THE PEOPLE I WORK WITH

she 
points
at
the 
dry riser

OH GOD I LOVE THESE !

she 
opens 
the 
cabinet
and
points
at 
the
landing valve

MAN, THATS WELL SICK !

then
she
dances
into
the lift

the people i work with

falconfireproducts.com

OR A VIRAL AFTERMATH

if
you
got
a
good relationship
with
your
toxins of choice

dont
let
it
sour
or abruptly change

cos
theyll
turn
on 
you
like a bullied hound

from facstaff.cbu.edu

TODAY

yesterdays
weak
beast

reformed

and 
threw
a
web
onto
the
wind

from deviantart.com

HUNGRY MORNING

waking from dreams 
of movie close-ups
in side lit bar smoke
i
list
body parts 
automatically

hips
lips
nips
etc

like a surgeon preparing an organic build
or
dr frankenstein doing inventory
before
he
lost
his
mind

and my belly rumbles and turns itself over 
like a brewing volcano 
or 
a 
sewer after a summer downpour

i
wonder
what bothers it
- what weird night of antirest grows such appetite ?

i open the curtains and soft dust dances

out
there
everyone is doing
whatever
they
do

under the morning sun

from theaceblackblog.com

CORMAC McCARTHY VS JAMES M CAIN

BLOOD MERIDIAN 

keen to follow the kid / strong rootless drifting / big country beautifully realised / but the kid disappears in a rockfall of nameless characters / then i liked it again - the country is a powerful character / then i was bored for ages / then the kid is back ! gets a weird earless friend / then i'm bored again for ages / towards the end i like it again because i'm near the end but what the hell is happening ? sense of missing the point / being taken for a clever ride / the judge is a classic character creation tho / i picture an epic film looking good on paper but a controversial five hour cut / top heavy / ambitious and NOT bad but wheres the SOUL ? style and content battle for clever points and the reader is left in the cold . . .

whereas 

SERENADE 

is just plain pure poetry set literally to music 

NOTHING AM

thursday mid morning 

and 

the Nothing

is

RAMPANT

its Nothing past Nothing AM

and 

i 

have 

to 

write it down to give IT substance 

make

it

Something past Something AM

paint some dimension on IT

and

lift it up to balance on the edge of Abyss

and

make

us

seem More than an accident of

a

gods

one ancient hanging ball

from alexiuus.deviantart.com

JOHN LOCKE AND GEORGE HARRISON - CELL MATES !

dusty prison yard / gutters thick with clay from rain / football game marked out by torn red flags and boots dragged in the dirt

i move my sleeping bag and army stamped blankets away from the young mother / hungry for isolation / and from my new found half-brother / when ever i see him i say WHO'S YOUR DAD ?

half-brother - he's ugly / he's a flake / a looser

me and john locke got an escape plan / looping inner tubes in secret around the wooden walls

guards in the adobe hut in the south corner watching the game / the game is loud / the air wet with old rain / dust drying and rising / mens yells

theres a hiss like snakes / like a truck tire burst on a dirt road rock 

puncture 

i mend it best i can / the tubes are mixed with underpants and split rubber hose strung out in split strings like kids cheese

i use george harrisons guitar / twist it all back secure and inflated with the fretboard / george sees me from the goal line / stays quiet / realises its for the good of all

i move my sleeping bag and blankets back to the young mother 
and dim half-brother / full of regret and i apologise in tears

she cries too / he is sleeping / lazy / my narrow space next to the old pram still vacant

john locke looks on in scorn / beard grown bushy like a mountain man / uses mind tricks to make the three year old tap dance angrily on my chest / a warning . . .

i wake / a hungry cat is gently sliding
big
claws
down 
my 
cheeks

purring like he'll burst

from yalenusblog.com

SUPERTIRED !

strange how exhausted a man can be
with 
mind-fog a north wall of dense smudged graffiti 
and
still 

all at once

can
plan evenings of seaside-dinner and cafe-words 
he might miss 
and
still
can
suddenly plot crime novels bent on the work toilet
he may never write
and
still
can
work his heavy limbs for folding money
thru the murky muddy troughs of awful 10 AM
and
still
can
jot and scribble nascent poems quickly down
between
dark bitter coffees and spacious abyss moments 
that 
reduce All Things from rocky mass to mere paper concept
with
still
the 
big world-drama banging like jungle telegraph
out the radio headlines and dim-opinion gossip mouths
that
fill
full
every
long
slow
blink
of tiny interrupted peace

from delightmakers.com

GLASS HALF FULL SCENARIO

the glass is half full
when
youre
half
way
thru
filling it

with deep red wolfblass
or
golden gin

like i used to do

(tho now its all filtered water
and
dark bitter teas)

and
the
glass is half empty
when
youre
half
way
thru
drinking it

like on a monday night draining warm cider and cheap scotch
like
i
used
to
do

(tho now its all filtered water
and
dark bitter teas)

or
am
i
taking
it
too
literally

again

?

