BELEIVE

i believe in

the sweet effort 

of packed lunches

commitment in tupperware

small so small

but ready

in the stretching space of stars

RIDING LIKE THAT

imagine
youre
a spider

& you spun your web 

  wide & taut & centered
in the reaching upsweep 

  of a red deers antlers

& riding like that
  with dew & mist
in the tumble-roll glens
  of galloway forest park

dinner waiting on the wind

& all the stars out at night

SIMPLE LIFE CAN BE

cigarettes
never tasted
so good
as when
a black dog
camped
in every room


~

shaving my dome

well
it just makes me feel better

like sharpening a knife


~

you drink at night
& lie in a field
& theres the stars
how simple
life can be

SCARED ENOUGH PT2

they got us
  scared enough

to vote for
  a straw man border

when the blind men
  have cometh

with tunnel vision
  to the stars

THEY FORGET WE THROW THIS SHIT AWAY & BONUS POPLINGS

theyre selling us 

sea plastic now

as ecological bangles

like they forgot 

we throw this shit away

~

trained & conditioned

we genuflect our credit

in 

the
holy heft of bargains

~

& my first hash

well i lay cliche

on a suburban lawn

star struck & immobile

with someone

i would never talk to again

MAD JAZZ RESOLVED - ANIMAL !

 

count the locum stars

barefoot in the onion grass

&

disappear invisible - animal !

pissing free & marking

the holly hedge point blank

inside 

the gardens 

monochrome dark

where the maintenance line 

is only made manifest  

if you willingly wield 

the hand-me-down GPO rust shovel

with intent & lowborn design 

& back indoors 

its all science wonder

mad jazz resolved

in screaming blue light

photo Garden Peeping No 2 from the Dagenham Archive

COMPACT POPLINGS

A1

i would gibber moonward

mind hormone-fooled
to its most free flow

those midnight meadow laughter days

young & under stars



B3

the day has a mood on
clouds cross the sun

we do too it seems

collision nerves in the basted belly
unhorse me metaphorically

drama is a black black buzz



C1

i hold the past
like a dreamer

im not the only one

no white piano
just home vids to never watch

i hold the past
like a dreamer

& our hands touch anxious there

photo Dream Station No 4 from the Dagenham Archive

BRITA FILTER PANTS

the skyscape is
thug boot bruises

a mirror ball moon
makes up the stars

my oasis is long dry
is a gulch of IOUs . . .

no - of UOIs 


~

i plug my holes with them
to slow the soft dyke leak

& 

change out the 

brita filter 

saddle stitched 

in the gusset

of my custom 

crazy horse 

under pants

from thestonetrust.org

image by Nick Aitken, DSWA-GB Master Craftsmen and Certified Instructor.

ARMOUR MOON, DEMOB REDUX

i always wore armour

under a boozers moon

as heavy

as its

forged past felt

& i called out

for

more fuel more fuel more fuel

~

hell

saw

me

then

vain-glorious in the piss-alley

&

came for my ego in legion

now i am

naked lighter demobbed half-undone

just one more struggle-pup

counting scars & stars

another scratch & sniff sinner

pretending hes won

under a losers moon

satan-lite & cherub thin

unfallen like rehab

sitting on the cement steps

of

our

seaside mongrel nation

from spectator.co.uk

THE COURAGE OF THE FLEA

young man on a silver crutch
leans
up
against
shoeszones laminated blue plastic facade

cocky as a tom cat
greeting
i cant see who

like the worlds his oyster
like the suns out 
like its los angeles
like hes steve freaking mcqueen
with a car accident knee

when all it is is londons cement floptide

but
theres
a
streetside
fog
here
that smells like life smells
that smells like childhood smells

smells like story books 
and adventure tv
where every kid has a torch
in their backpack
and a reason to use it too

and if you shut your eyes
there is almost no armour
there
at
all
and you can almost
see the stars you are
see the clockeye walls
see the courage of the flea

and hes probably ok
whoever the hell he is
mr hopalong by the shoezone
he is facing the day
with his head up
in
another
uk
morning
divided for conquer
and identical to itself

the morning is 
just another 
polaroid vignette
shining
darkly
in
a
market stall puddle

and we are all running
like flood alert rats are running
with 
the courage of the flea
thats
uncommented
unnoticed
every newspaper day

and the headline bile
is autogenerated offshore
and i wonder of the bees
the courage of the bees

and what shall we be
when they
lay
down
their
stripes forever
in one last pollen dusk

and
will
i
be
old
and
gnarly
one day
and tell a grandniece or two
how
i
saw
bees
coming and going that summer
from
the
hive
under
my back step

how i saw them come home
on the magnet lines
when the sun fell
in that long gone summer
when
i
still drank
still ran 
with the courage
of the flea

and i file 
more nothing-almost-something now
into another binary crevice
in
the
dirt online

i write and file
under the frozen birdshit faces
of all those statues
of all those dead men
mounted on dead horses
on
all
those
mighty
plinths 
high
above the fag butt gutters
where plastic bags
fly like art
on groundwind

i write and file posey
in the grime of the mirror world
we made in our unthought image

its pandoras echo chamber
built of wire and fools gold

so i write and file soft reports
disposable and unrushed
like
li po
and
buckowski 
setting fire to their folded posey
by
the
river
sharing a bottle
in their shirtsleeves
watching
the
drains
overspill

li po buckowski  
lazy enough
to
wait
wait
wait

and wonder
how is it people get worked up
enough
to war

or a backstab hashtag

but fail
to see
the courage of the flea
the leaving of the bee

and theyre blindsided easily
by the 
shoezones blue laminated facade
and
they
dig
deeper
into
the
broadband riverways
dense with
fragile ships
flying flags
of
new shoes
and
photoshopped abs

from library--of--babel.blogspot.co.uk

AND HELL CAME

  back when i wore armour
  under a boozers moon
it
was
heavy
and
  i
would always
need more fuel

hell
saw
me 
then
vain glorious in the piss-alley
and came for my ego in legion

  now i am naked
  lighter 
  demobbed and half done
just
another
struggle-pup counting scars and stars
in 
our
seaside mongrel nation

 from moviepilot.com

DRUNK ALMOST INSIGHT

when i drank
the
night
sky
was a painting 
almost speaking 
in 
whorls of bruised code

gods absence was there 
tangible
in
kneading fingers like a stress toy
and 
the 
pointed stars were there 
pinched oblivions 
of 
promise and xmas

another drink 
would decipher 
the
quiet talk of brush stroke smears
into 
universal-calm

or 
the nothingness-terror
of
great
and
hungry
holes

 

Drunk by Billy Childish Oil Painting 1997 www.stuckism.com

NATURES FOOLS 4

i let the lawn creep up the old furniture
in
a lazy experiment
till
company
comes
with tins and bottles
and 
starts whining
as
the
bugs
eat our office white legs

its for biodiversity i say
and
we
drink into the night
rubbing
deet
everywhere
and
counting stars and blinking satelites
till
we've
scratched

our

ankles

raw

from academy.com