& RISE

think-rolling 

the dog days

over & over

in

the

fitful fermenting fidget

of

another

rotisserie 

night

makes gas in me
i eject now

& rise

getting into it with yoshimi

& the electric rad

RUBICON FARTS

change of pace now

(well thats times fault)

& i am fluffing my lines

(thats on me - i am off balance)

so here come the half-poems
& the ambient frags

(blood on the keyboard)

off-cuts make the best cuts

(sometimes)

motivation is the next sandwich . . .

& poems are a bodily function 

too much like gas 

but i know that we all 

farted over the rubicon before

MAYBE ITS GAS

 

    i am 

sitting on great poetry

    & 

i know it

but i cant 

    get up

    get up
    get up 

i got a title tho - Maybe Its Gas

Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

BAD FRENCH CLAY

je
suis
une
satchel of gas
avec
une
wind blown derriere

et
if
je
wear deux ponchos

then well je suis une warm
et
functioning
at
la
sciences thermal whim

je 
suis
une
bionic spam
dans
la
retrofitted blast

et le chat
et le chat

come sit avec thy
for une wordless chat

come on 
come unto thy
little chat

et
sit
dans
with moi

in this
le uno
of
la
neu days 

4

pic from telegraph.co.uk

MONDAYS DROPPINGS

PRODUCTION

on the toilet
i am a man farm
making shit
for
no 
roses


AND EXTRACTION

and 
after 
it
is 
all
over
there is space

inviting reflection inside


THEN REFLECTION

real animals
shit on their boundary
eat something
destroy something
bloody their claws
and
fall into sleep
untroubled
on the worlds dirt

i am good for the first three

maybe
four


WHICH IS EXHAUSTING

as giant 
as a yawn 
and twice 
as needy
i sit 
on a folding chair

witness to the daily soft parade

histories headstones
and dead bouquets 
in
my
bag


SO I REST

i
am
mostly invisible

inside a kind of gas
and a £4 charity cloak

and
the
smell
of
fresh turned soil

SKULLBONE STRAIGHTJACKET

SKULLBONE

we go mad
in our own tree
mad in our own
skullbone straightjacket

mostly invisibly 
of course

googling trepanation
on the sly 



ARGUING TREE

and arguing
with the voices
and the faces 
in the bark
and the knots
we become exasperated
looted and lost

still we jump down
in time for tea
and roll out
our useless recycling
on a thursday night

only now
maybe we have kept 
an old bird nest
maybe on our head
maybe as a hat
as a reminder
and protection



WHAT WAS SAID

noeliberalism

and disaster capitalism

the tree said

are trapped gas . . .

best play jazz to the wind
to the leaves
to the wood and water

everything
is
upside
down
out there 

and kept that way
by amazon opec and viacom

dont look 
but pray for the youth

the tree said

that they 
might be
builders

from philschatz.com

RIPs

  so
Dan Fante had shit-brown-eyes
and
Buckowski had a HUGE left ball

i
have . . . envy

  i remember reading
Kissed by A Fat Waitress
on
the 
toilet
hanging
onto
the
steel mobility rail in a cold sweat

  i remember reading 
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses
and
thinking
ANYTHING
can
be 
poetry

  and
  now
Bowie and Lemmy 
are 
spoiled for drummers
in enriched Valhalla 
i
ball my poems up into the teapot

and
turn
on
the 
gas

from pinterest.com