STEPPENWOLF ON MY MIND

& 

the things become other things

once you clocked in

& neck deep

in the balls 

of the ruined net curtains

its mad max 

& steppenwolf

on my mind

KNOW YOUR RIGHTS, AN UNPOEM

 

'this is a public service announcement

... with guitar'

i was planning to write
a clever poem pop
rephrasing & updating
joe strummers clash song

know your rights

(all three of 'em)

for the current climate

of fuckery & balls
but i cant see

how i can improve on it

ITS A HEAVY SCENE

balls from the poundshop
on the brown grass lawn

are left where the last game ended

& bleached & dirty
they punch at
the low part
of my heart

~

its a heavy scene
like a bomb site snap

broken chair / lost doll
you know ?

so i wrote the following -

        balls
         in the garden
        but
         no child to play
        &
         i dont want children
        but
         i am sad anyway

         balls

THE TARGET & THE TARGET MISSED

writing
if it works out right

well
its like a mirror

a mirror with balls


~


i hear cars in the distance
&
i see the birds on the wing

i hear the diesel 
running the post van
& 
the day pigeons sing

im on the daybed
doing nothing -
my thing

NIGHT WORK MINIPOPS

i shop at night

i shop on the go 

everything slipping from hangers

its a jumble jag

~

tracky bottoms 

forest green
piping like icing

canned cocktails ( m&s ) 

sarnies weigh a kilo

~

pockets sucked 

but

balls were free

in the double dawn
night shift ennui

from recipeler.com

STUFFING THE VOID

this poem
can be 
for / about / at / up

anything . . .

scripted weeping
top 5 stolen foods
best looking teens
the poor whales
rude cities
unclaimed jackpots
bird strike costs
bodies found in a belfast home
the poor poor whales

& thats just half 
of page 2 
in an old newspaper

i added whales twice
its my poem
& they deserve better

my point is
empty freedoms gutless balls
make a mess
like this is

change the filter out
lock shit down
f o c u s

back to 
kung fu
in a
phone box

my own
open g

from tresgatos.net

FILE UNDER ROCK

1. HEADSTONES

time
kicked my arse
in
the
balls

my
headstone
one day
said




2. HEAVENS BEZ

maybe...

i think
i hope

maybe...

if i name drop them enough

bowie and
lou reed

will greet me
at heavens stoop

tolerantly hand me maracas

so
i
can
be
heavens bez

from the guardian.com

AFTER READING 2 - FIVE POPS ( LEGS )

( after reading bathside i wrote - )


1. MENS LEGS

buckowski
had good legs
big balls

so he said
acne wrapped on a sidewalk
brave for once
on rye

well 
i am 3.1% neanderthal
with model quality feet

and 
my
balls
will
do


2. WOMENS LEGS

theres women gone forever

pulled out
onto paper forever

khol and lippy a masked ball 
of downers 
and wine

smoking thru
their readings

done 
selling 
whitegoods

with their legs


3. WORKING LEGS

men played ball by the river

innocent summer
cold alaska cabin

never spoke of the rain
never spoke of the snow

legs ached at night 
from the woods and the work

one left the other
who is left writing by the woodchipper
of 
all the ropes 
all the ratchets
unhanded
of
the stone mountains of words unsaid


4. EZRAS WORDS GOT LEGS

ezras commitment for words for all

for all 
them mall workers 
them meth truckers
them charity muggers
them banker motherfuckers

east coast west coast
southern hemisphere outpost

was heard was heeded 
by other writingslobs

while he layered himself up and away and down
in the meadows
by the streams
with the peasants 
in the past


5. LEGS TO WALK ON

read what the typingslobs write
in their burnt rug nights
in their hungover hero bottletop dawns

sick and fatally doubtful 
like reformed hams
the real ones
walk the same work and fear
as
any
everyday streetside monster
beside 
you

Ezra Pound at the Home of William Carlos Williams, Rutherford, New Jersey, June 30, 1958

SMYLING AT POLLYTICKS

i remember when thatcher went  1990?
she packed her hernias up in her iron handbag

i had my forever jeans on back then 
heavy brown army boots that they liked in the tattoo parlour
my army coat from germany id bought in wales
beer breath and marlboro fingers from all yesterdays parties
i would let my pockets fill up with refuse as proof of life
as proof of something anyway

we all smiled about it  thatcher going  the iron handbag  
we were all caught in the sun that day
we seemed to be born with a healthy tory hate 

still news was 
what-the-fuck-is-that-to-do-with-me-? 
back then

it wasnt a 60s rock classic or obscure motown  you see ?
it wasnt a niche kung fu rapture  or the clash
it wasnt those rolling papers on a reel like little bog rolls

i knew good news when i saw it tho

so we all smiled  all caught in the sun
except r****** h***** who had tory parents
he bravely expressed a different veiw
he was very put out by our suprise and abuse
i hid 15 cigarettes in his under-chin beard
this cheered him up but i never looked at him the same again


well we all smiled
we all smoked in the college overflow carpark
we all smoked there behind the empty tennis courts
we played dylans its all over now baby blue
the sun seemed tender but thats the rose glass of remembering . . .
our youth made the abyss of blackness just grey like rain 
our youth wouldnt let us see true black back then

i remember when all the tories were out  97 ?
they packed their truffles away in their bentleys
we smiled again where ever we all were then
we were scattered far from the overflow carpark by now
i felt a little weight lift like if the sun would come out more

to me news now was mostly 
what-the-fuck-is-that-!? 

