BICYCLE CARCASS

the street sweeper
is old as fortitude & roses
& dismounts her machine steed
& smokes & swears & stresses
over
another
mountain bike carcass
abandoned
in the precinct fountains
scuzzy puddle bed

~

i viddy her slog

from a bench outside Boots

wings in the tree

rats down the cracks

Costa cubby belching

steam punk sounds

ABOUT WRITERS RESIN

i sweated 

raw plasma

writing that

thick like syrup 

like spruce sap

hefty globules of it

my glucose of the soul

~

anyone else 

need to change

their writing shirt

when the morning writing is done ?

PALE SCRAPINGS OF WINTER

sportswear round here

its like its issued by postcode

adidas & umbro

nike for caps & hightops

at least it looks like

superdry has moved on

~

well my 'vintage' tshirts
soak up 

the fever sweat of effort
in the 

thin wedge of morning uk 

& its all about 

elasticated belts now
for the coming
workwear jamboree

~

& the cloud banks again
form a low smudge of crud

the pale scrapings of winter

from gin angels highstreet nails

BEHIND THE BRICK & CONSENSUS

noons the new midnight

dusks a ceasefire relief 

dawn games are welcome 

     

i play there

     

like canute did 

with the tide

~

our deal with the dark

        is always in play

i stretch out there 

        sweating bleach

waiting for the time out

            the short death

            the hallucinations

        

   behind the privilege bricks 

        

   

DOWN ON COBWEB LANE

i felt like
i got
the hang of it

for one bastard half-second

i felt like

i knew

the way of it

for one tease-clock-tick blim

~

i am 

talking 

about

the resonance & vibration
of the reason & the rhyme

& it has no words
& it has no instruction

i saw that much

i saw Something

for a fucking change

~

then back to the arcade murk 

cobwebs clinging

in the sweat of my face

down on cobweb lane

photo by Palash Jain on Unsplash

THE STRANGE PHILANTHROPY OF AUTOPSY FUN

 

tattoo

blood & sweat & tears

 on my
holy moly
perineum

 laser etch

redux commandments

up my ladder ribs

 & 

ink a yellow hazmat wrangle

over my heart bone

    to

    give 

 the autopsy dr

 a break from the drek

 in their draining lab

 & the jewel

 in the crown ?

 

a toe tag tickle-tattooed

on the sole of one dry foot

    that

   simply

    says

   Tyrell

Photo by Spencer on Unsplash

ANXIETY 101

the door bell
was a fire alarm

& the phone ring
made me sick

clock in was
faustian intense

& shop queues
brought cold sweat

all public food
wanted back out

& streetside
lit up my spine

night mine to hide in
but night not always kind

from fluxmagazine.com

TIME WAS- VICTORIOUS WE GAS DOWN

after 
a mcjob show trial
in the dust factory
or
a dole days 
long hot
ennui probation

we
pile
into
a
suburban 
boho
bungalow
bedroom

and gas down

our funky lexicon
getting loud

~

we
get weed stupid

lift the veil
forget the day

and
go
march 
up the 
weird sane street

l
  a  u    i
      g h     g
            n    

at sign posts

looking only for time
in
englands great estate 
rubble
heap

~

only the clouds !
i declare
only the clouds
hint gods still playing !

we
are
a Feckless of Stoners
a Puff Pod
a Cash Only Hash Mash
bottle openers on all our keys

out
for
wine at 9

~

oh the horror 
of the bottle shop

the damn fluorescents

such indecent order

all the faces
running wax

accelerated blinks
my hands all thumbs
everythings booby trapped

day-sick bunnies 
in the 
straight headlights

of
consumerisms
incandescent
candy coloured
circus

and
it
makes
the
cool sweet air 
of
street side nothing

w o n d e r f u l

as cold sweat dries

~

fresh cigarette foil
balled and flicked

match sulphur
under street lights

swiss army corkscrew
deployed
on the heavy reds

we show the punt
to the early moon

a fist in the face
of the weekday dusk

victorious
delirious

high on our sugar mountain

we
gas down

from bigbible.org.uk

THE COST OF EXPRESSION IS INCALCULABLE

i hear
a lot
about
people
saying
to
artists

is your art free ?

