THE CREATIVE PUSH & PULL

you got to push it out
like birth
from need
from heart
forced by guts
out the valve you tore

& you must pull too
with exposure
laying bait
& fishing & trawling & mining

& if all that is
is a weak fart
on low hanging fruit

well i still did it

DREAM FUDGE POP BOILERMAKER

& the barmaid

  she was queen 

  of the boilermaker parade

  she had killed a man

  with a poison round

  of atlanta fanta

  in pittsburg 

  in illinois

  in the aleutians 

& all across the usa

~

  she confessed her crime
  to a relative of mine
  never scared at the time
  that he would ever tell

& out of his tree

  he only told me

  you see -

  he drank too much wine

  deep in the dream time

& well 

  if he hadnt

  he couldve ruined 

  the sandmans dance & rhyme 

& anyway

  mercy the sandman be

photo - Texture Tree #7 from the Dagenham Archive

BABY SERVANT OF DARKNESS

born in 1973
its
like
i
clocked-in that day
and started
doing my time in the universal mind

or mine . . .

like 
it 
was 
some kind of job - chipping ideas and bullshit
off the scarred coal face 
that
represents
time / maybe / maybe not . . .

maybe it represented opportunity !

and
i
couldnt
swing
the pick hard enough
to
get 
me
a
big
boulder of future . . .

i had a toy pick but a madmans sweat
and
i
shovelled
any
slivers of rock ( time / opportunity )
into dog eared notebooks
all
in
a mad dog rush
like
a
hoarder / like i knew i might need them
later
on

like a christmas club account

dunno when clock out is
but
its like
i'm
having
a
long
slacker
lunch right now - counting my eggs
and
digging on my own time

i used to
nurture 
the 
darkness in the mine / in lifes hole 
like it was a boss / a bosses arse !
like
i
had
Stockholm syndrome

i was a baby servant of darkness

and things have changed after lunch
now i've eaten
i'm digesting / thinking slowly
like
i
caught 
a
new illness just as my rabies cleared up
and
its
like
now i'm off sick - not just a slacker lunch
and
theres
a
peace in the fog / the hospital fog

its like i'm in hospital . . .

fog
came
in
with
the
all the birds that came home to roost
landing
on my shoulders
and
not
minding
their claws at all
and
the
food
here ( my new thoughts maybe . . . ) - 
the steamed hospital dinners
give me
the same benevolent flushes
i 
used 
to 
scorn like an evil drunk clown
back
when
i
was
a
baby servant
of
darkness

from activistpost.com