THE FOREST MOONS & HAPPY SEAS

stretched out 

in the darkness

listening to 

our beige hum 

& dogs barking 

garden fences away

~

& i fall 

into a dream 

of forest moons
that only yield
to happy seas
in the doldrums 

of their equator

A WORKMAN MORNING

the moment

i spend 

with 

the
four
mismatched
mugs

on a patterned plastic tray

for the early bird workmen

who park up their machines
& laugh at the heaving clouds

is some kind of something

is a place of grace & space

& the winter mild 

coming in 

the open kitchen door

is

like

a

lullaby

for a cartoon bear

& the only darkness

is the december sky

& no ones fault 

no ones fault at all

I VIDDY EURO NOIR AGAIN

 

& i believe in knitwear 

& i believe in obsession

again 

they miss 

their kids 

school show

~

gerbil in the office drawer

stress for supper

righteously riding ripples

of  

old  

trauma

glasscom in their hands

OSMOSIS BUFFET VOL 5

vicarious darkness dances
on
the
tip
of
my
mind-tongue today

watch out -

the humans are behind us

~

roger corman horrorshow

broadcast hard

into

my 

101 frontal lobes

watch out -

our tarnished jewel

burns at your six


~

backlit shadow-boats

rock on their ropes

in the will-o-wisp night

turn around -

lifes behind you

natch

photo by Guillaume de Germain on Unsplash

ARENT WE ALL

waiting for my time 

on a street corner

loose change in my lining

waiting waiting waiting

for something to happen

well my time might 

well has been & gone

when i was waiting 
on a street corner

field dirt in my boots

waiting waiting waiting 

for something to happen

well my time might be right now

this coffee & kitchen chair

this sand in my hands

& i notice 

too late ? 

too late !

nah / whatever

tomorrow never looked so fine

as with my eyes tight shut today

from mexeperience.com

READ BY NIGHT & SHTUM

another poem
lost to the darkness

lost in the long
mindside hiccup
before sleep

when the pens were too far
& the hands too weak

only the night knows it now

moon audience enough
& 
he/she is always back for more


~


too much of what
i
think 
up
to
say

well 
it bores me shitless before i say it

keep shtum lad
keep shtum

& this ?

this -

well 
its plucking feathers
out the hurricane

AUTUMN IS THE SEASON OF THE SOUL

here it comes again
autumn - the big dusk
and
it
grabs
summers broken flip-flops
and
throws
them
in
the recycling bin

here it comes again
autumn - ambient soul
with 
its 
sepia nostalgia stink
and
its 
crumbling golden crown

here it comes again
autumn - annual assassination
and
it
fills me up to bursting
with 
memories of almost anything
  almost 
    anything 
      at 
        all

all bitter sweet brush strokes
of fading fire shades
all washed out watercolours
of dew drop dawns

here come the memories again
memories - uncorruptible RAM
of
a
damp damp damp
low cloud night 
striking matches
under streetlights
smokey mono-chrome

here come the memories again - polaroid loops
of
beautiful scheduled death
of
the shedding of copper camo
till
it
is
stark
and
naked
and
bold
and
bravely 
empty
on the 
bike stop 
hill top
where
i would 
park up
take five
and smoke
in the
special
quiet
counting the silver spiderwebs
in
the
broken bones of giants
and
looking out 
at the
great white stripes of mists
that
lay
across
the
bicep bulges of hinterland
making islands of rootless trees 

here come the memories again - strobing pops
of the DLR
of my shakes 
in the standing room only
before 
      i 
       fell
   in
a long gone
  fall

here come the memories again - filtered in overdrive
of
the
too early AM gag jags
when i couldnt stomach anything
anything at all
and
i fed the squirrels
my breakfast muffin
until
bullying magpies came
out 
in 
the
Greenwich hillside park
where i loved the benches
i really LOVED the benches
and i made a vow then
to sit on more park benches

  in peace
  in quiet
  in nothing

on morning-wet autumn park benches

here come the memories again - stink triggered recall
of
dusk in the afternoon
that says to me
  dont worry about it
  give it up 
  its dark now 
  cant you see ?
  give it up till spring
  and 
  sleep like all the frenchmen
  used to do

here come the memories again - carousels of slides
of
the pipes first run
and the click-clicking metal
in
the afternoon bubble
of childhood after school 
all
the
radiators 
filling up
and
gurgling like well springs
in
the
Simon and Garfunkel silence

here come the memories again - line drawings of you
of
the
cold houses dead rads dead chill
and
the
doom that riots round the skirting boards
and 
up on the cobweb coving
so
you
bleed the rads
with special key and a rag
down
on
the
floor
where your childhood used to be


here come the memories again - clockwork sensations 
of
stumbling round Bank
booze loose and looking
for
the home train
the Borough bus
the St Pauls Starbucks
my
collar
up 
to the girls and the damp
and
hiding
in
a
pool hall 3 storeys underground
and
too
there
were 
long decaff evenings
freshly sober and newly muted
still
in
a
Simon and Garfunkle silence
watching people in a dry trance
in
the 
WC1 museum spaces
my coats and scarves
my winter armour
piled like a thrift store
on the backs
of the colourful 
plastic chairs

so boo fucking hoo i say this year
as
autumn comes in
to compost me again
and
i
make a new memory - HD  
by
farting long and mournful
on the 
back step 
4 AM
smoking the last cigarette in the world

and it is answered !
by 
some 
guy
invisible over the back fence
still awake like me
and
coughing wet and awful
on
the words other last cigarette

and it all mixes in with the foghorns
like 
the very last dinosaur cries
out 
on 
the rivers black mass
under peephole stars 
and slow moving planes
slow
blinking
wing tips
blinking
in
time
with
another sleepless trial
where
all
the
hibernating mammals
steal my slumber
obviously
unrepentant

from the guardian

BABY SERVANT OF DARKNESS

born in 1973
its
like
i
clocked-in that day
and started
doing my time in the universal mind

or mine . . .

like 
it 
was 
some kind of job - chipping ideas and bullshit
off the scarred coal face 
that
represents
time / maybe / maybe not . . .

maybe it represented opportunity !

and
i
couldnt
swing
the pick hard enough
to
get 
me
a
big
boulder of future . . .

i had a toy pick but a madmans sweat
and
i
shovelled
any
slivers of rock ( time / opportunity )
into dog eared notebooks
all
in
a mad dog rush
like
a
hoarder / like i knew i might need them
later
on

like a christmas club account

dunno when clock out is
but
its like
i'm
having
a
long
slacker
lunch right now - counting my eggs
and
digging on my own time

i used to
nurture 
the 
darkness in the mine / in lifes hole 
like it was a boss / a bosses arse !
like
i
had
Stockholm syndrome

i was a baby servant of darkness

and things have changed after lunch
now i've eaten
i'm digesting / thinking slowly
like
i
caught 
a
new illness just as my rabies cleared up
and
its
like
now i'm off sick - not just a slacker lunch
and
theres
a
peace in the fog / the hospital fog

its like i'm in hospital . . .

fog
came
in
with
the
all the birds that came home to roost
landing
on my shoulders
and
not
minding
their claws at all
and
the
food
here ( my new thoughts maybe . . . ) - 
the steamed hospital dinners
give me
the same benevolent flushes
i 
used 
to 
scorn like an evil drunk clown
back
when
i
was
a
baby servant
of
darkness

from activistpost.com