when dude think about it
its not even free to DO

~

stones leak
blood tears
mix with
cold sweats
warm salt

they run together 
like rust in rain
make a pattern 
like the mekong delta

on
my
fourteen acres 
of 
tsunami debris

rolled up and forced
into 
faulty thin skin -

       pretends to be 
        Lizard  Tough

     in a pigs ear !

and
a
never-white-again
supermarket vest

pic from ethos3.com

LONDON MEMORIES (AN APRON OF FREEMASONS)

pm isnt it
leicester square 

a raggedy glamorous maybe rentboy
links my arm talking about company
his eyes alight with a morning hit

i rescue my arm dont i
telling myself
he thinks i am a rock star

its the sunglasses isnt it
people always look
at sunglasses without the sun

leicester square
movie remake why hollywood why
still we are curious

red guide ropes
i am trapped 
in red guide ropes 
drunk 
laughing 
a fool arent i

i am only looking for dark
and a story to escape into
inside we could be anywhere

movie is full of mojitos
bad dialogue  
flash cars
and after i am needing another drink bad
my mind dried
like a forgotten potted plant 

so then wooden pubs isnt it 
old as the river
ornate ceilings like art
and i am timeless
and i am strong
and i am accelerated
and i am refueled 
and i speak of my love of wooden pubs 

( wood
  its good
  it feels
  like it should )

so shoot pool isnt it
smoke hangs like mountain cloud 
no air in here
no air moving anyway
everything is on the corner of stagnation
sweat in circles under my arms
short sleeve bad check crinkle shirt
so i hold scotch ice to my forehead dont i

so then we drink our way east
pictures on paper money
as made up as anything

see bob fossil order a beer
no no no not him
who is it who is that
its lucien sanchez 
and hes got an ale

see freemasons leave their hq
silent fat suited secret phalanx
leak out their huge stone monster 
one city block long 
they come in this bar dont they
single file like a field trip
and they go up the backstairs
no eyes on anyone

then we are over the road arent we
laughing at their ornate aprons
arcane books
solid mystery
in their exclusive freemason shop window

and all the pubs 
are all weirdly empty
just us isnt it
and disinterested barmen
nuts for dinner  
and all the streets 
are all weirdly empty
just street cleaning carts
driven buzzing electric
by hi-vis immigrants
city blending and city mundane 
its some side passage
secret london isnt it
painted windows and wedged open doors
record shops that never open

i leave my fingerprints 
on all the brass poles
i leave my dna 
in all the cold back room pissers

and i wonder if we have found heaven

or at least a place outside politics

a drinking bubble isnt it
long may it last
amen

from freemasonrytoday.com

UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS

its a 
strange kind 
of painful 
isnt it ?
to see 
yourself 
with 
unbearable lightness
d
o
w
n there
as if 
from 
the ceiling
and 
that face 
you live behind
Good Lord
My Days     
you think 
that 
Meat Mask 
is me ?

~

and 
theres that 
Mind Murder
drs calmly call
Social Anxiety
that 
ridiculous 
hyperawareness
that makes
all your
clothes
all wrong
in the 
careless light 
Outside

that 
unbearable lightness 
of a
hot flush
sweat out 
on your 
first job 
bus ride
and
the wet palms 
in the 
newsagent
or in 
effing topman
cos you dont 
want anyone 
to know
which fizzy pop
or leather belt
you want
to buy
cos theyll
judge your need
and theyll
judge your choice
and
its an 
endless examination
and re-eaxmination
and
its panic 
in the 
canteen queue 
holding a
plastic tray
like you
stole an
afterbirth
thinking
how to . . .
and then . . .
but how . . .
and then hunger 
takes its 
back seat
under a 
tightened belt
(from effing
 topman)

its like 
wearing 
ducks feet
in a 
rush hour 
high street
with a 
microscope 
looking thru 
a telescope
in
your
unbearably light 
ptsd mind

image from youtube

NOTES FROM THE PATIO

weekend radio
plays Neil Diamond / Squeeze
over
indoor hairdryer turbine
and
neighbours loud catty asides - 
out here
wind is a TB exhale 
a wet pant curse / thick treacle
like
from
running
dreams
when you wake wired / tired
and
pouring
sweat

 from thetelegraph.co.uk