THE DEBRIS SHORE

the earth is hot and the earth is dead and the surf is the colour of stains and nudges the debris shore.

old davy was mad and crazy and he was sick and maimed and he was garrulous and convincing.  i walk to the beach.

there is no one else to convince and there is no one else to go. there is no one else.  

old davy was dead this morning and old davy got buried in a shallow grave dug with a rusty shell of metal and old davy is wrapped in the only blanket i could spare.

the fields are wet and the fields are steaming and the fields arent fields anymore and hold dense puddles of thick sludge rain where there was once was maize and wildflower.

the sea wall is crumbled and the sea wall is scrawled on.  the words are despairing and the words are threatening and the words are all very faded and whole letters have crumbled into the filthy sand unsaying themselves.

my bag is full and my bag is dirty and my bag is laid in the lee of petrified sludge the better for me to be quiet and for me to do as old davy said.

it is like old davy said and it is strange that old davy knew and it is an unsettling event in a land of unsettling events where there once was streets and order.

there is nothing for me to loose and there is nothing else for me to do for everything is lost and there is nothing that is to be done.

i stop to look to see what old davy said was and i see that what old davy said is.

an off-white phone box on off-white dresser feet is leaning over the off-white dirty sand.  the off-white phone box is searching.

at a spot of off-white dirty sand the off-white phone box opens its door and clumsily begins to awkwardly dig.

as old davy had said it would then so indeed it is.  

it was enemy and i was witness and i look beyond it and i kept still in the murk and i kept quiet on the debris beach and i kept hidden among the petrified sludge.

another off-white phone box lay killed in the shallows.  surf the colour of stains nudges it on the way to the debris shore.

it is overcast and it is dark and it is day, maybe noon.  

i reach under my slicker of rough-cut half-cured skin and i reach the pocket stiff with grease and i reach the button chipped and rough and i reach inside the grimy lint and i reach the disc there coloured brown.

old davy said it was once silver and old davy said it once held a gentle womans face and was once ten.

i hold the disc aloft like i was told and i approach the off-white box like i was told and the off-white box digs and there is no sound at all.

until my foot crushes plastic brittle with exposure and my foot and the brittle plastic make a crunch is a crack is a crescendo.  

the off-white phone box turns this way and its off-white door hangs open and the off-white phone box in the surf the colour of stains stands too and makes its way to the debris shore.

i reach under the slicker again and into the greasy pocket and reach another disc from the grimy lint there.  a pitted disc of bevelled edges.

old davy said it had once said fifty and once held a gentle womans face and i hold it too aloft and i move slowly forward across the dirty sand.

both off-white phone boxes are walking to me and their off-white dresser feet drag in surf the colour of stains where it nudges up on the debris shore.

it is as old davy said it was and i say as old davy told - in murk and debris and sludge and alone i call out OPERATOR and walk forward thru the murk and the surf the colour of stains that nudges my feet as it touches the debris shore.

KING CHURN

used to sit at the tiled desk
ignoring my cold feet
with
a
bottle
and
another bottle
and
dirty
small glasses with thick glass bases
i'd
stare at the table lamp thru
and
churn
out
tiny pops of derision and street litter observation

the piles of old 45s would grow
and
collect
ash
in their charity scratched grooves

now i sit at the same desk with coffee or weird bitter teas
with
chet baker long players 
tickling and painting the slower nights prettier
and
churn out smaller pops
of
toilet trips
and
gentler things

but
still churning
which
is
the
main
thing

tsutpen.blogspot

LIKE A CORRUPT COPPERS BADGE

i'm 40

get an urge to shove it in peoples faces
like
a
corrupt
copper
clutching a tarnished badge
and
muscling for a payoff

shove it in their faces
especially if theyre young
or
young
student
drs
strung with small bags and bleeps

in defiance
like a challenge

i get the urge

SHOW YOUR WORKING OUT

narrow gardens lay in serried rows

is it serried ?