from foodriot.com

THERES TWO

kinds of cbt

one
helped
me
when 
i
thought
nothing
could

the other - 
i'm
not
keen
to
try

cbttherapist.co.uk

IT IS SAID

that no sparrow
compares
itself
to
an
eagle

this is accepted therapeutic wisdom
to
enable
us
to
find
peace

but might not that sparrow
compare
itself
to
another sparrow
whos younger healthier plumper
and
sings
louder
from a higher branch ?

or
do
i
miss
the
point

again

?

nationalgeographic.com

PEOPLE

are like rain

or

rats

which ?

people are wet 

and

falling

refreshing too

also

hairy

fat

rutting

and

germy bad-rep parasites

and

eat

rubbish

but

make rainbows too

dilemma !

scientistatwork.blogs

OBSERVATION FROM FUCKTOWN NANDOS

buzz sided petrified hair
with 
piled tops of sculpted ice cream 
or 
yellow cartoon surf waves
over
baby young white faces somehow startled
at
what
theyve
done

and all their trousers - pale stretch denim
or
thin grey jogging fleece
are
all snug carrot shapes
with
loose hanging heavy nappy crotches
make
their torsos long and weak
and
their
legs dwarf stumpy

and their feet wear flat fabric things
their
grandfathers would stroll in brand-new on UK beach holidays
or
stand in self consciously on Norfolk boat decks
lost
now they already got a paper in some strange lollipop shop

and in bold pattern t shirts with tight crew necks 
and
primary colour baby pockets
and
rolled cap sleeves showing weak childs arms
and
pastel feminine cardigans or knitted hoodies
washed out 
and 
flimsy
under englands lame grey

and slung awkward and empty-light
are
small bags of Burberry or Nike
that
hold iphones in rubber coats
and
Super-dry velcro wallets 

no 
knowledge of the decade they emulate
no 
high concepts or cocaine breakfasts
no
brown and beige seventies OD
for
context
of the colour explosion and juxtaposition 
and 
primary 
jazz 
shapes

no one needs to know where this pic is from

MOVIE SCENES

its like a movie

scene - restaurant/chilled water/us together

   (a waiter barely table height

   drops profiteroles-to-share)

   she walks to the toilet/disappearing

   THEN

   my mauled soul yells me a wide fib

it says; you made her up/you here alone

scene - fussy mother waitress looking at me

   all care and cow eyes

   the

   jet-world rattle of restaurant

   rises

   to

   a hitchcock crescendo 

again it says; PROVE youre not alone

suspense movie now - the mad final reel

cold sweat pricks its tickle fingers round my hairline

scene - i’m staring at her coat on the chair back

        wondering/asking/pleading

   did i put it there?

scene - she walks back to me

   i say PINCH ME!

   she pinches me

        laughing

   at

   my

   suspicious

   eyes

theculturaldish.blogspot

THE BACKPACK OF DARREN GREY

A new-starter clutches beige copybooks, bounces up the top-deck heading to home cooking, week one under his new George belt.

Sixth-former falls into seat behind like loose lumber, tie short with wide slack knot and strokes his soul patch, bops a plastic bottle on a silver rail.  Backwash swims around in the neck like low tide.

Outside autumn falls to the floor in amber flakes.  A Knife Awareness sticker peels away on the window. 

‘Listen up!’  He bottle-bops kid's bonce.

The surprised kid fumbles his fringe back into sleek shapes, lamps innocent.

‘See that sticker?  Knives?  You heard about Darren Grey?’  Sixth-former says.

‘Finking on a lunchbag?’ 

‘Darren was a unit; got a cautionary tale.  About knives.’

Bus shakes and starts out into slow traffic.

