Tuesday, 29 May 2018


i dont know what a poem is.  i wouldnt presume to know what a poem is.  i forget what a poem is.


there was a young man called dagenham
(tho he wasnt really)
who wasnt actually from dagenham
(its a place)
he was called ford
(tho he wasnt really)
he didnt drive a ford
(he didnt drive anything)
there was a ford plant at dagenham
(its closed now)

see ?


so poems- mistakes and a glue gun.  a treaty on demarcation zone minutiae written in the fidget trenches of the eternal war of blessed blamed cursed crimson existence.  an inscription on a longsword slicing all the phantom and branded umbilicals.

i remember a rule-

i remember a rule-

so poems- an idea laid with class.  a remembered event invested with the importance of diminished years . . . the curse of the rosy glasses.  catch it if it lets you.  or track it for months for years thru the slimy undergrowth of yesterdays unglorious murk.

so poems- rain in the morning.  a lovers yawn.  a cats paw.  washing on a summer line.  jism in a prism.  ibsen in prison.

jism in a prism.

so poems- an investigation of the motivation of the population in copulation.

cos someones doing it somewhere at any and every time of the day.  liquid soul.

so poems- commiseration of deliberation.  misappropriation of defibrillation.  the consternation of the factotum.  adoption on probation.

my war gone by.  i miss it so.

so- see ?
when its a stale wall, all a stale wall, no cracks in there to mine, i look out the window.  

i climb the shoulders of misanthropes.

the wall defends itself and i know nothing.

i read guff and buck.  
i read james elroy.
i read backwards.
i read me and wonder.
wonder and me read i.

so poems- a by product or end product ?

so poems- i have lost what they are.  so i read.  on the toilet.  stuff out one end and in the other.  i see if i can recognise one when i see it.  the poems.  not the shit.  tho some days . . .

and theres some kind of gulf thats crossed when you open a book.  rewards are a crapshoot.  force of will.


i write a haiku
forget how many syllables
still pond water ripples

see ?


words are nothing without an order.  except for some . . . like pandemic and exit.  i am one of shakespears monkeys.  i wrote his full stops.

so i leave the mess thats not a mess.  i take a breath that is a breath.  i breath in a mess . . . and play music out the player- borrow someone elses breath-mess.

so i manufacture broad advice- cherish the many and any gendered rocks we lean on.  dont live for heaven.  its not there.  its here.  and its fucked.  unfuck your corner everyone.

make it up.  blow smoke on it.

now i am always saying that.

write something.  persistence.  it will have its own curve if its true.  you have to listen to it.  have to see.


like its a river.  ride it out to sea.  see.  and abandon it well before land falls from view.


dont try.  do.
if you cant do.  do anyway.  lip read your heart beat.

dont do - do more.

i am in a kerfuffle.  an echo bubble.  and the banter with the voices- gone clabby and awkward.  like someone i worked with six years ago next to me on the bus.

to paraphrase the stones- its only poetry, but i (think) i like it.

i hope it likes me.  for realsies.
should i ask it ?
or watch tv ?

see ?

welcome to plastic zen.

The Wall - Game of Thrones Wallpaper (20412535) - Fanpop

from fanpop.com

No comments:

Post a Comment