NINETIES SNAPSHOT POP

 

on the estates dawn-yellow hem

the unwrapped cellophane

of fresh cigarettes

was tugged like a wind sock

in the commute-o-clock breeze

its rip strip

a silver tendril

friction clinging

to the hand-me-down fingers

of my bus fare palm

& the mezcal hangovers

were their very own drug

back in the radiohead days

that called my work boots lucid

& the flats great golden bales

ARENT WE ALL

waiting for my time 

on a street corner

loose change in my lining

waiting waiting waiting

for something to happen

well my time might 

well has been & gone

when i was waiting 
on a street corner

field dirt in my boots

waiting waiting waiting 

for something to happen

well my time might be right now

this coffee & kitchen chair

this sand in my hands

& i notice 

too late ? 

too late !

nah / whatever

tomorrow never looked so fine

as with my eyes tight shut today

from mexeperience.com

POETRY IS

poetry is
 on the edgware road
 spray tags claim 
 old piss brick
 beyond paper deeds

poetry is
 instructions 
 on my lazy
 lunch o clock 
 soup tin circle
 small & printed & perfect

poetry is
 whale song
 in the
 north sea hijack
 more mason perkins 6.4

but when  
 the scribble notes
 are 
 slim-thin empty
 & lost by the night shift
 & i am loose as foam
 nebulous but cement
 in the 
 grown-up airlock

 then dawn plays 
 off-pitch
 radiohead
 on a loop
 on a loop
 on a loop
 into the mornings
 wasteland hinter

 &
 peach petals tumble
 in
 soft spring wind

from moviestillsdb.com

WEDNESDAY POPS AGAIN

ONION GRASS

the wind
is a shout

an order
that moves trees

a base communique
from banished babel

i stand 
in the
dead apples
and
onion grass

earthed
on the lawn



ANOTHER POSTCARD FROM BRITAIN

sos sos sos

nationalist pathogen
deliberately released

and tho sunlight
has got to the
smoke and mirrors

it 
doesnt 
seem 
to 
matter



SAYS NOTHING TO ME

outside the window
the day throws
the air about

its a half-arsed tantrum

inconsistent
irritating me

the uniform grey sky
says nothing to me

nothing

like listening 
to late period radiohead
under cold water

from thefatangelsings.com

WHAT IT IS, IS BODY BUTTER ON MY BATHROOM TOAST

what it is
is i celebrate teflon turds
in my 
ceramic cathedral

my muted fist 
raised halfway
in the 
impossible fluff factory

i photo tv shows
click click click
bad clay nested
on the
sofa cushions

what it is
is i get by
in the 
neon troughs
twilight hegemony

mind turned 
both sides up
& dopamine hacked
or 
as free
at least
as my philosophy lets it

what it is
is five frames a minute
in suburbias
slow mo
ambient
guitar
rave

silicon sediment
turned hard memory
filtered
thru
the thick 
low end
heart strings

pablo honey
in
my
ginger tea
&
body butter
on
my
bathroom toast

from huffingtonpost.co.uk

FESTIVAL MUSK

sandalwood sticks and plywood bonfires
smoking 
in
the
solid dark of country
and
the rip of tent zips talking

the
damp air in nettle ditches
old beer
damp shoes
and 
the 
wafting funk of weed and wax flares

it all comes rushing back to me
the Radiohead tragedy . . .

rushing back
on bbq winds of suburbia
where
bmw boys bellow about baps and burnt burgers and bites
on 
white 
legs
on plastic moulded chairs
behind slats of council fences

and
i
remember
counting survivors
in pale yellow mornings
cheap bacon marked up in the buses
when
the
bass
came thru the ground again