TOUR or SHOW YOUR WORKING OUT

 

i walk thru the past

walk ? drift maybe - float ?

attend . . . nah

or visit ? yes visit

no - tour ! 

~

in the concrete downtime

of sickness & england

i tour thru the past 

top down / beta band on

even tho

i reckon

i found all there is 

for me to find there
but you never can know

it has surprised me before

QUESTIONS IN THE MARGINS

could i 

find the world
this jagged & mad & mistaken & wild

if 

i 

was
an integrated

& functional 

meat & cog of it 

~

if
the
past
is a turd in the bin

then christ

am i some faecal weirdo

for cataloguing 

such refuse

in my field reports 

AGAIN THE SCREEN AGAIN

morning again

&
i approach it again
the screen again
the words again
the wrestling again

plundering any memory

out the knots of the past
for proof of the now

puffed up with coffee & nicotine

next to a still cats snores

~

grey spring day

school morning

& the PE teacher

got the javelins out

for the last time

as it goes

their hi vis tape

faded to a joke

well next we got moved on stat

& out of the ambulances way

expected to go saw balsa wood

like nothing happened at all 

IMPOSSIBLE ROSES, TWO POPLINGS

ease of the past

impossible roses now

tho music doesnt blink 

~

summers falling plums 

tattoo jazz phrases

atop the tool shed roof

FRAG 37

never has the past looked so rosy

thinks everyone

every time

the fan 

needs another 

deep clean

~

like the radar station

disguised as a water tower

from the last global war

looks

quaint & retro

these days

to me

HANDS BLUFFING ON THE LAMB

yes

the past has already had you

& some settling of contents
may have happened in transit

but the future is hungry too

& may contain nuts

yes


~


play the long game
in the long dusk
with rainbow lego
& poundshop knives

prophets in your back pocket
hands bluffing on the lamb
until dinner time
& you wash your hands . . .

faux famine panic
in the cats green eyes

TELL IT TO THE DUST

 

tell it to the dust 

no - cross-examine the dust

& headline-shout any results

in identikit bulletin foam

all channels

all nets

drones drop-off my lab-coffee

on the undead plastic lawn

~

if the past is another country

like  

    they  

        say  

it makes us all exiles

like the moon is

from earthy green

DELIRIUM TAPAS VOL6

the empty lands
or so they very very seem

blunted tile
blind ceramic

the awful plumbing wires

the turf bark & meat

empty
empty 

lands


~


theres reflections to fill it
to paint time & change it

if we update & defrag 

between loving blinks

& the past
that cosy ghoul
is gone in truth

but for in our drawn puddle glow

TUESDAY POPS AGAIN

THINGS WERE BETTER
BACK IN MY DAY

what
kind
of
wasteland
is
this
past ?

that permits
itself
such a rosy glow ?



Q&A

whats its like then
being a poet
and that ?

he asked
like all the words
were new to him

well i wrote it down
didnt i

i said

so i didnt
have to talk to you



POSTCARD FROM BRITAIN

cluster fuck
in
the
fug
over here

rich seams 
mined
to disaster

i hear a sid james laugh
whenever news sneaks 
itself on the tv

im behind the sofa
worse than dr who



ENGLAND NOW ?

is there no england now
in the post truth world ?

and when was this
truth world
anyway . . .

did i fucking blink ?

from telegraph.co.uk

ITS NEVER HERE WHEN I WAKE

eyes shut
i tumble some

and something happens
and i dance inside

kind of - its blurred

like its the past in there

or
a
riddle
of days to come

and theres a book there i read from
thats never here when i wake

POP #1110a & 1110b

the past cold-calls
like its got a hotline

i am bluetooth synced
with yesterdays mire

it 
whispers 
passive aggressive
breaths
of
happenstance and blame

i unplug

i look forward

a whole twelve feet

to supper
and the wind-down warmth
inside our walls

~

autumn burns down
your heart locker

and everything gets out

and everything dances an old dance

in the low swung 
sepia
sunlight

GENERATION MEAN AND CLOSE TO MADNESS

    the hard bullies of soft sanity
 wear histories warnings 
  like a brand 
    on a tshirt
 in the dress-down-century

 bornhereism is the skinny jeans
   of the finished generation
        sulking
     sad 
  empty and wronged
    thinking they had no great war of their own

  shameless idiocratic wannabe generals
      flying a white pig flag
  selling out of date hate
   and cliched textbook division
       to the floppy fringed chadults
   the ceos let down

 i say dont fret 
to the double-0 technology kids
   soon the pale boors  
         will
            be
        dead
    and you can paint a fresh coat of mad
 on eternal corporate ruins