sounds odd now - they might be serried

anyway quiet daytime backyards 
are
laid out like weathered drawings

like an architect does
but with all trees drawn in too
but
left in the sun to curl on a forgotten draft table

they have old sheds and new sheds
and
add-on conservatories with small white steeples
and
ugly rusting bikes with over-size tires 

they seem to speak loudly to me
of order and civilised balance

not literally of course - i'm on a train anyway
and
wouldnt
hear
them if they did actually speak

but speak in the poetic sense

basically they are well normal gardens

but
theyre planted on fine lines of optimism
and
i read
somewhere something by someone clever who said
we're all only
three missed meals from chaos

so my point is
that the gardens look ok now
well normal like i said
but
i
can
picture
them
with small pillars of smoke on the horizon 
and
dark overcast skies and foraging pillaging gangs
of forgotten morals
lurking
in the sheds eating human meat over campfires

i think i meant something like that

from ecotownz.co.uk

SELF PORTRAIT 2010

DEATH IN CHELSEA

getting out at at Sloane Square 
into a handbag convention
i am asked by a red trim butler 
or a weekend beefeater 
or something else 
smart and subservient
if
i
need help sir

i tell her she cant help me - 
my mind is screaming 
POSHICIDE!

fixie Charge Plugs are D-locked in clots
and classic SL's cruise insolently
in fire engine red
new TT's and shining A5's
rev church quiet showroom fresh
and long nose ladies prowl in pairs 
in plastic Earhart shades
and thin patterned shawls 
blow stylishly sideways 
in movie wind machines
and times font signs 
say 4 shirts 200 pounds
and art-modern shops hold one dress 
in a vacuum and three colours
and a lonely manikin 
posing at the till
gazes out from perfection for help
and afternoon drinkers 
sip short coloured cocktails 
sat in enormous window thrones
with fashionably flaking gold gilt
and the Kings Road Macdonalds 
of widescreens and sofas
has hanging baskets of blooms 
above the high wide porch
and the Pret is run 
by a rom-com casting agent
and has steel mirrored stairs 
to steel mirrored bathrooms
and would a quick handful 
of painless poisonings 
really matter at all ?

i'm only in this fuckburg
to see a Royal Brompton professor 
about my madness anyway

so
thats
a
good
cover
right
there

MAC THE CLEANER

mac the cleaner has deep carved wrinkles under wide bloodshot eyes.  this morning he hides himself under a blue anorak hood. a brown roll-up is visible sticking out toothpick thin from white bristle lips.  he lights it in solitude out on the hospital back lane.

he looks rough these days.  he is death white pale.  

he didnt used to be.  he used be old leather.  

his eyes look down at cracked concrete and pebbles laying where the rain left them. he used to look at the grey clouds and loudly disclaim all and any weather.  

he says MORNING but the life has vanished from his voice.  less a greeting now an automatic observation. 

i know he used camp with old rockers and retired bikers for the volkswagon weekender and drink homebrew from stone jars and cook Aldi steaks in a half-drum bbq.  
i know on a monday he used to say FIVE DAYS TO GO and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
i know on a wednesday he used to say HALFWAY THERE and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
and on a friday WOOHOO.
i know he has a married daughter over the river and no wife.
i know he visits his dad twice a year saving up for the train. until he had a fall and they moved him from country isolation to a local home.
i know his moaning used to be cheery.
i know he stops for a pint with the market traders on the way home everyday and sometimes i'd lend him money for it.
i know he always paid back prompt.
i know he reads fantasy paperbacks by people i never heard of feet up in the broom cupboard clutter of the private ward.
i know before pay day he'll ask for baccy and i'd let him roll a few from my pouch for the evening.
i know he'd use his own brown liquorice papers.

i known him a long time but i dont know him well.

i think he may have had bad news.
concerning his dad.
or his own health.

but his face no longer invites conversation.

the funnyfarm

YOU SUCK

youre dirty marked immature
and
why
you 
eh?

youre unclean a leper lit up - a target!

youre not a really real actual person actually

you lack credibility mass presence
and 
why 
you 
eh?

