POETRY SERVICE & PLASTIC UG

 

most weekdays

in a corner
of the internet

is
a
poem

for you few

~

only snow

can pretend

to tame

the plastic ug of litter

& even that

not for long

AN ENDING FRAG

& afterwards

we

slog

hollow boned
up
the 

hill
to the witches condo

where we had hung up our coats

& our gone pets 

are 

darting & glitching

in 

the  

periphery fuzz & snow

of 

the 

early gloom of valley dusk

DREAM FUDGE POP HOSP 2

the civvy-clad corpses 

gone cold-stiff

looked child-thrown

out 

on 

the 

loading bays concrete stage

its cement cracks edged with frost moss 

~

i tried to fold them

&

i tried to hide them

in the new snowfall

& 

shovelled piled ice 

in that hectic dream panic 

that might wake a regular man

~

police passed without a word

we shared a look -

workers all alone 

& we knew it

all of us rabbit hole deep 

inside 

an 

obligated 

national service of the soul

~

authors note -

i dreamed all of this

before the covidien came

portentous perhaps ?

but 

in the dream world 

it was noel fielding 

running the ITU...

photo Lift Off from the Dagenham Archive

BREAKFAST BUFFET VOL1

 

i am redacted 

but secretly

black stripes in the blind spots

& the snow 

first welcome

becomes vertiginous

~

i block my ears

build a nest

tunnel my eyes

& unmet in unoffered middle ground

i fiddle with 

the tiny things

in my tiny world

unproven between

the tetrapods

& hash browns

~

my compromised reach is compromised

& well aware 

side effects 

include compulsion

i keep my guard up

or is it down ?

either way

attacks are only paperwork

MI5 gave up long ago

photograph - Small Victory courtesy of the Dagenham Archives

PETER FONDA HAUNTS ME IN MOUNTAIN SNOW

california dreams 
sold in beach shade

watch thrown away 
on the cocaine road

peter fondas morning weed
put a whole new complexion 
on 
my
regular 
days


~


hes the latest name

on the saddest list

in the stumbling dearth

of a poorer world


~


& since he died
i see him still

but in films
he was 
never in

surf boy eyes
unmistakable
over a mans grey beard

no
matter
what
imdb
says

from pinterest.com

SCHOOL DAYS POP

one day 
we all had
digital casios-
  

memories of the schoolyard

memories of fucktown dixons

stop the stopwatch-

double punch 
silver button 
fast as you can

before
crop rotation
trigonometry
rugby in the snow
&
home for lunch

where sometimes
i would stay

& 
validate my pipe dreams
with 
adventure books
sandwiches 
& 
solitude

from sg.carousell.com

RUSSIA CALLING

i want
to breath
that blank
russian air again

want to dwarf myself
in eternal foyers
too brown
to echo

want to smell the diesel
melt the snow
in
the
imposition streets

want to see 
the grey domino
city scrape
thru
the
bad glass 
twentieth floor 
windows

over a river
gone solid
where no one skates

and count those copper tubes again
in
the
airport
as
i
leave again

but that was gorbys days

and i was western air

supervised around
that
strange flipside
of
cold war freeze

russias calling-

its price chalked
on the soles
of its awkward
evening shoes

from russia.countrypictures.in

GLASS / CORNERSHOP

1. GLASS/DAWNS FUCKED CARPET

2. CORNERSHOP

THRU THE FOG

USED TO WAIT WEEKS

how 
to 

w r i t e 
        d
        o
        w
        n

these mornings ?

these mornings
peeking 
out from
englands 
back pocket 

at the low sun
at the sudden snow

at the next-day couriers
driving electric vans

rushing me
speciality tea

when we used to wait

 w
  e
   e
    k
     s

to sign our name

from vansdirect.co.uk

PART THREE OF A FUNERAL TRILOGY

AFTER

and 
after
it
was
kind of beautiful
to
breath air again
after
the
held
breath
and
production line dignity
in
the
any-denomination-or-not parlour

and 
it
was
kind of beautiful
to 
see 
grandad as smoke
rising
in
a
surprise snowfall

it
didnt
settle
tho

like we had to




OTHER GRANDFATHER

and
as
stiff english lips
lost their starch
and
started
their
flapping

my
other grandfather

big as a tobacco bear

uninvited
and
unexpected

lumbered
over
from
the
carpark

it felt like a storm
that wouldnt break

and he asked me
for the first 
and last time

if i was ok

pic from compassionatefunerals.co.uk

AFTER READING 2 - FIVE POPS ( LEGS )

( after reading bathside i wrote - )


1. MENS LEGS

buckowski
had good legs
big balls

so he said
acne wrapped on a sidewalk
brave for once
on rye

well 
i am 3.1% neanderthal
with model quality feet

and 
my
balls
will
do


2. WOMENS LEGS

theres women gone forever

pulled out
onto paper forever

khol and lippy a masked ball 
of downers 
and wine

smoking thru
their readings

done 
selling 
whitegoods

with their legs


3. WORKING LEGS

men played ball by the river

innocent summer
cold alaska cabin

never spoke of the rain
never spoke of the snow

legs ached at night 
from the woods and the work

one left the other
who is left writing by the woodchipper
of 
all the ropes 
all the ratchets
unhanded
of
the stone mountains of words unsaid


4. EZRAS WORDS GOT LEGS

ezras commitment for words for all

for all 
them mall workers 
them meth truckers
them charity muggers
them banker motherfuckers

east coast west coast
southern hemisphere outpost

was heard was heeded 
by other writingslobs

while he layered himself up and away and down
in the meadows
by the streams
with the peasants 
in the past


5. LEGS TO WALK ON

read what the typingslobs write
in their burnt rug nights
in their hungover hero bottletop dawns

sick and fatally doubtful 
like reformed hams
the real ones
walk the same work and fear
as
any
everyday streetside monster
beside 
you

Ezra Pound at the Home of William Carlos Williams, Rutherford, New Jersey, June 30, 1958

SENTENCES ON PAPER ARE LIKE FENCES IN SNOW (FENCENCES)

  the  empty page
    is snow
    i made fall

 it hides everything 
     from before 
   away

      and 

 i  string difficult fences 
     tumbling fences
      full with holes
     and leaning uprights
              like 
 the fish shop line
  on pension day

         across  its
     waiting patience

from bricemiller.net

SELF PORTRAIT

ash flakes onto the desk like dirty snow from days first smoke
lit and pulled deep
he blows it away to collect and become dust
and
coffee steams out the round cup like ghosts of ground beans 
and field labour
from 
the 
first 
pot

he rubs sleep from tired eyes

he'll do this all day

he squints eyes tight shut fingers still over keys
trying
to
remember
the
words
he thought on waking
or just
from seconds ago

them he rattles them out/eyes unfocused - 
or something close anyways
and of course they seem weak and his face shows displeasure

its quiet - this effort day task one
a challenge on waking
a discipline in the unwashed dressing gown 
dry night sweat itching
a determination born of coldfire breakdowns 
and drunken wasted time

he SAYS something and launches its small creation
into 
electronic ether

the cat passes by - sits back-to-him on the wide window sill
watching
the
silent street and birds in the red berry bush

he sips coffee - opens new tabs - closes new tabs
checks the time

sometimes i control his hands

sometimes

from Hospice Matters wordpress