OFF-CUT AUTUMN POPS

autumn the first 

tar on the breeze

falling falling

fallen leaves

~

& the sun is slung 

underhand across the sky

sixty minutes late

& eyeline high

MIGHT BE A WORD IN GERMAN

 

i gone again

gone all absent 

in the Right Now 

reality orgy

its a veil-up

shutters-down

kind of thing

& theres probably 

a german word for this

but i dont know it

its like i am 

remote viewing my future
from way back when

you know ?

4D YING YANG

 

tomorrows yesterday
is time for lunch
& a nap

& yesterdays tomorrow

is suppertime

& a bath

next weeks last week

was a coffee binge

& posey ooze

as i flatten

relativitys 

4d ying yang

with my bad clay bulk

JAPANESE GOLD & GLUE

 

& if i am in bits

well reform me then

with japanese gold & glue

~

& tell me

what do i do

when its the rain

that

wants

me

to stop ?

SMELLING THE SAME OLD ROSES PT 3

 

blown focus 

leaves options

a slim scoop

of old frozen vanilla

like a polaroid of the same old roses

its pigments browning in the sun

my gaze

& 

the smartphone blue 

MAO OFFERED HIM TEN MILLION WOMEN

 

did you know 

henry kissinger 

is still at large ? 

same springfield-toilet glasses

same dont-ask secret suit

same wavy rug gone white & climbing

but hes crumpled up like a granny now

jowls teabagging his windsor knot

&

i wonder

if he wonders

about a patient waiting hell

fuck - hes probably lead consultant

SMELLING THE SAME OLD ROSES PT 2

when the 

  busted world

    is bluffing it out

i reread 

  my picture books 

    my stack of richard stark

i rewatch 

  aliens & hitchcock

    90s thrillers 90 minutes long

smelling 

  the comfort roses

in the

  memory bouquet 

SMELLING THE SAME OLD ROSES PT 1

life is more 

an exercise in 

understanding the repetition

than a test 

to provoke 

any emotional response

its smelling the same old roses

always deadheaded

when you look away

MULTIMEDIA FYI

fyi 

these poems

that i fold into the electric river 

are multimedia pieces

i assume 

you provide music of your choice
& look to nature
for a light show

colour

texture

&

context

as & when

you

find & read

HAPPY AS A SONG

his walk is loose 

& boots undone

his shirts too big

& arms swing wide

hes on the A13 median

in august morning sunshine

bag empty 

open & low

~

hes free as a bird is free

in danger - hes a road movie

but happy there

happy as a song

MEAT PUPPETS CLUTTER & CHAFF

 

well my meat puppets
chewing at his strings again

& thats nothing
but a fast track
to the floor

~

& i need 

a health sandwich on rye

amphetamine fries

on the side

to clear

my soft avatars broadcast

of its

clutter & chaff

SUMMER POP

the day is here

like the night never was

its harsh & infinite triangle

showing

blue as scrubs & sharp like blades

there 

between the ikea blackouts 

clouds forgotten again

in its rush to begin

THERE WERE TEN

bukowski counted the lions
he saw in a magazine
crossing some village street
& taking their own sweet time

there were 10

& the paintings he did
of cows in art class
looked better 

than anything
in spanglers bar most nights

& i think about ten lions now
& think about painting cows now
when the morning
woke up sick again

& no one knows why

HOSPITAL MORNING PT2

 

the hospitals 

over stretched mortuary

struggles two floors below
short-staffed maternity wards

&

theres unweeded corners

where swollen formica 

has been dumped in the damp

& the fag butts pile up

& 

in time 

self-shred

big hearts weep stress tears there

smoking one hundred cigarettes

& steel coffins 

line the corridors

silent so silent

against the cries & calls

of the nursery activity

one 

level

above

 

HOSPITAL MORNING PT1

the hospital 

admin tower
is made of
pre-moulded concrete

on the site

of a gone

monastery

& 

its plastic smothered glass

catches

the echo of dawn in gold

& the salt of the earth

they toil in the soil there

thats barren & sterile

from government neglect

PANIC BROTH SIMMERS

bungalows abandoned extensions
point skeletal in the naked morning
under cracked blue tarpaulin
swinging heavy in light wind

~

& nerves are jangled
behind the ok façade
of the van man parade

& a panic broth simmers
below the dog walkers
habit natter & chit-chat

~

i can smell it
&
it smells like

what the opposite would be

of the smell of
fresh cut grass

SANATORIUM OF THE MIND

 

what a beautiful day 
to draw the curtains on

& retire again at noon

into the sanatorium of the mind

sun on the pillows 

the pillows a fort 

the evenings falldown

still 1000 dreams away