~

  i am the closest to going mad
i been 
 since the nights of the eternal gins
    and the dawns of van halen
     and those
        Moments  Of  Clarity  
           afterwards
when i lay spaced and stretched
 in  a 6 AM heaven of manufactured peace
  the bird chorus singing
 'love me on a stick'
   they did  i swear   

    mad today like a man 
 in a weird dystopian b movie

    flawed and faulty but obviously an angel analogy 

     frantically collecting  
mechanical items  
  from the recent past

   and oh so british too

      panicking politely 
      in
   a 
 formal newspaper breakfast
    silence

from pinterest

GONE FRIENDS

  gone friends
live
on
in
the dream time 
as 
long ago faces
haunting
long ago bars

  and
they swim up out of the fog
still
young
  as real as 
anything
on my tv - like a re-run
  ignorant 
of 
the 
long years
  its 
like 
they never been gone

  and all day 
i will wonder where they are
  and all day 
i will picture them knocking on my door
fat
with
a
shared past / forgiveness 
apologies / good news
and
dreams
of
me

from mediamolecule.com

BAR POP

after
a 
clutter of strange goodbyes
they
went
down the stairs
to
drink
the 
past 
from
a
pitcher

from michelehow.wordpress.com

THE PAST IS ANOTHER COUNTRY

1. LIGHTS

the sun is fuck-tired 
and
brain-drained 
by 
too-long summer days
and 
falls over itself 
in relief 
by 7 pm

leaving
the
streets burning all horror-show
with
paranoid security bulbs 
shining showbiz spotlights
over
block-paved flooded hatchback drives
and
commuter headlamps scan the colourless bricks
swinging
like
prison
searchlights
  the night 
      full 
    with 
      silent 
      alarms

  we
light optimistic bath candles 
to shut our eyes to
  and 
stroke laptops under reading lamps
like pets
  and
cook to the dim radio DAB displays
of quiet jazz
  and
  then
dream before the dead blue flicker
  of
evening tv
selling
  life insurance 
          in case
and 
  beach holidays 
          we deserve

from mindfulbalance.org

2. TOURIST

  in
the awful autumn depression
  of
gut memories and cold-sweat nerves and dead afternoons
  i
  hold
  the 

    Gone Winters

with oven gloves and teflon love
  cos
    who
      can
        really balance
that
old 

    Tourist Pain

with
the

    New Fool

hanging
by 
fingernails
off 
todays scribbled diary ?

from howkapow.com

THE PAST

i
carry
the
past
with 
me
in my pocket all the time
like
a
beautiful
dead
bird
with
eyes holding secrets 
that 
i'm
scared 
to 
touch
in
case
i catch something

from neuroticcity.wordpress.com

OLD PEOPLE !

old people !

forget
the paper-book banks and scrubbed step terraces

you 
remember
them
like they were Trumpton 

your
progress

bulldozed them to asbestos dust 
for
Morrisons Motherships 
and
orange-brick hutches 
with
stinky muddy
estuary views

and anyway was it all that great back then ?

looking behind helps us feel superior
but
who
knows
whats
coming next ?

and
anyway
how about the now ?

romford head post office from postalheritage.wordpress

SMELL THE WORLD GONE

rain wet weeds and sun warm cement
damp
like a zoos lizard house
where
the
imported sky
fell

blast of sweet perfume
like 
a 
department store xmas assault
covering 
up
side door cigarettes

white coated coals 
that 
glow like asteroids
and
dusk campfire woodsmoke 
blown 
on a dream breeze

all hint
at
Times / Such Times - nameless memories
of
whenever
and
wherever
the
past 
went

from bunnydesign.com