KEEP IT DOWN PEOPLE, I'M MISSING THE POINT

 

i am reliably informed

that this is no time to be silent

now theres more killers

in the streets & the skies 

& the boardrooms 

& the governments

than ever before
but i am not sure

i can face 

more noise

~

& i wonder how it would look

to play it all out in silence

comical maybe

probably absurd

& that might slow 

the state goblins down 

& let me rest up some

in peace for a change

WAIT, YOU GET A MANUAL ?

earth

where nothing is sacred
& 

every perversion is justified

if you got 

the cheese & the noise 

or an army & a name 

tho they dont put that

in the manual do they ?

~

but just look 
at the ragtag cornucopia 

of the night city scenery 

& hilltop views

& the small people there

hearts mountain big

praying in the dirt for a dream

THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD

in the evening
the metronome
thud thud thud
repeats repeat repeats
across the
marsh marsh marsh

thud thud thud
thud thud thud
thud thud thud

well what is it ?
what is it ?
what the fug fug fug
could it be be be ?

thud thud thud
thud thud thud
thud thud thud

so mechanical
so regular
so big big big

we cant even guess

~

obviously
we look out the window
& see see see
nothing there

obviously
we open the front door
& it gets louder louder louder
& nothing more

thud thud thud
thud thud thud
thud thud thud

so we google & search
search search search
& find a twitter spat
in kent last week
about this noise noise noise

& its the port
the river port
making more port
with a pile driver

thud thud thud
thud thud thud
thud thud thud

fug fug fug
we say say say

fug

SHINY HANDLE OF PRE-PLASTIC RESIN

'Man eats meat, and he grows fur.' 

Vasily Grossman



i fall open
like a book
at its well read 

& favourite pages

or i try to . . .

but everything flows 

& i give myself up

to the noise & the not

to the forever & the never

or i try to . . .

& zen nihilism reaches into the drawer

for a hand-me-down no-name kitchen knife

with a shiny handle of pre-plastic resin

&

slices my good ham thin

in a porterhouse dream

or it tries to . . .

HUNGRY HUNCHED & ANGRY

 

i napped hungry
hunched & angry

furious with noise

&

i 

slid like grease

into

the
acid horror
of 

the
hypnagog zone

under fifteen blankets

the fan on full

photo - Cat Part from the Dagenham Archive

UPDATE FAILED

 

monday & theres no binmen yet

it makes me feel strange
none of the clatter & shouts

i miss the clatter & shouts

theres plenty of work vans tho 

a big white camper that looks lost 

& an eight wheeler of toxic something

i cant tell what

with tethered hoses like outside innards

the strange duck opposite is lining up 

mobility aids in the street

for the rag & bone men again

more mobility aids ?

he did this all last week

an old man rests on our front wall

curved over like a crescent moon

hes going the wrong way for a paper

he was 8 stone at his RAF weigh in 1943

& hes 8 stone again

or so he says

thats ALL he says

hes dressed all over in beige

ready for another desert campaign

monday 

no binmen

only one bird 

no breeze to speak off

calling it

update failed

drawing the curtains

will check on it later

MOVIE BULLETS

THE DAYS LOOKING

the day is the face
of a head in a hood

its like a fridge hum with eyes

its an
attentive 
unstable 
streetside
ripple 

and
maybe 
it looks off somewhere else
but
we
never
catch
it

and
maybe its no more pleased about it
than
we
are

i
see
it
as
an unblinking lizard
dancing on hot sand
making
that
noise
like a hoover does
when
its 
next door
or
one floor up
threatening the walls
or
the
whirled artex ceilings

and it sends in 
big black flies
to find us
if we lay our withering bulks down inside
in
a half-arsed attempt
to
hide
in the afternoons
dead fish 
ebb tide

from littlemissteacher.com

SOIL OF THE WORLD

i can feel it
under my boots
up my calves 

like scaffolding 

feel being perched
like a storybook owl
                 on
                 the
                 deep
                 eternal
                 soil
anchored like a bouy
on the soft rock of the world

i can feel its noise 
           its dry breath
           and
           maybe
           i
           feel
           kind 
           of
           sad
     for not being a beautiful bird
                or a manticore treecat
                or a dragon fly
                     forever 
                     sat
                     on 
                     the 
                     rosebush pole
  and
  being
  just
  a
  me 

perched on the soil of the world

  feeling it
  clear 
  as
  hunger or pain

  feeling
  the rich urban peat
  the poor salted earth 
  out
    in 
      the 
        kfc sticks

up to my chin in excess packaging
and
the
silent
countdown

from forcechange.com

ITS ALRIGHT MA, ITS ONLY SUNDAY

into the quietest of rooms
comes the loudest of guns

ricocheting
off
the 
plasma screen
bubbling in near silence
inoffensive
and
unwatched

the
flat crack echo of a late starters pistol
the
rumble thunder of the cannons of age
and
the
THWOCK
and
POP
of the suppressed assassins pistol
right behind you
as
the
mid afternoon sun
falls
down
the
sky