‘Be careful what you wish for; message straight off!  Darren Grey had epic bad skin, didn’t look anyone in the eye, hunched inside his fleece collar ALL the time.  Even summer.  No catalogue-shopper though.  More spot than skin!  Clique of wannabe Barbie’s, mumblers, planned their boyfriends to jump him, bunch of Johnny No-Stars would have done it; burst the lot but I got Heather, right swamp-donkey, to Skype’n me on me ma’s ipad, told her it was a bad idea.  Stepped up for him.’

New-starter’s turned round, kneeling up, facing backwards.  Bus babble a background blur to him.

‘No one hardly took the piss neither.  Never seen the blue goldfish even.  Untouchable!  Skin DESTROYING him.  Always alone.  Collar up eyes down.’  Sixth-former continues.

Bus is rumbling between redbrick towns and farmer’s fallow fields.

‘Acne in geometric shapes!  Like alien language!  Tried to hide behind his fringe.  Hair was TOO fly-away.  MESSIER somehow.  Frozen in class KNOWING everyone stares - no EMPATHY; FASCINATED!  Nose ALWAYS shiny taut red.  Getting it, Youngblood?’

‘Spotty kid.  Suffering.’  New-starter squeaks.

‘Yes!  SUFFERING!’

The bus shakes into a high street.  Nail bars and takeaways.  Second floors feature faded ads.  New flats got sale signs stood inside.

‘Used to sit where you are.  At the front where no one could see his face.’  Sixth-former points.

Kid glances at the garish burnt orange bench.    

‘Found him in the bogs dodging woodwork gurning in the mirror. I was touching cloth!  He’s doing some catalogue pose, fingers covering up the worst of it.  Seeing how he COULD look.  Saw me and said I’M DOING SOMETHING ABOUT THIS.’ 

‘What’d he do?’

‘Next Monday not in.  Tuesday, his skin was clear!’

The bus stops opposite the station.  Coats and scarves scramble thru dragging double doors.  Then it dips into traffic, heavy with the day.

‘New Nike backpack.  All zips and pockets.  NEVER took it off!   NEVER OPENED IT!  NEVER TOOK ANYTHING OUT!  Got arrogant too, bogging everyone in the corridor.  Rumours of a knife.’  Sixth-former draws a cock in window condensation.

‘How’d he do it?’

The bus crunches over loose gravel and grit lost by lorries lumbering off the small quarry’s weigh-bridge.

‘Hid in the chemistry teacher’s class at breaks.  She’s all kinder surprise but keg-legs, you know.  Saw them drive off after school on the Friday.’

     Backwash sloshes in the bottle.  Bus opens up into the outside lane. 

     ‘Wednesday wet break, pissing down sheets, flattening bushes.  I was down by science.  Darren’s in the demountable with her.  I creep up.  Investigating.  It’s weird - no one’s saying much.  She opens his bag with it still on his back.  She’s dabbing ointment inside the bag.  I got to see INSIDE that bag.  She gives him pills he takes.’

     Kid is an open mouth.  Bus slides up a slip road.

     ‘Next - lunchtime in the library.  Still raining.  Darren’s whispering to this girl never looked at him before.  I trigger the fire alarm.

     ‘The girl ran.  I blocked him.  He weren’t happy, moomyang you know?  I spin him round; unzip the backpack.’

     The bus stops by small semis surrounded by soggy wasteland, hungry horse’s dobby behind barbed wire. 

‘His blazer moved with the bag right?  Was stitched to his jacket!  Tug the zip back and there’s his bare back!  Fire alarm hid his squeals.’

     Bus turns into traffic steel ticking.

     ‘Come on!  I get off soon.’  News-starters rocking back and forward.

     ‘Me too!  So, fire alarm’s wailing, windows rattling, Darren’s struggling.  I get the bag open – inside of the bag is cut out!’

     ‘What you find?’ Kid all ears and eyes.

     ‘Giant-fucking-super-spot!  His whole back!  Many heavy-headed beast.  Red and white.  Bulbous and blind.  Scabbed and weeping.  Dry and wet-fresh.  All keggy.  He runs off.  I throw up, technicolor yawn.  Nearly boffed up me ring.  Anyway – his face all cleared up right?  By consolidating his acne in one monster bitch on his back!  Thru chemistry!’

     ‘Chemistry teacher did that!?’  Kid quickly looks thru the windows at where they are.

     ‘So, ended up in the bogs, dunny by science lockers.  Wind still fierce, rain sheeting down loud as fire alarm is.  I say sorry and he SEETHES!

