FUCKTOWN CORE REDUX

there 
was 
a

fucktown CORE

booze rebellion

sneezing speed 
over 
dry 
hash cracks

deranged delusion demigods

high on IQ isolation

playing

ancient

music

in Englands quaint leftovers

~

&

the CORE went OUT

into nights dark answers

&

broke things
climbed things
redefined things

ridiculous

hilarious 
terrifying . . . 
. . . & true

~

&

we bled real blood
&
we bled metaphorical blood

in

the

face of the Nowhere & the Nothing

on

the

flat-bottle streets of video shops 
& wind-blown panic-chased rizla

waiting

always

waiting

~

on

the Bread Slipper Lane kerb stones

where the alleys of yesterday meet

&

on

the empty rec ground cricket crease

coughing blunts at the moon

we were
waiting

always

waiting

for

SOMETHING . . .

. . . more & else

from the42.ie

BEDROOM LANDS 4

RIZLA

same smell 
of MFI MDF

same stolen
brown laminate 
canteen trays

but
a 
different 

rainbow of rizla



CIGARETTES

with six
types of weed

i would cry
accidentally on speed

its 
more damn cigarettes
i need




ADIDAS

all
the
reformed monsters
got 
the
same
denim
on

subpop shirts

competing rubber-toe adidas
ripcurl
on 
coiled 
cable 
carpet



CABLES

snake atrophy

twist like art
to
vhs and crt

and back-of-a-lorry
monitor audio cones

plastic rivers
thru 
the 
kipple crumbs and carcinogens
of 
one-room 
living




SHOE RULES

smell-
different washing machine protocol

different shoe rules
differently observed

same mellow smoke billow
hugs same artex

same hot rocks
puncture different pillow

same empties
ashtary sentries
on the floor



HIGH

and
my
face was weird
in
the 
watermark mirrors
of
different bathrooms
different light

wasted and drained

pale and bombastic

high

pic from india.com

A TALE OF ORDINARY FOLKS

the young guy in the corner shop
dont
like
dogs
at all

hates it if they get in there

even if theyre tiny or old

so 
sometimes
i will carry them out for him
when 
i 
am 
in 
there
squinting at the headlines
and
buying
crisps and rizla

i dump them on the pavement
where
he
will
watch them on his cctv
with
a
wary
eye

after i firmly closed the door

from www.littleangelsrescuebg.org

CORE

there was a CORE
a
fucktown CORE
of
booze rebellion / sneezing speed over the dry hash cracks
derranged and delusion demigods high on IQ isolation
playing
ancient
music
in Englands quaint 20C leftovers
and
out - the CORE went OUT
into 
the 
nights dark answers / asking brand new questions
and
broke things / climbed things / redifined things
as
ridiculous / hilarious / terrifying . . . never true
and 
bled real blood / bled metaphorical blood
in
the
face of the Nowhere and the Nothing
on
the 
flat-bottle streets of video shops and wind blown rizla
waiting
always
waiting
on 
the Bread Slipper Lane kerb stones
where the alleys of yesterday met
and
on
the empty rec ground cricket crease 
coughing blunts at the moon 
waiting
always
waiting
for
SOMETHING 
to 
happen

early jefferson airplane from mstrychowska.deviantart.com

MAC THE CLEANER

mac the cleaner has deep carved wrinkles under wide bloodshot eyes.  this morning he hides himself under a blue anorak hood. a brown roll-up is visible sticking out toothpick thin from white bristle lips.  he lights it in solitude out on the hospital back lane.

he looks rough these days.  he is death white pale.  

he didnt used to be.  he used be old leather.  

his eyes look down at cracked concrete and pebbles laying where the rain left them. he used to look at the grey clouds and loudly disclaim all and any weather.  

he says MORNING but the life has vanished from his voice.  less a greeting now an automatic observation. 

i know he used camp with old rockers and retired bikers for the volkswagon weekender and drink homebrew from stone jars and cook Aldi steaks in a half-drum bbq.  
i know on a monday he used to say FIVE DAYS TO GO and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
i know on a wednesday he used to say HALFWAY THERE and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
and on a friday WOOHOO.
i know he has a married daughter over the river and no wife.
i know he visits his dad twice a year saving up for the train. until he had a fall and they moved him from country isolation to a local home.
i know his moaning used to be cheery.
i know he stops for a pint with the market traders on the way home everyday and sometimes i'd lend him money for it.
i know he always paid back prompt.
i know he reads fantasy paperbacks by people i never heard of feet up in the broom cupboard clutter of the private ward.
i know before pay day he'll ask for baccy and i'd let him roll a few from my pouch for the evening.
i know he'd use his own brown liquorice papers.

i known him a long time but i dont know him well.

i think he may have had bad news.
concerning his dad.
or his own health.

but his face no longer invites conversation.

the funnyfarm