CRY OUT WOLF

always i must be busy with anything

in the existential terror
& 10 AM nadir

of another weekday morning

or the nowhere hole
will eat me up 
like the boy

in the garden

alone & worrying

about when to cry out wolf

enter art !

that amateur hunting

of incomplete & fluid beasts

HARBINGES

the elephant cry
of the bin trucks
in a dim grey dawn

harbinges

the existential wordless wail
of
a
breathless 

coughing
uncomprehending 

child

going back to school

in new stiff shoes

FINDINGS FILED IN THE STEAM OF A STATE 4 COFFEE CUP

like a kind of existential detective
i keep my hands
in my pockets
to not disturb
the evidence
of the world

only sometimes prodding
interesting detritus
with a click-click biro
to better further observe

SITCOM EXPLORATION VOL 5

a dirty flats existential smear

& late night
  street side
  disappointment

  no cabs no cabs no cabs
  all along the adventure-walk home

  as promise beats the flesh

  in dream yesterdays sepia hue


~


i almost hallucinate

those gone gone days

& i dream dream dream

  of the booze mishaps
  in the back alley flap
  of
  the 

  winter warm smoky bar
  &

  of 

  the adventure-walks back home

  anticipation trumps act again

  in the face of blooming roses

 

photo Re-Up #5 from the Dagenham Archive

SMOKE POPS

1.

  cigarettes 
  fill
 an existential hole
       in
      the
   madness damn

   defiance 
  in the face
    of the 
 fist of the world

  and
  a
victims journey
   to 
 heavens core


2.

  fags are food 
 for soul and mind

   and 
   theyre death
      
      to
    keep
     their
  poetry
  perfect
    
 and complete


3.

theres this young guy
puffed up and prowling
hood up  joggers hanging down  pants out

sucking on a fag in his fist
like wannabe hardnuts do
outside the vape lounge
used
to
be
a
godfreys  where i bought my camera 
hood down  trousers up  pants in

a whole nother world away


4.

  in
 the
morning

 smoke comes out

  and 
   i 
rise like a common phoenix

   and
 perch

touching up the wind


5.

  the
 smell
  of
   match sulphur
 on the night air

  is
 forever 
   a
midwinter
bottleshop
corner

change in my pocket
  and the
 day on the run

from weheartit.com

TOO MUCH 2

too much inner dialogue of ill hot thoughts

to get my

burnt hiding mind round tomorrows real future

too much

so 

i

ran

from

the spot light of accidental university

to the retail rut of shift work mall 

killing me every dawn over greasy spoon breakfast

where time crushed its top hat 

standing on its subjective head

too much

too much - i poured neat cheap rum in bitter black coffee

and smoked a smokeless hash pipe

on the two trains home 

after found whisky and babbling high existentialism 

in 

that 

mad 

guys 

van

1988 ford escort by scott barrett

STREETS FILLED

street night lights
glow the room
in angles and tangents
and
carnival 
slow shadows

machine pump noise fills the room
with comfort
between
the
crashbangs
of kids and cars
from the trolley rattle street
of
leather jacket cabs
and
new sirens

i hug her for strength 
and existential confirmation
in
the
waking dream night
filled
with street lions
and a tired inner buddhist

and
her small toy tractor snores
sweeten
the 
strange
city

HUG POP

my 
hugs
existential
desperation
and
quiet
urgency
is clear in their
length
silence
and
consistency

HALLUCINATORY OVER CROSS

the damp fog and thick dirty tide 
of 
daylights waking dream
and
the slow dry chalkboard scream 
of 
helpless night-watches
are
experienced with twisted spirit/dim-thrill resignation 
that
turns medical curse into dull adventure
struggling on and on over toy obstacles
for the soft treasure
under
the
machines rainbow

its
a 
fabricated masquerade of limbic automation 
and 
coffee

punctuated

by
visions of maiming and murder/burning and abuse
real as french existential thrillers

and

the care glow of citrus hands