GIGOT BITUME

who was the poet
who wrote about
the beast slouching towards us all ?

cos i can sense 

its shamanic mandibles

& archaic gait

in the treeline of the woods

&

in the shadows from the walls

its breath hot as fresh bitumen

gripping its aggregate base

~

it will cook & carve & consume us

in celebration of its construction

like the french do
with a leg of lamb

PROB SAID IT ALL BEFORE BUT

1. OUTSIDE THE BOOZE MACHINE

youre in love

if

that

FM

MOR

that used to be

lazy

offensive

chaff

for the losers

outside the booze machine

now makes simple sense

cos youre in the club now

and like a child

grasping the 1 2 3s 

you

learnt 

the 

code

2. WOULDNT ASK WOULDNT LISTEN

if a younger me 

(dying in denim every day) 

met the older me 

(alive in elastic comfort)

be like

hash sparks 

clashing with 

the codeine blues

he wouldnt ask 

and

he wouldnt listen

to any wisdom 

id fake out

of my back pocket

i couldnt expect him too

i remember his box

but i like to think

he would at least say

nice trainers

and

exactly 15% of your records are cool

before he was quickly

on his way

3. THE BEIGE BRIGADE

theres a man in pale beige

60 odd

a polo shirt 80s striped 

wash faded

into

the

colour of the moon

he lifts a daily mail

out the stand

like its a birth right

he gives each page

exactly the same 

amount of time and attention

over eggs and bacon and tea

in the tesco cafe level 1

he looks up periodically

with suspicion

with superiority

laced with classic hp and fear

and i hope 

when he gets back 

to his greasy armchair

waiting in his terrace hole

his

wife

will

tell him to belt up 

and

put

that

shit

rag

down

4. TO BE A BEAST

got sweat shop rags on

coffee in a forever bucket

wondering 

about  

function creep

endor

and

operation paperclip

and later therell be meat

metallic

from 

screams and steroids

but its good

to be a beast

eating a beast

and i toe the line

and i toe the rag

and if i done everything i could

then everythings done me too

5. ENTROPY ?

i feel flat

and disarranged  

as a kids

fridge door scrawl

all

my

thoughts squeezed out

into

a

single

speech

bubble

that

says

?

in wobbly crayon

 

from the telegraph.co.uk

THURSDAY POPS

A RUBY PORT CASK 
FOR FINISHING SCOTCH

all that drink

it was like i was in a barrel

going over niagra

scream-laughing
for
twenty
odd
years



TV POP
HITLER FOREVER APPARENTLY 

we watch people shop
watch nail paint dry

theres a half-hour
list of movies
jesus would have enjoyed

and at any one time
on one channel somewhere
always at least one

hitler show



FORGOTTEN BEAST REMINDS

at night
i hear

a kind of deep cough

it comes in the window
like from off across the marsh

could be the river port . . . 

but
sounds
more
like
something     big and forgotten
                     is
             clearing its throat

      as
       a
reminder

never for a speech

from scotchclubyeg.com

SICK NOTE MANTRAS

1. CATS AND OLD MEN

dont
write
the
whole day off yet

i say to myself
every cracked curtain morning
feeling like a ferrous metal

this is my sick note mantra
i speak it out loud
to the sheets and floating dust
feeling like the saline water
in tescos wafer thin ham

and the cat is there
his paws and claws
in my cheek in my lip
his big round eyes
saying ME ME NOW ME ( IAOW )

and out on the street 
the old guys
in beige again 
go out for papers 8 am
they're like clockwork again
like national service
half crowns in their hatbands
mumbling daily mail headlines
out by the gatepost

dont write the whole day off yet
i say to myself

give its chill beginning
a sunshine chance

the pillow will be here still later on
i make a pm date with it in my mind

i might feel
a little better might'n i anyway
a little less like a polluted moon
after some coffee

my pills

and
some 
juice


2. POSSIBILITIES

and 
theres 
a 
chance 
isn't there

that i might write something
in a shadow of gold leaf
on a gutter hubcap
if i unfold from out of bed
an upward cutlery ape  
in the supermarket zoo

and 
theres
a 
chance 
isn't there

that someone who may not be born yet
may see it may read it one odd day
on a museum piece server 
under a leaking tin can megacity dome

and they might halfway feel something
and they might catch a glimpse of something
and maybe then write something themselves

something better 
without tricks on loan

in whatever biowired plastic AI dream
we
have
left under the mercury clouds
for
them


3. SHADOW OF GOLD LEAF ON A GUTTER HUBCAP ?

we all live 
in the spaces
above our shoes
the windsails pulled down
trimmed into the next seasons
tryhard catwalk conceptions

the catalogue lie of polyester folds

hides our animal ghost
our hot breath relegated  
in the toothless tv land
of our reluctant white plaque minds

and out there in the day in the world
the carpet the cement 
the macadam and tile
steel and glass
are exile
from
the
meat
of forest earth

from the mail online