MALL POPLING #2

the

light 

is 

a lulling & liminal 

sort of odd comfortable

&

fairy liquid frothing 

up the fountain of coins

PUT LITTLE TRUST IN TOMORROW

whoever said
seize the day
must have been high

it comes at you like a ramrod
like a haymaker of light
like a newspaper taxi ramraid
thru a pawn shop window

youd need hands
like andre the giant
or a glove
like thanos

not my mere mortal mitts

of meds & meat & mistakes

CIRCLES OF ELLIPSES

 now automatic writing
that engine & saviour of expression

     well -

 stationary boatmen

 make circles of ellipses

 in the spring of surface tension

 with coffee scoop feet 

& if i must

fall deep

to hear myself

i will belay the kernmantle ropes

 & light it up 

 & read the shadows
 of the gumbo & diamonds down there

  & fetch them up

  to the suns

  light

  warmth

   & bleachy fade

   & bust like birth

the kitchen counter silence 

in this bad-quiet & still 

     headpan pool

THE NAVY WAY

 

the eye level fire
of the winter dawn

will make relief art

of the ripped tarmac 

on the deteriorating road

i walk down thinking

of 

earth & light

sun & wings

& all the different versions

of the navy way

AUTUMNS DARK LID

in

the
morning parks
liminal hinter

the

golden merkin

of

dewy leaves

confer 

into light & colour

just about 

only just enough

strength to wrangle

wrestle & tangle

with the afternoons 

four o clock dark lid 

FREEDOM TASTING LIGHT

bmx on the streets
moving
moving
moving
solo rider making time
hunting peace in motion
streetlights blinking on

teardrop tubing
mx brakes

faux-italian cursive
on my jumpers tit

the freedom tasting light
when i tasted it

CAGED BLUEBIRD TOO

look for the light

bukowski tells me

looming out the dark

its always there

~

people forget
its not all
beers & bars
with him

he had a caged bluebird too

OR THE CLOSEST I WANT TO

 

i reckon music

is

the
closest

i will get to god

or the closest i want to

it marks the world

arse to the light

&

flowers for the moon

MULTIMEDIA FYI

fyi 

these poems

that i fold into the electric river 

are multimedia pieces

i assume 

you provide music of your choice
& look to nature
for a light show

colour

texture

&

context

as & when

you

find & read

WET PORTS WELL

 

THE T SHIRT CHRONICLES VOL 2

his t shirt said

are the clouds lower
or is just me ?

he was 6' 6" & on a hill

but
i think
that was
coincidentally

~

'defcon ?' he asked

his face to the light
& arse to the wind

~

'its all tagnuts in the breeze'

i told him
totting up the rubicons

'just roadkill winnits
in the hatchback grill'

THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT MARINADE, AN OFF-CUT POP

well theres that 

& the laminated collage of eyes

he sees there 

  looking 

    looking

      LOOKING

where they said the tunnel & light should be

land ho ?

he wonders

anciently marinated

in

sea salt & grimwald 

AN ANALOGY STRETCH, DREAM STEALER

to doggy paddle 

in baby riptides 

under a Munch oil sun

to tread water 

at the reefs end

below O Keefe clouds

to splash & thrash

in the harbour mouth  

apollos polaroid moon above

between the sinking & scuppering

  you 

     call 

         your

             sleep

~

& pushing the analogys stretch

   & its plastic elastic limit

      its the

m i d n i g h t  s a l v a g e  r i g h t s 

         that should concern you

LEADEN MY BELLY

the accelerator stream
out the hand-glass
&
the pox-vox-pops 

out the circus vents

leaden my belly
& take the light

out my dreamed mountain view

~

brain rot

bring it

reality got bent

AN ECONOMY OF PASSION

looking for light
in the dark of the park

odd pop misunderstood
in your eggshell mind

alone in dusks inertia & ennui

by your own divine hand

the fm rules 

missed your 

short wave gain

you are an economy of passion

a child in the inbetween

photo - Tree & Fuzz from the Dagenham Archive

SO WHAT REDUX

no one walks into an alley 

like this alley

not here 
not tonight

not in this part of town

sky forbids stars

traffic is hushed

well lit here but so what ?

rot spreads

~

painted words on cement wall

harsh & illiterate

faded & true

but so what ?

mutants & sheep

& under my boots ? 

the busted plastic corners

of a busted music cassette

~

magnetic tape 
giddy

sleek

brown

un-spools into the shape of wind

that takes me back 
oh yes 

but so what ?

theyre coming back too

~

got a length of pipe 

might be lead

like in cluedo
who knows ?

its all i need

metal gets it done

smoke butt after butt

perfect moreish poison

wait

just drag it out

like we all do

~

yesterdays papers
panic flapping & trapped 
caught between the wind & a hard place

obits make the front page everyday

& i feel like 
we say goodbye

to the 20th C day by bastard day

but so what ?

thin sliced meat

~

throw my butt like i hate it

edge my boots 
into 
the 
dirty white light

feels like a movie

& vice versa

but so what ?

its all spam

in the meat world

photo Reaching from the Dagenham Archive

DELIRIUM TAPAS VOL 12

 

so writing then-

pick your biscuits

out the selection box

make a dark world lighter
&
play in your foolish light

or . . .

well -

i leave the decisions to the decisive

& complain later

im about underthinking

& keeping it short

~

&
i file my reports in scribbled notes 

typed up here

when i can decipher their spider code

divine from them

theyre 

s c a t t e r e d 

like chicken bones

philosophy watches 

left there in the beach sand

& the waking belches of morning dew

photo - 43 of 11 from the Dagenham Archive

SOUL BUFFET

im a conduit

ailing - theres gaps

light gets thru

~

thru the unoffical bypasses

from the heavy metal fatigue

you
find
it
here

ether filtered

like cosmic volvic & meat evian

a flat platter from

my fragmented soul buffet

lets meat from ny.eater.com

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, YING YANG & BREAKFAST WINE