3 x HAIKU POPTARTS

RATS


& r is for rats

& the rats are in the walls

thanks h p lovecraft




PARABOLA


the bare street drama

spirals us out of the whim

( i sigh with )
found booze stash relief




JOKER


his ford escort van

was a police target

laughing joker tattoo

DONT THAT SOUND GRAND

kill the morning with art now

dont that sound grand ?

~

used to be sick 

with residue & loathing

&

a fermenting hangover

&

it called for more of the same

broken & glorious

broken WAS glorious

deliberate incapacity

was a political act

dont that sound grand ?

~

alcohol had an energy then
before its function crept
into the cold bone abyss

& 

everything else
EVERYTHING else
from the trees to the grey cocaine
were just chasers boy chasers

chasing me down 

the greased runway

of the cliche slide

SPLIT UNBEAUTIFUL

its plastic now
that glitters

in springwinters low struggling sun

it uglys up my short walks

~

was booze glass before
sharp dream shards

in warm forest greens & amber browns

would see it on my home treks

catching dawn like heavens peaks

~

its UV cracks now
split unbeautiful

in the dry littered runnels 

of factory lava

worrying up

           my conscience flicker

REMINISCING 101

NINE YEARS DRY 1

nine 

years 

dry

& thirsty puns aside
theres still fruit inside

this 

fermented

sediment

shell

NINE YEARS 2 

(TO THE TUNE OF CHEST FEVER)

didnt know i was losing

didnt know my using

was really abusing

thought i was winning

thought the delusion

was my own decision

that gloves-off hard collision

of addiction 

& poison

took down my position

of political

disinhibition 

down down down down 

below the pubs

mad carpet floor

NINE YEAR HANGOVER

im a 

fine-aged 

backpage now

a 

full-bodied 

memory cow

an index 

for 

reminiscing 101

&

a

hangover nine years long  

from townandcountrymag.com

 

FUCKTOWN CORE REDUX

there 
was 
a

fucktown CORE

booze rebellion

sneezing speed 
over 
dry 
hash cracks

deranged delusion demigods

high on IQ isolation

playing

ancient

music

in Englands quaint leftovers

~

&

the CORE went OUT

into nights dark answers

&

broke things
climbed things
redefined things

ridiculous

hilarious 
terrifying . . . 
. . . & true

~

&

we bled real blood
&
we bled metaphorical blood

in

the

face of the Nowhere & the Nothing

on

the

flat-bottle streets of video shops 
& wind-blown panic-chased rizla

waiting

always

waiting

~

on

the Bread Slipper Lane kerb stones

where the alleys of yesterday meet

&

on

the empty rec ground cricket crease

coughing blunts at the moon

we were
waiting

always

waiting

for

SOMETHING . . .

. . . more & else

from the42.ie

OLD FRIEND SURPRISE VISIT

from amusingplanet.com

we chain smoke
dry buzzed
out packs of ten

Red Band
87p
rough

we strike our 
Happy Shopper matches
just to see them flare

dead end
weekday

TV blue light
leaks out
street-side
front rooms

~

up
the
climbing frame
in the park
we used to know

strange silence
grown-up children
left
behind

talk-chatting the deepness-
bout skys cool hug
nights epic shadow
god or not
&
our temporary meat hq

frosted yellow
bathroom windows
blink out
above
back fence
panels

~

too young then 
to NEED
a drink

so-
walking & talking

inside an evening
inside Proper Time

unexpectedly free
unarranged 
concrete ramble

dog walkers & the moon

catch our bluebirds 
out on the breeze

from fineartamerica.com

HARDLY BOXFRESH

new year then
its hardly 
boxfresh 

the postman brings
folded fragments 
of the future

potted
pamphlets
from the past

~

new year then

so soon
its like an old sock

same old card game
same old hand 

come on spring come on
your distance disturbs

afternoon patio
birdsong in the sun

~

and that 
last night
of a
gone year
used
to be
nostalgia 
unbearable

used 
to be 
fletch on 
bbc2 
00.10 jan 1st

dregs of drugs
take till dawn

~

and the 
night time bath 
i draw 
these n/y/e days

could be the same water 

as lemmys
last jd ice

pic from ebay.co.uk

MONDAY POPPADOMS

ELECTIONS AS A QUIZ
WAR AS A HEIST

time was i used to laugh
at
bush jr
at his cia daddy
at
that
whole skullfaced crowd
stinking it up
and
the
drinks
came
fast
back then
tripping
on
their own cool heels
and
i
sat
bug eyed mad and drunk
hooked into rolling news

i can hardly laugh now
only manage some kind of bark
like
my
throats
dried
up
cos its dawn again
and i see 
a firing squad
lining up
in the rags of mist

maybe
its
cos
of
age exhaustion and awful awareness

or
the snowflake compassion
thats expanding 
in my soft cabbage mind

and i wonder now
now i'm shy of headlines 
if
rolling
booze
is
the
only
sane
reaction
when your leaders are certifiable
or
worse

seem to work
for the
russians



COFFEE POP

he said 
he would come for a coffee at noon

so he came for a coffee 
at half past noon

and
we
sat
under
one
single
50 mile
contrail
like a chalk line
on
a
blackboard
we
had
sat in front of
struggling to learn french