youre downcast trapped shamed

you hide sidelined shrivelled and mean

says
acne

unfairly

acne by saccstry on deviant art

INSIDE JOE RIDGWELLS HEAD

is an undead London land 
of 
forever social clubs - tall white castles 
of 
hot old diamonds
cheap cold beer
free salty seafood 
where 
mirrorballs turn evil-eyes 
and 
hypnotic disco dots
on high artex ceilings 
and 
tall black windows 
and
dozens of black rollneck joes scitter on overdrive in there
saying
FUCK SHIT WHATEVER and I AINT GOT A PEN 
and
another dozen black rollneck joes 
recite sad poems in there 
of 
local hero boxers and dead corner boozers 
gone 
to 
eternal early doors and unknown graves 
on 
dark red stages of decks and wireless mics 
and
a simple table oasis in the eye of the storm 
holds fine artisan pages 
of 
joes hopes dreams memories 
scribbled and stabbed home and abroad 
in
motorised beer fuelled mashup 
and
dozens of black stocking dancers 
from old gone Hollywood - from Fante's dusty LA
throw elegant retro shapes 
with
impeccable held posture and cool knowing faces

like the hotel california - you can checkout anytime you like
but
you
can
never
leave

zorita burlesque dancer 1940’s from sloth unleashed

TOO MUCH 3

too much

were the too many shadows cast too long

of the too many long cool drinks

in the too late soft hotel bars

where a quiet barman in a too tight tie

always said sir to my bleary smudge face

and

too many too bright dawn slides home

where 

too many birds sang too loud too many words

i

always

understood

all too much

so 

now

i

scribble my literal anus in too small hiccups

too tired to write anything too long

and

carefully

nurse

my

back brain and its dim fluke glow

catching its too dull diamond flashes 

on 

too yellow post-its 

that curl and collect too much fluff and ash and dust

their ideas fading slow in too little sun

waiting too long

for

me

from psds

TOO MUCH 2

too much inner dialogue of ill hot thoughts

to get my

burnt hiding mind round tomorrows real future

too much

so 

i

ran

from

the spot light of accidental university

to the retail rut of shift work mall 

killing me every dawn over greasy spoon breakfast

where time crushed its top hat 

standing on its subjective head

too much

too much - i poured neat cheap rum in bitter black coffee

and smoked a smokeless hash pipe

on the two trains home 

after found whisky and babbling high existentialism 

in 

that 

mad 

guys 

van

1988 ford escort by scott barrett

TOO MUCH 1

packed-lunch demons 
twenty four seven in the pitch black day
pounced
under
corner shop eyes and canteen white noise
cast
me
paranoid in a big drum sweat
struck fear-dumb in the after-school streets
too
much
too
much
were
the
loopholes of black dream disasters and numb i went
into
the
shutdown caverns of liquid anaesthetic

FROM READING QUEERLY

APE TROOPERS

TV

news

beige buildings with bullet holes

bleached desert backdrop

reporter in white shirt crisp three days ago

olive flak jacket says PRESS in black

he plays up his dangerous locale

ad

 pastel family sit round a huge tv

logo filling the screen

more ads per hour than ANY OTHER channel

we tell you what you need

make room people!

  the smiling family fill bin-liners with belongings

making room

  

film

men in vests fight and swear by back-alley bins

  next they team up to swear and fight someone else

by

 plate glass

 and cardboard

shopping channel

 hyper active presenter

explains

obvious merits of owning a bed

     ad

sandbags and fast attic conversions

 featuring a roof-dingy

 from flood inc

tv

I AM THE CAPTAIN

i feel a flow now

the
flow
of
myth

the flow often spoken about
in college canteens and late night
high
philosophy
jags

everyone bright eyed with possibility
while
i
looked at the carpet and the floor 
not feeling the waters direction at all
wilfully
stagnant
in my own black pool

now i step aboard the small boat
and
call to the captain
but theres no captain there - i am the captain !

i
sit
back
all calm and quiet eyed
and
let the rudder eddy its overdue path 
down
stream

