NOW I GOT ADMIN TOO

 

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& read read read OTHER peoples writing ?
all those captured deados
who never saw neon
or a hot rod motor car ?

christ

isnt it enough

to write it 

now i got admin too ?

FLESH CITY TEA, A SCI FI POPTART

the soft steam whistle whine
of the iron analogue kettles
is heavy nostalgia for the very old

who
weep & weep & weep
lost
in midtowns latest ultra-fads

kitsch faux-neon gone
in temporary favour
of green brass patinas

& blue gas flame


~


carbon tears are counted
logged & fluted & countered
as only an AI can

& a soft steam whistle whine
is ringtone & alert now

on all
handheld
arcadia
glass

flesh citys midtown tea bars
now irritatingly shrill

PICASA MADRIGALS, DRUNKEST VOYEUR

the artificial glow

of the cities

neon dream courts

shine brightest

for the 

drunkest voyeur

RIDE

its a psychotic ride

ordinary murder

in the bushcraft vacuum

and theres

amazing views

amazing views

on

this

death trip

thru

natures indifferent glance

and

out cements hard backside

and the night is the arse of the day

if the day is a payday loan

deep in the plastic heart

of neon darkness

its

the most naked

that

wear

the most expensive

under

a sun made from bubble wrap

in the bingo ballroom

and the old gods 

gave way to nothing

to our nothing

at all

and we all shout

death is for losers

knocking on that very door

pic from bbc.co.uk

BUCKOWSKIS FRIEND

met a woman
100 years ago it seems
who knew buckowski
way back
in the 20th centurys 
paperback analogue

she wore huge LA sunglasses
in the murky raining london night

i heard her read
her husband too
his prose 
was production line
hers at least
had neon and light

i was on the wagon
the booze fumes inside
a jag on my nerves
i was outside often
smoking
on the triangle wedge there 
worn wooden benches
knee high ashtrays

the traffic divided at my feet
like i was a rock in the tide

she was drunk
when she left
with her daughter
her daughters smile
if it was her daughter
was eight miles wide 
her husband
was a tall dry bough 
jesus i thought
dead man walking

i spoke out to them
something about
their poetry reading
some complimentary something
that i dragged out
for the occasion

i was stood in the rain
potted plants empty glass
kerb stone apex
cutting londons flow
like the bow 
of a great concrete liner

their replies were mumbled
uncertain and drunk

they were caught up 
in their daughters 
headlong wake
and
they walked awkwardly away
into the rain and the murk
in LA sunglasses
looking around
kind of suspicious
and
blind as moles

well screw you too i thought
i met kerouac anyway
down in the stairwell
of a brixton church
we shared a herbal smoke
so there