50 thousand
years
ago


BEACH PAST POP

sat out in the low spring sun
in its low wattage
and residual chill
i 
am 
reminded
of being a kid
on englands windy beaches
forcing fun 
out the rockpools
and sand

searching for enid blyton caves

and waiting on the lunch rolls
the ice cream run
the seaside lights at night
and
a
pub
garden
with its mysterious free smell
of 
beer

from amazon.co.uk

BREAKING MAN

  on a bus with a number
 in a town with a name
    on a street called something like
  sycamore avenue
   chestnut close
      or
  butchers bridge

    sits a man with an age 
 shaking with breakdown
       hunched on the high seats 
      up near the back

 and a girl who is a daughter 
     holds his arm with a kind of pride
  smiles a youth-confident smile
      maybe 
    just pleased 
       hes out

  in clothes called polyester-chic 
i slouch behind them 
     my knees are shiny
  going to a place called work
     listening to rock from the past
 on a tapeplayer with auto reverse 
   and headphones with megabass

    its a year with a number 
   that starts 19

 there is booze in my morning sweat
    there is fag ash in my suede coat
  i wear black nike airs called pegasus
   
  one punctured hisses like a snake 
  
    and i wonder
   that 
    we
   dont
 all shake like that

  in fear and panic and impotence
   in a gut-balls reaction called instinct

   at the world
  that has become

from andysbusblog.blogspot.co.uk

I PLAY WITH LEGO

in many ways i return 
to 
a  
childhood 
state 
of 
mind

now i've put
the
mans
booze
down

the pharr side blogspot

LONDON HIGH STREET LONG AGO (GOODIS)

desperate 
for 
a 
drink
like an empty bellied winter bird
falling on a breadcrumb in the snow
i walk fast 
and talk loony
avoiding
all
subjects
anywhere near real

cos something happened

hurtle into any pub
empty middle of the day bricked up window joints
and
open fire tourist guest ale taverns
and
buy
us
all
beers without asking
tired of the weight of the bags
and

the thing that happened

i dont know who knows or how much anyone knows

about the thing that happened

and my wild mad head doesnt know
either
except 
that

somethings happened

buy scotch deliriously in supermarket queues
and
drink it in hurricane gulps from bottle while the glasses chill
in some afternoon flat
talking
about
anything
thats is not really real
channel hopping the tv 
and 
murdering and swearing
on the play station
while
they
all
cook
in
the kitchen

and its never enough never enough never enough
till
i
hobo-crash on the cheap and rough rented carpet
listening
to london trains and planes
rattle and rough
at exact intervals
and
then i run away at dawn
forcing my hangover to eat greasy food
before
early
trains
east
and
the something that happened looses its grip
in
motion and solitude
and
the cool fizz
of
cold
morning
beer
bought in cans from the station shop

CHEMICAL BROS WERENT DOING THE MAIN STAGE THAT YEAR

i'd go to see 
the
curled ecstasy accidents outside the thump-crunch dance tent 
arms wrapped round their own legs
fetal
on
their
sides
eyes child-scared wide
tortoises tipped and spiked
on the worn grassless ground around the giant tent ropes

i'd look into 
the 
dante-neon mash of banded limbs and glo-hoops 
they were carried free from
see
their
friends
in there that had abandoned them
scientifically absorbed into a wild high rush 
of
a
greater mass and hot primal mob

i'd have sunglasses on in cool summer night
make the shining darkness 
subdued
duller
light my dominican cigar and unscrew the whisky again
and
crackle thru the carpet of empty evian 
weave into the bass heart of the pulsing caterpillar
thunder of torsos sweating 
shirtless
sports-bra'd

i was stoned and stone and cold
lost black ice in a tech-crib of new born innocent fire
i'd stand still as stone drunk drinking and alone
anomalous
a cloud of wet smoke heavy with booze disease
a
tumour 
in
their
rush of love

but
i like
the 
Chemical Brothers
too