id watched too much news in those 7 years
id done some sociology in a class of clean jeans
id done some philosophy in a class of long black coats
id done some politics taught by a morris dancer

i wanted the world to run on some neo-marxist barter system
something like that anyway

it was a different what-the-fuck to before
i thought i had seen deep inside the naked lunch hamper
i knew everything was a rich mans trick
i wanted to live in a cave on a hill

well there were smiles in 99 too
something happened in the dome didnt it ?
there was some song and a relaunch ?
there was maybe a rebranding ?
there was something anyway
maybe i should look in my pockets for clues
theres proof of life in there

i was on the embankment with a stranger was on my shoulders
i was waiting to die from tension  fireworks  24hr whisky

there was optimism again wasnt there ?
the optimism wasnt mine tho
i had dropped the ball by then
i had dropped all the balls
i had thrown the balls up in the dark air and walked off
i was growing great black leather death wings
i was growing a breakdown accelerator mind
i was listening to the gun club
i wanted to live in cheers

back then we were heavily into the night 
back then we were team scotch unstoppable
back then there was go-fast powder in the macdonalds straw
we posed like charlies angels on westminster bridge
there was piss and beer cans and abandoned goodbye pies there

i have tidied out my pockets now
i am pared a down plastic zen master

i dont know anyone whos smiled at politics since then

apart from at george bush fumbles and that fat guy getting egged

from express.co.uk

MOANOLOGY 1

yes we got TONNES of free porn now.
on the pcs and phones.
portable porn.  

WHY do we need that ?  

and i seen it all.  
seen all the porn.  
all of it.  
but without really looking.  

i never inhaled the porn.

~

and more TV than we can watch.  
black boxes know our favourite shows.
like a realworld friend would. 

tv -
it really exploded didnt it ?  

KABOOM !  

all the shows a sensation.
another thing you HAVE to see.  
only it isnt.
theyre not.
and you dont.  

~

contrived voyeuristic dramas wearing a mirrored reality hat.  
like walking out at dusk.
looking in all the front windows before the curtains are pulled.  

yeah right - 
in David Lynch land.

~

some shows tho have balls.  
analgesic balls of newmyth and apocryphal truth.  
shows i'd like to live in.  
such sweet safe worlds.  
insulated from danger.  
lightning wands.  
cancelled shows that i'd save that last episode unwatched. 

just so there would be one more.

~

and where do we go to breath like the animals do ?  
the gym ?
our breath is a vehicle for the relentless moanology.  
we all got Firsts in that one.

maybe we all need dogs to walk US.

come mute animals - 
reteach us instinct on the raw soil ground.

from www.tasteofcinema.com

TRILOGY VOTE-POPS

FRIDAY

i
brim over 
with
horror drama
and
i
say

  goodbye sweet progress
  at least
  i saw 
  your face

i am silent and sick

my
street
an
ancient projection

from
the
museums movie archive



WEEKEND

tears dry

straws are grasped

dominoes totter

but
trees are STILL green
the
lawn STILL needs mowing
in
the rain
thats
the same

and
we
watch
a 
rerun make-over show

on
purpose



VEIL LIFTED

veil lifted

pull it down pull it down

cos
suddenly we are aware 
         we are naked
         and
         we 
         are
panic-bluffing

that
its
ok

when its not

and
our balls are in awful danger
on
the
sharp and spiky streets

from truthsinlife.blogspot

RIPs

  so
Dan Fante had shit-brown-eyes
and
Buckowski had a HUGE left ball

i
have . . . envy

  i remember reading
Kissed by A Fat Waitress
on
the 
toilet
hanging
onto
the
steel mobility rail in a cold sweat

  i remember reading 
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses
and
thinking
ANYTHING
can
be 
poetry

  and
  now
Bowie and Lemmy 
are 
spoiled for drummers
in enriched Valhalla 
i
ball my poems up into the teapot

and
turn
on
the 
gas

from pinterest.com

NATURES FOOL 5 (then i went inside)

in lieu of talent
i
get
out
my 
balls
for
the August rain

i
hear a deep thunder crackle

my
secret 
hair 
stands 
up

electric

 

from en.wikipedia.org

OLD GUYS ARE BEIGE LEAVES FALLING INTO AUTUMN PUDDLES

old guys
    out
    on
    the
fucktown street 
    with
dead cocks of dance hall tales

    worn cog hips 
    roll 
    clogged with plaque 
and time 
and  factory waste

brown
blunt
orthopeadic 
feet 
shuffle slow 
determined and deliberate

    with
    dull muscle memory 
    of
the pitch and shudder of wooden-decked destroyers
    South Pacific 
      underage 
        and 
         lying
 
their
slacks 
are
shapeless beige
    and
    grandkids bulge their wallets
    and
      a hundred years of keys jangle on one ring
        and
          like
    camouflage
    in the autumn sun
    their
jackets are beige too 
bland and zip up
    and
      bought 
        from 
          Saga back pages

    up 
    the 
    paper 
    shop 
in pairs like unionised dinosaurs
    they 
      lean 
        on 
          gateposts
     their
gone low balls
    drained
    by
shore leave 
    and
    gravity
    and
    the bewildering long grind
        of
        change

today their lives are on the history channel
and
made
into
toys
and 
games

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 

LEVEL B

three of us
in
store room hospital level B
rain 
touching 
finger smeared panes and memories

ones a physiologist
calls a patient
on
the 
landline
bad readings on his thingummy
can you get in this afternoon?

ones an auditor
scans pacemaker barcodes
taps a silver netbook
mutters in welsh

me leaning back on a busted office chair
till
i
see
wonky pitted ceiling tiles
fiddle with my collar

and we all got balls
and we all got hard livers
and we all got mild perversions
and we all one day will die
and
this
room
too
will one day
be
only
dust

image; ingoldthoughts, wordpress