MAO OFFERED HIM TEN MILLION WOMEN

 

did you know 

henry kissinger 

is still at large ? 

same springfield-toilet glasses

same dont-ask secret suit

same wavy rug gone white & climbing

but hes crumpled up like a granny now

jowls teabagging his windsor knot

&

i wonder

if he wonders

about a patient waiting hell

fuck - hes probably lead consultant

CONFUSION & TV

NEO KUR

all equal
in
the
unlight

suicide love 
or 
pro-martyr - dont matter 

in the daytime tv
land of slim returns

~

those
escaped
make
relevant 
offerings
&
rhythm method puns

to carry us thru avenged

to
prime
times
kamikaze romantic
hardsell



CONFUSED

& i think

am i old
or just awake ?

enlightened unfooled delusion
on
tap 
these days

whod have thought
id get
those two
confused . . .



HARD AS HELL 

tv show over

&
the
ghost
of
me 
clings to credit scroll

to fade out music

to any last gags

then-
must face the world

was hard as hell
as a child

sunday night nerve jags
blakes 7 on
dressing gown 
dry roasted

echoes still

from blakes7online.com

WELL IT WAS LONDON

box fresh sober-
r i d i c u l o u s

i sweat in the cold

pubs off the strand-
d e n i e d

no heaven
nor hell

both call like crows

~

hungerford bridge-

i give money 

to a crumple

of blankets

and the view

well it was london

from flickr.com

MAD GIBBONS OF ARMAGEDDON

the morning called the night a liar
as low risk expectations grew higher 
and 
the safe blue map spread out redder
and 
somewhere out there 
i bet theres a cross on fire
and 
here the town crier
had never felt so alone
and 
leaving his home
he
gagged on the news
and
he 
gazed at his shoes
and 
he wept
he'd not slept
and 
to not have to speak and say
he threw his shiny bell away
onto a liberals astroturf lawn
whod got up early 
especially to mourn
to 
get 
used to being invisible
and 
to 
practice being conspicuously miserable
for 
when the cameras came
and he upped his game
with useless analysis
and 
endless words
all teal piss
and 
hangover turds
in the suitably sad moan
of this dimmer switch dawn
and 
the 
prius on the driveway
couldnt have saved us anyway
and
the town crier found a wetherspoons
to pour bombay gin on his wounds
and 
there he sang delta blues
for
the zero hour shift workers
and
the unloved sex workers
and
for
all the uncertain lovers
and all the worried lovers
and all his tinted brothers
and all the single mothers
and all his turban sisters
and all the thirsty children
and all the hungry children
and all the unborn children
whod
pop out of the global lottery
into plenty
or land thats empty
and
know no other way
till their last day
and 
the town crier resigned
for the health of his mind
he wasnt old
he had time
to get out there and find
somewhere
where
theres
something better to say
and whatever and anyway
he sang
what a fucking day . . .
and
all the underclass
couldnt give an arse
business as usual 
when you live in a urinal
and
all the trustfund rats
and
all the fat white cats 
who followed the freelance piper
that acid dream of the gipper 
had
all
glued their blinkers on
gave up free thinking as one
and
coughed up
and
shat out
their unleashed desire
thats been on a fast
in the root cellar
and
they were calling out 'at last !'
knee deep in assassinated bees
like canute in rising seas
holding up the locker room keys
to the rotten empire
that balances over a pit of the past
on a high wire
wobbling in the wind of words
only the angry really heard
and
now
its
all
nuclear breeze and hard rain 
border walls and arm-stars again
and
old leaders are suddenly shadows
mumbling 'well how could we know ?'
and
now no ones knows where to go
and 
from out the banished chasm
that 
free speech wouldnt let us fill in
had come old school populist manipulation
punctuated now
with the wet bark of a rapists orgasm
as
the
mad gibbon of armageddon
touches all the women
when he should be in prison
and highbrow derision 
is no pragmatic solution
so
lets go to hell
but
might as well
mobilise that liberal army
with its printed benevolence
and kind artillery 
and see 
if that 
does any good 
at all 
anyway

from youtube

POINTLESS SECRETS

blank events survive
on
my
flat calendar
but
the Vibes
the Meanings
the Feelings
are
bleached to nothings by oceans of gin
and
the
what-the-fuck mornings
of
shark-eyes bunny-scared on the bus
and
staring inside
hiding behind
mean humour
in
the warehouses of youth and wages

well-fed fear
drove reckless
in
the
front seat

and
i 
kept 
pointless secrets - secrets make Hell

and
they
ate at my strangled guts from below

while i waited 
hoping for age
to
loosen
everything

from theginkiosk.com

EMPTY HAND HELL

because of personal theories
about
floating 
up 
and 
away
and
off the world 

and
going where all the lost balloons go

and
an existential need 
to 
hold 
similar 
flesh 
tightly

i must hold her hand fast
before
sleep
comes

what hell it was
getting
by
before 

from flckr.com

BLACK DOG GUTS

discharged myself early from the last talk therapy

tired 
of talking 

man always in the same jumper sinking into his cheap chair

not many sessions left to go . . .
and 
tho i have these moments
moments 
when i am serious as the cold war doomsday clock
or 
when an emptiness like an epoch arrives in a sunny garden evening and 
wipes everything away like a bulldozer in a battlezone
i 
have fallen free of the black dogs guts
and
tho 
his huge shadow blocks out light sometimes
enough glow gets by 
to know theres more
and
he's
dragging his bad smells and disease to hell
alone
now