LENOR, MIXED MEDIA & NOTE TO SELF

 

the

fresh
washing
smells
alternatively
of 

an idyllic storyland spring

like a forest mammals tea party

that sort of thing
& 

the breakfast room of a devon b&b 

with triangles of room temp toast

in a wire rack

wait / hang on / remembered something -

Note To Self -

wondering why 

the art term Mixed Media

seems to rub me wrong

no clear reason

must think on this further

i mean the worlds mixed media too

HOSPITAL POP

furious & cold

black swan moments

simple as a singsong hello

simple as a clock on the wall

crash in
upend you

in the early morning wards
wonderful smell of toast

REANIMATE THE CHEESE

sitting down

trying to have

a brilliant idea

with the old bread

of my mind

~

all i manage 

is to lightly toast 

the poor sandwich 

to fake freshness

& reanimate the cheese

BREKFAST BUFFET VOL3

 

the thrones empty

soon as my arse hits it

achievement owns 

the comedown void

success is blunt

i assume

~

chemical imbalance

melatonin dropoff

unsleep unhacked

holographic bacon

toast on the side 

~

we gurn

between the tech & the trees 

& the deep plastic of seas

& the long flat rolling hilltop land

of

dumb

animals 

& our ancestors stone

~

the mood is always uncertain

& the moon terribly strong

i am channelling 

i am auto diary

its not me

i am not here

this isnt happening

How to Disappear Completely 

is a beautiful song

photograph - Existence Confirmation Via Shadow Record courtesy of the Dagenham Archives

JAM NO JAM

NO JAM

truncated
on
a
knife
edge

toast & butter

no jam




JAM

i am on a knife edge

i call it
Positivity

&
i slide there

with
the
butter
&
the
jam

from finestknife.com

WHAT IT IS, IS BODY BUTTER ON MY BATHROOM TOAST

what it is
is i celebrate teflon turds
in my 
ceramic cathedral

my muted fist 
raised halfway
in the 
impossible fluff factory

i photo tv shows
click click click
bad clay nested
on the
sofa cushions

what it is
is i get by
in the 
neon troughs
twilight hegemony

mind turned 
both sides up
& dopamine hacked
or 
as free
at least
as my philosophy lets it

what it is
is five frames a minute
in suburbias
slow mo
ambient
guitar
rave

silicon sediment
turned hard memory
filtered
thru
the thick 
low end
heart strings

pablo honey
in
my
ginger tea
&
body butter
on
my
bathroom toast

from huffingtonpost.co.uk

PUB POPS REDUX

PUB HILL BENCH 
BEFORE INTERWEB

well we was only going out 

for beers and shots

and

no offence at all

to the luxurious charms

of the bigger lady

but

the dozen or so abandoned porn mags

left on the pub hill bench 199?

were folded open to the stars

like some weird offering

to a chauvinist feeder moon

no art in angle or lighting

they were

titled
crudely

Fat and Slack

and under the pubs low ceiling

we drank to these women

and their strange sacrifice
among
a
hundred
other
toasts
to 
all
the other odd and lost
exploitation
niches

NY HOTEL BARS

plaques listed

past glory big name bar rats

who

sozzled here in cool gone days

and

fucked up in deep chairs

we

laughed laughed laughed

at the mad expanse

of booze to choose from

missing the simple choices

of

englands city-corner

one-scotch philistines

we made the best of it

we worked thru all their gins

gurning on fat ice

stirrers and napkins 
piling up on the table

like no one would believe

back home

LONDON MEMORIES 1

coming

out

of

a

bar

hidden down 
fifty feet 
of 
pissy alley

heat from its 
industrial brazier

dried out my face

i

find

its

PM still

isnt it ?

and . . . leicester square ?

LONDON MEMORIES 2

looking

for 
another 
dark bar

i wonder why i left the last one

then i remember

it had 
weird booths

of 
wood and iron

with locks on all the doors

TRAIL

i leave 
fingerprints

on brass poles

i leave dna

in the cold 
back room pissers

we buy drinks by the tray

we wonder if we have found heaven

or at least a place . . .

a drinking bubble isnt it ?

long may it last

amen

pic from smokealondonpeculiar.co.uk

RIP FLY 2

dead
fly
by
the 
bog

still as a mortuary photo
or
crime scene file pic

black
shining silver
bottle green-blue

pretty 
in natures brutal 
easy-to-miss way
        
maybe 
he
escaped a UKIP house
to
die
on
the
floor
of 
my liberal fantasy

he would deserve 
some kind of toast
for
that

and this poem
will 
do

the adventures of mr fly from www.inspirefusion.com

THE STORY OF TOAST

Store room level D and the pharmacy guy is in my way.  Unsqueezed spot bulging on the corner of his thin mean lips.  Thin and mean like his tie.

No one knows why he dresses so formally.  Idiot.

Its early and breakfast is rolling out to the patients that can eat it.  The ward is full of the smell of burnt toast.
I'm leaning on the wall waiting by the small kitchen stuffed with domestic staff in teal tops.  I look in.

THAT TOAST SMELLS AWESOME i'm saying REALLY AWESOME, REALLY REALLY AWESOME.

A teenage domestic with bright foal eyes and the haircut of an older woman.  An older woman in 1960, all big with a huge sweeping fringe like a giant yellow wave.
No blue hairnet for her.

YOU WANT SOME? she's saying in a voice bright and bursting with eagerness.  Keen to please.

YES PLEASE.

The pharmacy guy is off.  Mouth tight.  People shake their heads mumbling that he never talks to anyone, chip on his shoulder, who's he think he is?

I nod.  IDIOT!  I say.
I go in the store and sit on the kick stool and thumb at my phone.  Actually get bars up here on D.

Toast.  

Every morning the place is full of the burnt funk filling my head with images of melting butter like wet buttercups and sharp crunchy black corners.

Every morning.  But to actually get some.  Well!

In it comes wrapped in napkins.  

ROS IS COMING.  DONT LET ROS KNOW.  KEEP I HIDDEN FROM ROS. SHE'S A WELL, SHE'S A . . . BITCH and the word doesn't sit right on her young tongue.

Ros is a white haired sister.  All business and intolerance but always with a smile for me because i always say yes.

She's asking about fluid tubing and if i can get Y connectors independent of the sets and i dont say yes because i know i can't.  I say i'll look into it.  Then she's on about the other Trusts shes working in and how stuff runs better there.

My toast is in napkins behind a box of sterile water on a shelf.

And when she is gone i eat it but its only yellow and not brown or black and all the butter has melted in leaving it limp and its cold.
Plus it unforgivably not cut into triangles!  Just two soft yellow oblongs.

I thought everyone knew triangles taste better.