NOT AGE

since turning 40 in a hot sticky summer haze of fever
surgical masks 
and cancelled trips 
there is question mark hanging 
over ever dry dust and fresh scrubbed 
and palm-open or fist-closed face 
where 
an 
age 
could be printed in a bold times font 

i am unable to fill this gap with a number 
but prefer to place phrases there like 

CHILD
HALF WIT 
or ENLIGHTENED
like 
TRYING
SURVIVING 
or SELF-CENTRED
like 
HIDING
OVERHEATED
or WILLINGLY DELUDED

i label in lower case 
always ready to erase 
in the accepting wind-tides of change and progress 
and 
the 
word 
above my head is not for me to write there 
but i do lean back 
or quickly look up 
in hopes of catching a glimpse 
of 
my 
current perceived status

SALT OF THE EARTH NEO PROLES

corner shop
early evening
bleeds fm pop hooks into my mind

short salt-of-the-earth neo-proles clot the checkout
mumble
about
getting
a movie out on sky
the big oscar winner/mumbling dont bovva wiv it
to
the
shop
boy
bruised blue from amateur boxing 
who
only
saw
it
in freedee cos it woz all space and that coming at ya
and
they
all
agree say 
youd ave to see it in freedeee

i wait with my perishables all the great films dead in my head
killed
by
radios
bleeding pop hooks

R2D2 alone

R2D2 alone, a photo by ford dagenham on Flickr.

Spiderman/Ford/Tank

Spiderman/Ford/Tank, a photo by ford dagenham on Flickr.

Dark Side of the (Police) Force

Dark Side of the (Police) Force, a photo by ford dagenham on Flickr.

SELF PORTRAIT

ash flakes onto the desk like dirty snow from days first smoke
lit and pulled deep
he blows it away to collect and become dust
and
coffee steams out the round cup like ghosts of ground beans 
and field labour
from 
the 
first 
pot

he rubs sleep from tired eyes

he'll do this all day

he squints eyes tight shut fingers still over keys
trying
to
remember
the
words
he thought on waking
or just
from seconds ago

them he rattles them out/eyes unfocused - 
or something close anyways
and of course they seem weak and his face shows displeasure

its quiet - this effort day task one
a challenge on waking
a discipline in the unwashed dressing gown 
dry night sweat itching
a determination born of coldfire breakdowns 
and drunken wasted time

he SAYS something and launches its small creation
into 
electronic ether

the cat passes by - sits back-to-him on the wide window sill
watching
the
silent street and birds in the red berry bush

he sips coffee - opens new tabs - closes new tabs
checks the time

sometimes i control his hands

sometimes

from Hospice Matters wordpress

WRITE A POEM HE SAID

write a poem he said

wot now ? i said

yes now he said with words from this instant ether

ok i said and wrote 

coffee ring table
holds
cheap electric eye
and
a
black
board of burst words
and
my
struggle hands
hungry for rest but hungry for something else too
light with exhaustion
empty
like
balloons
they
tap
out
surroundings/room buzz/cold feet
and
the still-world painting on the window glass
thats
split
sometimes
with children and a cat and the blur of vans
and
the silence in here
is
desperate for a song
and 
everything 
will
wait

ok he said you did it

i did i said but it needs work

it does he said but thats ok

throw up into the typer at at dawn ? i said

and clean up at noon . . .

the classic typewriter page

SATURDAY MORNING

when we wake up lazy without deadlines
and eyebags and yawns hold no matter
we
thumb-check smart phones
for 
news of fresh dead
and instead find
an airliner has vanished from the near east sky
and
there
is
almost no noise
outside the window here at all
and
when one of us gets up to make coffee
the
monster-cat comes in purring and looking and padding
his tail a question mark of fur
and
he perches on side tables 
wide eyed
and
as creepy as he can
so
we
sip
the coffee
and gaze at the haze of late dawn
coming blue-grey round the curtains
and
there
is only a few sheets of toilet paper left
in the bathroom
so
we
plan
small shopping
and nice meals
for 
a 
lazy 
day