
and
made
me
skip
like
a
schoolgirl inside a spinning firemans hose

DUARTE AFTERNOON

because when colleagues leave work in-jokes die 
and because in-jokes are special 
here are some in-jokes with little time left to run

Duarte, despite being a name, means Three

a certain supervisor is reminiscent of the childs dinosaur Barney and his weird use of the word naughty means he is referred to as The Sexual Dinosaur

Adrian the courier is married to a mail order bride even tho he isnt

Duarte means Shit or Fuck or Damn etc

Wednesday is always Bumming Wednesday on the ITU, also sometimes Cock Wednesday and people are fictitiously obliged to participate

for no good reason certain paperwork must be Folded Thrice!

Duarte means Hello or Morning

Marfternoon is the time of day when no one is sure if its morning or afternoon, 11 till 1 is usually acceptable

once a week one of us must be pulled up the corridor on an empty euro-pallet waving like a carnival queen

this is never me

Duarte means carnival queen

all lorry drivers who use the toilets up the corridor always leave huge unflushable turds in the bowl, never lock the door and laugh while squatting in there, even if they dont

everyone who comes in the office without knocking is a bitch

everyone who comes in the office demanding something is a bitchslut

this results in some people being bitchslutbitches

Duarte means bitchslutbitch

LAUGH OUR DEATH AWAY

the moon is a blur
a smudge
a moody streetlight

a
stain
in the frozen fog dawn
and
complex-simple 
like jazz

i'm alive
i'm alive

out
in
nature

but

heading behind mans walls
where
we
babble in the day dungeon
and
laugh
our
death away

Charles Stafford Photography

WHERES FORD

wheres ford?
and his yells of mad drunk?

he's here under new crowns
his
delusions
cleaner
and
only
medical - 

from the Hot Pit of Shit
to
Heavens Dumb Cusp
he
digs
sober
in
the predawn
for
Truth Elation
and
the
free
words
in the frost

or for the small bathroom pops
that
stick
reality
to
any gods fridge
like
a
childs
awful
scribble

Guardian Unlimited: Reverent Humour

THERES SOME BAD REAL TALES

so i am stretched out
relaxed as much
as
i
can
be
thinking about my youth past
and
the
desperation to live a life
inside
me
and looking back from the 40 bed i see
that tho
i
suffered
in
the misdeeds of distraction
a
life
indeed
it
be

Our Bed by Joe Moorman at Riverson Fine Art

SOFT MACHINERY

our weak-strong bodies
can
shatter-smash
like
stuntman glass
and
be
metal-splinted
and
keyhole-stented
so
the
soft leather and old meat keeps moving
but
its
important
beyond
these words and the hunting moon
to
keep
your
head
and your 21 mystical grams
up
in
the
light
of the universal sun

LEVEL B

three of us
in
store room hospital level B
rain 
touching 
finger smeared panes and memories

ones a physiologist
calls a patient
on
the 
landline
bad readings on his thingummy
can you get in this afternoon?

ones an auditor
scans pacemaker barcodes
taps a silver netbook
mutters in welsh

me leaning back on a busted office chair
till
i
see
wonky pitted ceiling tiles
fiddle with my collar

and we all got balls
and we all got hard livers
and we all got mild perversions
and we all one day will die
and
this
room
too
will one day
be
only
dust

image; ingoldthoughts, wordpress

LIVING IN A CARRIER BAG

the sudden illogic
of
the
narrow minded colleague
so
quick 
to 
anger
when wronged
blurting black and white demands indiscreetly
all
ultimatums
and
inflammatory personal threats

all focusing on themselves

all after the storm has passed

are
delicious
to
watch
somehow

Walt Disney Classics Collection, Donald Duck PIn

GRAYS OR WICKFORD 2

morning
across the strip from the luxor
vegas
nevada
20??

petrol station set well back
large forecourt
chipped
cement

i smoke a domestic cigarette
in dry november air

shout from a man
50 yards off HEY DUDE, WANT TO BUY SOME COKE?

i have just found the right angle again
to
make
it
all
look
like
grays or wickford

(Goodsprings gas station appears only in Fallout: New Vegas)

STREETS FILLED

street night lights
glow the room
in angles and tangents
and
carnival 
slow shadows

machine pump noise fills the room
with comfort
between
the
crashbangs
of kids and cars
from the trolley rattle street
of
leather jacket cabs
and
new sirens

i hug her for strength 
and existential confirmation
in
the
waking dream night
filled
with street lions
and a tired inner buddhist

and
her small toy tractor snores
sweeten
the 
strange
city

DREAM WRONG

my eyes fall
and
its
on
the half-nod when i know the room is there
that from
a
hurtling burst of memories 
a
dream is quickly there

and
i know i am
still 
awake

-

the cats a pig
pink
and giggling
and
i
smuggle him about under my dressing gown
asking him
what
the hell
is
going
on

or

i'm on a sortie in a city 
full with apocalypse floods
following a witch
past
submerged marker flags
i
planted
on
the
way in

-

the dreams merge tightly with the unreality
of
a
unslept 
bed
and i become afraid to close my eyes

and no surprise
the dream catcher has fallen off the wall

too
full

to
help
me

anymore

BUSINESS CLASS BOXING DAY BEACH HUT BULK HEAD

we're not moving
i want to shout
because
it
looks
like
we're
not moving

the sweet puffball clouds look stationary to me

then i see the engine out there
hanging
off
a
trembling
wing

we're moving 
i want to shout
because
it
looks
like
we're moving

the earth is pulling us back
from this impossible angle

the painting of pastel beach huts on the bulkhead
mocks
me

theres beach huts
i want to shout . . .

I DREAMT

britain was under imminent attack
by
foreign 
hostiles

i stand on a city roof top
dressed 
in
brand new
urban camo
all
velcro straps and empty loops
with
hospital workers
and
teachers
and
other last resort reservists
waiting
tense and anxious
in
the
heavy
air
of
invasion dawn

and one guy says
I HOPE ITS NOT JUST JOHN LENNON COMING BACK

GRAYS OR WICKFORD

yellow mercedes cab rolls left out of 
budapest 
airport

yes 
there is a shell garage and a burger king
forecourts of smashed cracked concrete
and
a
cement
graffiti
ruin
in a clot of thin peeled trees

yes
budapest looks like
grays
or
wickford

from the right angle
EVERYWHERE
can
look
like
grays
or wickford

LISTEN UP

you hear something?

sure did mister . . .

the bang of future-now!

and
two
no
three
muggers in the car park
high-tops
crunching on the gravel

but you dont know that mister

you cant see them your lobes are tight with dioxide

thats stereotypes that is

have a look turn round see them in the streetlight?

yes mister 
three
pasty faces
and
suits
and
good shoes
their eyes weak with thin justification

and thats not gravel mister

no?

no thats the finger bones of the state
and
the
skulls
of
the
schools . . .

hand on your wallet mister 
and
keep moving
stay in the shadows

bide your time . . .

1934 Citroen

1934 Citroen, a photo by ford dagenham on Flickr.

my ride around Budapest

LOADED

i been thinking

i need to have a word

stop by the office

got a minute

ask you something seriously

all
stab
my
heart and guts
with
ice knives of fire

like

the yell-ring of the telephone . . .

IT TURNS OUT IT WAS

theres 
a
pause
before
she 
laughs
you could reverse a bus thru
and
i
wonder
in this small eternity
if
the werd-fart what my dim mind barked 
was
funny
at
all

BOG POP

tenth floor communist 
bog
pipes
sound more like
distant dancing music
than
any 
other
pipes
i
ever
heard