HYPNAGOG MUSICS 3 & 4

3

innocent alfresco diary

of
wild meadow freedom

shrinking away

shrinking away
from the ache of splendour

4

the invisible miracle

    decorating clocks 

    is music

& the fire of youths razing

left me out on the stones

husked 

THE REGULAR SWOPPING

aging
is

the regular swopping out

of supermarket brands

on 

the 

same high street corner

where that cub hut was
& the glue deaths were

in your 

extremes
of youth

DANDELIONS OF YOUTH

 

i get the 

heebie jeebies

when i see 

the hospital horizon 

over & above 

the pesticide leaning 

of the 

died & dried dandelions 

of  gone  youth

SMYLING AT POLLYTICKS

i remember when thatcher went  1990?
she packed her hernias up in her iron handbag

i had my forever jeans on back then 
heavy brown army boots that they liked in the tattoo parlour
my army coat from germany id bought in wales
beer breath and marlboro fingers from all yesterdays parties
i would let my pockets fill up with refuse as proof of life
as proof of something anyway

we all smiled about it  thatcher going  the iron handbag  
we were all caught in the sun that day
we seemed to be born with a healthy tory hate 

still news was 
what-the-fuck-is-that-to-do-with-me-? 
back then

it wasnt a 60s rock classic or obscure motown  you see ?
it wasnt a niche kung fu rapture  or the clash
it wasnt those rolling papers on a reel like little bog rolls

i knew good news when i saw it tho

so we all smiled  all caught in the sun
except r****** h***** who had tory parents
he bravely expressed a different veiw
he was very put out by our suprise and abuse
i hid 15 cigarettes in his under-chin beard
this cheered him up but i never looked at him the same again


well we all smiled
we all smoked in the college overflow carpark
we all smoked there behind the empty tennis courts
we played dylans its all over now baby blue
the sun seemed tender but thats the rose glass of remembering . . .
our youth made the abyss of blackness just grey like rain 
our youth wouldnt let us see true black back then

i remember when all the tories were out  97 ?
they packed their truffles away in their bentleys
we smiled again where ever we all were then
we were scattered far from the overflow carpark by now
i felt a little weight lift like if the sun would come out more

to me news now was mostly 
what-the-fuck-is-that-!? 

id watched too much news in those 7 years
id done some sociology in a class of clean jeans
id done some philosophy in a class of long black coats
id done some politics taught by a morris dancer

i wanted the world to run on some neo-marxist barter system
something like that anyway

it was a different what-the-fuck to before
i thought i had seen deep inside the naked lunch hamper
i knew everything was a rich mans trick
i wanted to live in a cave on a hill

well there were smiles in 99 too
something happened in the dome didnt it ?
there was some song and a relaunch ?
there was maybe a rebranding ?
there was something anyway
maybe i should look in my pockets for clues
theres proof of life in there

i was on the embankment with a stranger was on my shoulders
i was waiting to die from tension  fireworks  24hr whisky

there was optimism again wasnt there ?
the optimism wasnt mine tho
i had dropped the ball by then
i had dropped all the balls
i had thrown the balls up in the dark air and walked off
i was growing great black leather death wings
i was growing a breakdown accelerator mind
i was listening to the gun club
i wanted to live in cheers

back then we were heavily into the night 
back then we were team scotch unstoppable
back then there was go-fast powder in the macdonalds straw
we posed like charlies angels on westminster bridge
there was piss and beer cans and abandoned goodbye pies there

i have tidied out my pockets now
i am pared a down plastic zen master

i dont know anyone whos smiled at politics since then

apart from at george bush fumbles and that fat guy getting egged

from express.co.uk

TAKING PARTS

the night took pieces from me 
when 
i
was 

  separated shattered and solemn
  
  incandescent 
  with  
  drink

and
staring 

  munted mullered and marked 

  in accelerated
  ennui
  overdrive

at 
the 
crowded sky 
over
my 
hometown streets

i thought it held ANSWERS
there
in
the 
turned backs of clouds
and
in
the
silver phantoms of stars

  ANSWERS
  always 
  just 
out of reach

  now 
i attempt early sleep
and

  search seek and hunt

  wired
  and
  tired

for
my
lost
pieces 
in 
the
nights inbetween moments
and
in
the 
psychedelic soup of dreams

ALWAYS YOUNG ON SOMEWHERES ROADS

i dont care
that my youth
is gone

it was ill formed
dumb
and
badly raging

and anyway
there is still some slice of me 
kept alive 
out there -

drunk and climbing the rotten wharves 
on the thames peasant and muddy fringe
or laid prone in dawn residue
in the secret shrub garden
of socketts heath roundabout
the
rush hour traffic
alien
ships
to
my
ears

socketts heath 1955 from www.francisfrith.com

THERES SOME BAD REAL TALES

so i am stretched out
relaxed as much
as
i
can
be
thinking about my youth past
and
the
desperation to live a life
inside
me
and looking back from the 40 bed i see
that tho
i
suffered
in
the misdeeds of distraction
a
life
indeed
it
be

Our Bed by Joe Moorman at Riverson Fine Art

RED CASTLE, YEARS AGO

Strange days
of insular habit,
direction?
looking for the same buzz. 
Sitting in 
wooden paradise corner 
of meat sandwiches.
Under

the tall windows

of my

wooden epiphany,

I swore – Fucking!

Top hat students

talk too painful for me

of young electric life.

Drinks are cold

and halved

quickly,

I read Lorca.

Old sagging

hulks in greys

buried in the papers

scalps pointing

across the bar.

Bar girls

in orange,

no flutterbys

no more,

are polite

to my shaved head

but keen

to move on.

And the young screamed,

eager

to perpetuate

their bubble

that rang vague bells

in me.

Glorious mission

they have found

in pub sofas

and in

cigarette cuffs.

I remembered,

holding Lorca,

as the light

uncontrollably

angered me

in principal.

I bought

Pound

which

‘no one reads for pleasure’

and a mist came down.

I remember

last night

of beef tins

with stretched handles.

Image;

warm fog

of long walks

damps peripheries

shining grey.

A mist

of accepted regret

of spreading wings

of happenstance.

Ridden hard

for the only quest;

for a better tomorrow

and

kitchen.

Aborted Texaco corners

lost in the Liquor Inn,

hard legs

pounding wrong

streets of Turk nights

Men there

coffee seated

with phones,

smooth lines

waiting

in silent attendance.

Monitoring the ether

from the garden

furniture tables.

Walking where

I only saw before,

under my own train line

of wine

riding a curved bridge

past me.