THO DEATH HAS NO DOMINION IT STILL STICKS ITS BLOODY OAR IN

 

death is a bad fact
& blunt
like a sperm whale

&
fate is a river of silt
with tent city banks

& echoes have teeth
& the past is litigious

but no matter that

that world is gone

GOT NOWHERE WITH IT

in the cafe
i had coffee
at the counter
then decanted it
into a takeout cup

& took it with me
up to the field
where i stood
& looked downhill
at what i could see of the river
flowing silver behind the cranes

& thought about it all

& got nowhere with it

it has nowhere to go

INSOMNIA HAIKU 11

night food / morning crumbs

legs & arms 

are amps & volts

frozen river time

SCENE

 

with the 

opposite heel
he knocked 

a waffle
of bloody snow
off the bottom 

of his boot
in the 

farmhouse bedroom

the grip of meth 

weakening
& letting in the chill
of clothes 

wet from the river

as he packed bags

for the young sisters 

going away

ANOTHER POETS POEM

 

the atrocious swan of love*
said the poem

published in landscape

in a book like a calendar

& i stop there
picturing it

a calm river

& brick arch bridge

the image halts 

my hospital rush

* from May, in Shia LaBeouf, by A K Blakemore

WATER CYCLED

 

i had no choice

when the water forked

& that river branch 

i couldnt sail

still smarts 

like a ghost limb

~

its water 

under a different bridge now 

but still

i get to taste it

here

on the garden rain

WELL I CANT READ ITS MIND

a hair on the bed
just one inch away
from my morning eye

is curled into a question mark
shining silver in the slant of the sun

its tagged itself

on the end of my dreams

asking maybe What Now ?
or suggesting . . . 

. . . well i cant read it mind

~

it casts a shadow
like a dark river
that
winds

down 

the

cotton canyon cliffs

& there i launch a small boat

& escape

from interrogation

TWO MOVIE BUTTERFLY SCENES

the journalist
fresh from the pacific surf
heading down a jungle path

regards a blue one
almost see-thru
on his raised hand

its a scene to show how relaxed he is
in a war zone with still wet clothes

~

the hit man says 

dont move
as a white one alights 

on his clients pale sleeve

its a secluded place
with a sparkling river

its endangered he says 

guarded eyes looking away

its a scene to show theres more to him
than repositioning an m14s fulcrum
to balance out the bulky suppressor

FRAG 17

 

the
river
looks
like flaking chrome

from behind the cranes animal shapes

marsh & port
between us

spring willows on my mind

WITH A SIMPLER MIND

to be once again
a kid on a bike

moving always moving

or always ready to

with traffic to dodge

&

alley corners to risk

looking for something

looking for anything

from the wooded hills

to

the flat estuary marsh

~

motion made a trouble-mind simple

thru kinesis or thru taxis

i dont which -

i had sweets down my sock

for eating under hedges

waiting out the rain

photo - Outdoors Remembered from the Dagenham Archive 

BREAKFAST BUFFET VOL4

 

my hearts beating in my face

i cant feel my edges anymore

thats the best lines from this weeks tv

then i get a code blue

thru on the receiver ham

its the river my friend its the river

challenging me

to match 

its changing pace & disguise

~

updates

john woo owns slo mo

& 

has custody

of kubricks 

irish doves

codeine linctus

is no good for a buzz

not really

no

the pm is the 

lowest meat content sausage 

available outside regulations

& 

a ponzi scheme of narcissism

crying 'alas, alas, alas...'

photograph - Between Tech & The Trees #18 courtesy of the Dagenham Archives

ONE TRICK PONY PREVIEW #3\3 GUEST POST BY URBAN KISSES

 In some future moment 

 an unexpected gift may arise from 

 the madness  

 a phoenix  

 rising from the silt  

 like the broken and lost treasure  

 that lays itself bare on the foreshore 

 of the river 

 in the wash  


 ~ 


 Or maybe we will look back  

 see this as our turning point  

 and recognise that it was here  

 that the tide of love we had  

 simply ebbed away  

 stranding us 

LONDON DREAM

a london place 
  recurs 
  in dreams -

all its tourist places
all its famous places

stand in a single
convenient 
accessible 
postcard row

everybody is living
in one single 
immense
condensed
block of concrete flats

~

& it is a dark town
its bad fingers beckoning
across the slum pub bridges

across
the
red bus 
orange gravel 
parade square 

~

my shortcut home
everytime is always 
down on the tube tracks

me & the commuters down there

the rats down at our feet

the
trains
closing
in

ominous & scream-loud

~

i wake up

still down there

in danger 
in trouble
down there 

in the dark
down there

in recurring london dreams

from londonist.com

PICASA MADRIGALS, FAMOUS RIVER / PANEL BEATER

PICASA MADRIGALS, THREE TV POPS

PICASA MADRIGALS - BOAT

RIVER, BOATS, PUB, POWER STATION REMAINS AND A POLE

HAIKU TWO OF

OUTSIDE


outside of it all

hedges and air and cement
                      and 

on
a
spur
of
ledge



DEJA VU


rolling deja vu

wind whips peaks on the river

family 
blanket

from pinterest

FUCKTOWNS BELLY

day has opened its windows
and
pulled
the
nights
walls down 

melted them into water

water is on the lawn with long shadows
and
is
cried
over
the
cool
cars
in shining baubles - run into rivers 
over bonnets and bumpers
as the workers fire their pistons
and
move into gear

the sky is uniform grey
like a used dish rag
or
gods
sick
turned
back
in a garbage shirt old as time

the day has rotten teeth
men
in
hi-vis
drill the cavities out
their
machines
echo
off
quiet bungalow walls

fucktowns belly bellows van motors
and mutters outside the paper shop
subdued sirens creep thru trimmed bushes

urgent but no too urgent

fucktowns belly
belches
like deep currents out in the brown river

fucktown eating us with its rotten teeth
eating
our
high street wanders
and
drs appointments
our estate agent window perusals 

deep in fucktowns belly 
it mashes us up 
into
tonights
new
adobe 
walls

from lawnsmith.co.uk

FUCK TOWN

Conrad lived on the Hope tapping his typer in Victoria Avenue

where

now

commuter flats block-paved communal yards

back onto the Misery Line

that

goes on and up to town and down and along to the old seaside

where

the pier stretches over shallow miles

and holiday boats would moor for London weekenders

that

was burnt and then was burnt again

and

Pepys lurked in the Worlds End

for navy brews

and

later i’m there for lock-ins by the open sewers

and

Pepys ran off to dig up his cheese and diary pages

and

the peasants revolted on the hinterland hills and in village pubs

where

old kings once slept incognito out on the Dick Turpin roads

and

smugglers tunnels used to lead to river wharfs

now

rotted on the receded estuary curves 

of wild birds and wilder horses

where

graffiti’d concrete pill boxes of toking boozing teens

get rumbled in late night thunderheads

by mad farmers with schizophrenic sons

and

forced to herd calves and cows

into the lee of flood barriers

high and laughing

and

shovelling

bovine

afterbirths into quicksand for the tide

to

hide