     ‘Then she comes in.  Chemistry Miss.  Zips him up.  And he’s well angry, shaking, pulls a knife!  Stanley knife out of woodwork looks like.’

     She shove’s him backwards quick like she was waiting for it – his bag goes hard into a hand-dryer.  He screamed.  It burst . . . noise like wet leather.  Shotgun blast on a camel hump.’  He strokes his soul patch.  Eyes far away.

     Bus stops at traffic lights showing red.

     ‘Blood floods the tiles.  So dark.  Scream cuts off sudden.  Falls down on his face bag all wet flaps.’  Sixth-former shudders.

     ‘She goes, I CANT HELP HIM ANYMORE, YOU BEST GET OUT, her eyes all wide.  I left.’

     Kid stands.  ‘Got to get off.  Quick!’

     ‘Never heard anymore about it.  Rumours of him moving away but he had to be dead.  Enormous wound.  Had to be.’

     ’That’s all?’

     ‘Yep.  Beware what you wish for.  Don’t carry knives.’

     He shot downstairs, out the doors and looked up.

     The bus pulls away.  The sixth-former slowly makes his way down bopping his bottle of backwash.

LONG STORY SHORT

you

are

what

i

thought

could would never happen

so i drank

and

when

i did stop drinking

you happened

so no one dare to wake me from my tangerine dream now

or

remind me of the bottle shop way

lahirien.deviantart.com

BEHIND GODS BALLS

dawn's sun is Gods Yellow Anus
he
shows
like
a
cat
would

and
tho
now

all the Tired Torn Trees
glow like Delicate Naked Gold
and
all the Crushed Tins and Ripped Foil
shine like Left Treasure
we
need
not
hunt
for
anymore

when

he tugs back up his Dusk Sky Strides 
and 
extinguishes his Rectal Laser
the
trees
once more appear Harsh Woven Nightmares
and
the Free Glittering Treasure
just
a
trail
of
tramps
or
drunks

lifesucksandthenyoudie blogspot 

PEOPLE -

rescue your exiled wonder
from
the
glass prism of opinion faces 
and diode creations
and
look
with
it
on
the crazy reaching trees
and
the mad half parts of worms
and
see
the black belts we buckled Mother with
and
the
folding window walls we raised 
to tease Her with us and us with Her
and
to
keep
Her warm soil hands off our ignored origins
so
we
might
pretend
to
be
more

outdoorscreens.com

BREAKDOWNS REALLY

saturday night london basement

escaped mothers dance like strippers with staring fakesters

and me

i’m moody drunk and high

staring down at the kickers and box fresh converse

some nobody saying

IT AINT ALL BAD YOU KNOW

to my dead face of whisky misery-thunder

and

then

cab rolls us south in silence

and it is like magnets – our hands

i can’t not – tho i shouldnt

and its ok - i think i am helping you

and anyway we’re all having breakdowns really

and then we’re drinking more

under the heathrow flight paths

and you fall asleep on me

i got one arm to drink with – reach for the valium with

and i wake you at dawn

for drunkards breakfast

of

coffee

unfinished toast

cigarettes

and

i leave with no job and half the bus fare

and really i wasn’t helping at all

cos

we’re

all

having breakdowns really

http://browngirlnextdoor.com/tag/converse/

THE PUBS GONE

all-weather speakers would play classic metal

and

we’d shout BOAT at slow tankers

magritte large

riding high on grey thames

and

we’d steal bar stools made from beer barrels

pry up all the cats eyes out the car park

and

there’d be 11 o clock whip-round for rip-off machine fags

and

clean-hair weekend-rockers wear wife-hemmed jeans

would arrive at 6 and sip slow dull ales

and

we’d clatter and tilt the pinball

line up fifty pee’s on the pool

barman pouring shots and popping brown bottles

at a wave and a nod

and

later

we’d lose and find and smoke hash blims on derelict jetties

and

the open fire would crackle at winter lunch times

smoky day-lit ashtray tables would pile with pint glasses

with the new white euro pint line

and

we’d use the pay phone on the bar for friends and drugs and cabs

fumbling the coins in when they answer

but

new orange flats grew up fast from industry wasteland

and

all the bikers moved down river

denim regulars fell out with gay rumours

and

the fireplace was blocked in

and

canteen tables bolted down in squares

and

all the bar brass ripped out

and

a papier-mâché castle appeared in the dart board corner

for djs ticketed nights

and

no

one

went anymore

pubhistory.com