TIMES LINEAR BALLS

i hate all that
this is NOW &
that was THEN lark

&

i hate the nothing 

of clabby calendar mist 

that hangs inbetween them

&

i feel i can 

almost almost very nearly

reach out & finger

us climbing drunk again

over the cemetery gates

ESSENTIAL EMBRYONIC

getting drunk 

on the authenticity

of the outsider 

on the sidelines

of the mindgame
dance & buffet 

in those essential embryonic times

was a bunker & soapbox

unassailable 

& ready with razors

MEAT DOWNLOAD

 

jagged & drunk

we had fondue
on the balcony

& watched 

a hundred trains 

roll into waterloo

in an autumn 

that was winter 

too soon

~

& later 

stretched out 

on the living room rug

i watched 

upside-down 

out of the window

at the  h - y - p - h - e - n  flow
of planes 

into heathrow

counting my hangover 

  d

  o

  w

  n

THE SMALL TOWN FALL DOWN

the 2 AM rivet moon
glows out the indigo
of a dark-wash denim sky

& i make grass angels
in the early dew

on the rugby field
of my old school

friends stealing bikes
in the side street gloom

earths girth pressing
on my genuflecting back

I BLEED THEREFORE I AM TAKE 2

injuries tell a story
scars are coded braille

leap from the milk train
jump off the dormer roof

fall -

       off the hill fence 

        off the weekend goalpost

         out the stormy tree

& carry the proof
into the next working day

i bleed therefore i am


~

& head down 

& drunk
& eyes shut
& running running running
into 

the midnight roads 

mystery traffic

is

just

another

gung-ho anecdote harvest

from the mad blessed days

of 

undeveloped risk aversion

photo Kill Your Speed from the Dagenham Archive

DESPERATE FOR A SIGN OF LIFE

TAKE 1

in the night dearth

drunk & mad

id refuse to go in
refuse to stop

until id seen 

a moving car
a person

a sign of life

beyond the hedgehogs
the night cats

or me

TAKE 2

in the night dearth
drunk & mad

shouting at the moon

arms full of stolen gnomes

id refuse to go in

refuse to stop

until i had seen

a dog walker

the milkman

a shooting star

piss drying

in the street corner

transformer station

Photo by Iqram-O-dowla Shawon on Unsplash

FLYING LOW

satellite skies
&
tv eyes

over us -

mortal meat-motor pies

bound up in 
bogus satin 
& 
sweaty highs

&

one
   collective
             drunk 
                  undone 
                        fly

SUGAR MOUNTAIN

    that
fiery blowhole spume 
unkowable & barbed
wired in denim tubes

beak-hole 
slug-trail
bottled milk
on the 
get home
dawn doorstep

    that
intradimensional
mad
light

    that 
    was
my sugar mountain

i can see it from here


~


    here-
jelly on a marrowbone stick
bully beef belly
under a check shirt tent

teenage residue
&
the 20s tidemark 
call for validation
call for recognition
grip slipping 
on the
middle age
bitter valley 
hillside

my sugar mountain-

    can
   see it
  from here


~


    here-
hyper reality slips in
on a backbrain shoehorn

echoes
round
the
normal
chambers

painting mundane hours
a different colour weird

    its 
stoned-eye overhang
of 3 AM underside 
drunk & glowing
in the face
of warning alarms

    well 
i woke up in the future

& my sugar mountain . . .

    i can 
    see it
   from here

from sylviabrowder.com

PICASA MADRIGALS, DRUNKEST VOYEUR

the artificial glow

of the cities

neon dream courts

shine brightest

for the 

drunkest voyeur

PICASA MADRIGALS - NEW SILENCE

GLASS / CORNERSHOP

1. GLASS/DAWNS FUCKED CARPET

2. CORNERSHOP

THE ANSWER IS DISTRACTION

reaching
for the
unknowable

drunk up a tree

saturday midnight
rain that clings

alive wooden throne
escape into elements

word is-
hell of a brew 

idiot-searching for 
answer
purpose
sign
a question ?

instead-
i fell

catch him

a friend yelled twice

hit one hundred wet branches
hit solid forest floor

nothing ugly
just stood up

word is-
winded
understanding 
nodding

word is-
nothing salient
but
my success

pic from theboltonnews.co.uk

IN HAMMERSMITH YEARS AGO

the
guy
in
the
row
behind 
us 
was alone & drunk
&
kept up shouting

hurricane bob
do hurricane

acting like he was 
the only proper fan

his row cleared out
&
dylan
left
the
stage
for
a
long double bass solo

that stopped the arsehole
kicking the backs of the seats in front

&
sent
him
off
to

the

bar

he never came back

bob came back

&
tho
we struggled to recognise the songs
he
never
did
do
hurricane

from rollingstone.com

FICTION POP 3 ANGELS

BALL OF CONFUSION

  time 
  was
i was fiery anxious
struck dumb round the neighbourhood
and
living inside fear
eating in secret
and
waiting
waiting
for something to happen

  or
drunk accelerator glory
emptying out in the wasteland
king of night
and
eternally uninvolved
everyone 
missing
from
me

  and
a ball of confusion 
in
any
small seconds inbetween

ball of confusion by leslie revels andrews 

from fineartamerica.com

DRUNK ALMOST INSIGHT

when i drank
the
night
sky
was a painting 
almost speaking 
in 
whorls of bruised code

gods absence was there 
tangible
in
kneading fingers like a stress toy
and 
the 
pointed stars were there 
pinched oblivions 
of 
promise and xmas

another drink 
would decipher 
the
quiet talk of brush stroke smears
into 
universal-calm

or 
the nothingness-terror
of
great
and
hungry
holes

 

Drunk by Billy Childish Oil Painting 1997 www.stuckism.com

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 

THIS BROKE ME

i'd get royalgod-blasted like it was a political statement
a short drink in each hand
out 
somewhere 
awful 
with no character or vibe than i noticed
tho
everyone else seemed happy enough
and
this made them seem stupid to me
so
i'd
always have a bottle at home
to
sip
and
sup
and
hold
to the light with jesuswonder in my eyes
so fucking pleased
to
be
alone at last
and
i'd write accelerated whitefire down one eye shut
before
dawn
said DUDE!
and burst out all clean and bright and for someone else

now
the fire is a pilot light
at the top of my spine
and
dawn
just nods a knowing HELLO

WHERES FORD

wheres ford?
and his yells of mad drunk?

he's here under new crowns
his
delusions
cleaner
and
only
medical - 

from the Hot Pit of Shit
to
Heavens Dumb Cusp
he
digs
sober
in
the predawn
for
Truth Elation
and
the
free
words
in the frost

or for the small bathroom pops
that
stick
reality
to
any gods fridge
like
a
childs
awful
scribble

Guardian Unlimited: Reverent Humour