Wednesday 30 April 2014

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



Tuesday 29 April 2014

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

Monday 28 April 2014

TODAY



yesterdays
weak
beast

reformed

and 
threw
a
web
onto
the
wind



from deviantart.com

Friday 25 April 2014

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 

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




Thursday 24 April 2014

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 



Wednesday 23 April 2014

NOTHING AM



thursday mid morning 
and 
the Nothing
is
RAMPANT

its Nothing past Nothing AM
and 
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


Tuesday 22 April 2014

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

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

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

Saturday 19 April 2014

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

Friday 18 April 2014

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

Wednesday 16 April 2014

THERES TWO



kinds of cbt

one
helped
me
when 
i
thought
nothing
could

the other - 
i'm
not
keen
to
try



cbttherapist.co.uk



Tuesday 15 April 2014

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

Monday 14 April 2014

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




Sunday 13 April 2014

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


Friday 11 April 2014

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

Wednesday 9 April 2014

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







Tuesday 8 April 2014

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 


Monday 7 April 2014

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

Saturday 5 April 2014

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/

Friday 4 April 2014

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