Monday, 31 March 2014
the earth is hot and the earth is dead and the surf is the colour of stains and nudges the debris shore.
old davy was mad and crazy and he was sick and maimed and he was garrulous and convincing. i walk to the beach.
there is no one else to convince and there is no one else to go. there is no one else.
old davy was dead this morning and old davy got buried in a shallow grave dug with a rusty shell of metal and old davy is wrapped in the only blanket i could spare.
the fields are wet and the fields are steaming and the fields arent fields anymore and hold dense puddles of thick sludge rain where there was once was maize and wildflower.
the sea wall is crumbled and the sea wall is scrawled on. the words are despairing and the words are threatening and the words are all very faded and whole letters have crumbled into the filthy sand unsaying themselves.
my bag is full and my bag is dirty and my bag is laid in the lee of petrified sludge the better for me to be quiet and for me to do as old davy said.
it is like old davy said and it is strange that old davy knew and it is an unsettling event in a land of unsettling events where there once was streets and order.
there is nothing for me to loose and there is nothing else for me to do for everything is lost and there is nothing that is to be done.
i stop to look to see what old davy said was and i see that what old davy said is.
an off-white phone box on off-white dresser feet is leaning over the off-white dirty sand. the off-white phone box is searching.
at a spot of off-white dirty sand the off-white phone box opens its door and clumsily begins to awkwardly dig.
as old davy had said it would then so indeed it is.
it was enemy and i was witness and i look beyond it and i kept still in the murk and i kept quiet on the debris beach and i kept hidden among the petrified sludge.
another off-white phone box lay killed in the shallows. surf the colour of stains nudges it on the way to the debris shore.
it is overcast and it is dark and it is day, maybe noon.
i reach under my slicker of rough-cut half-cured skin and i reach the pocket stiff with grease and i reach the button chipped and rough and i reach inside the grimy lint and i reach the disc there coloured brown.
old davy said it was once silver and old davy said it once held a gentle womans face and was once ten.
i hold the disc aloft like i was told and i approach the off-white box like i was told and the off-white box digs and there is no sound at all.
until my foot crushes plastic brittle with exposure and my foot and the brittle plastic make a crunch is a crack is a crescendo.
the off-white phone box turns this way and its off-white door hangs open and the off-white phone box in the surf the colour of stains stands too and makes its way to the debris shore.
i reach under the slicker again and into the greasy pocket and reach another disc from the grimy lint there. a pitted disc of bevelled edges.
old davy said it had once said fifty and once held a gentle womans face and i hold it too aloft and i move slowly forward across the dirty sand.
both off-white phone boxes are walking to me and their off-white dresser feet drag in surf the colour of stains where it nudges up on the debris shore.
it is as old davy said it was and i say as old davy told - in murk and debris and sludge and alone i call out OPERATOR and walk forward thru the murk and the surf the colour of stains that nudges my feet as it touches the debris shore.
Saturday, 29 March 2014
used to sit at the tiled desk
ignoring my cold feet
small glasses with thick glass bases
stare at the table lamp thru
tiny pops of derision and street litter observation
the piles of old 45s would grow
in their charity scratched grooves
now i sit at the same desk with coffee or weird bitter teas
chet baker long players
tickling and painting the slower nights prettier
churn out smaller pops
Friday, 28 March 2014
get an urge to shove it in peoples faces
clutching a tarnished badge
muscling for a payoff
shove it in their faces
especially if theyre young
strung with small bags and bleeps
like a challenge
i get the urge
Thursday, 27 March 2014
narrow gardens lay in serried rows
is it serried ?
sounds odd now - they might be serried
anyway quiet daytime backyards
laid out like weathered drawings
like an architect does
but with all trees drawn in too
left in the sun to curl on a forgotten draft table
they have old sheds and new sheds
add-on conservatories with small white steeples
ugly rusting bikes with over-size tires
they seem to speak loudly to me
of order and civilised balance
not literally of course - i'm on a train anyway
them if they did actually speak
but speak in the poetic sense
basically they are well normal gardens
theyre planted on fine lines of optimism
somewhere something by someone clever who said
we're all only
three missed meals from chaos
so my point is
that the gardens look ok now
well normal like i said
with small pillars of smoke on the horizon
dark overcast skies and foraging pillaging gangs
of forgotten morals
in the sheds eating human meat over campfires
i think i meant something like that
Tuesday, 25 March 2014
getting out at at Sloane Square
into a handbag convention
i am asked by a red trim butler
or a weekend beefeater
or something else
smart and subservient
need help sir
i tell her she cant help me -
my mind is screaming
fixie Charge Plugs are D-locked in clots
and classic SL's cruise insolently
in fire engine red
new TT's and shining A5's
rev church quiet showroom fresh
and long nose ladies prowl in pairs
in plastic Earhart shades
and thin patterned shawls
blow stylishly sideways
in movie wind machines
and times font signs
say 4 shirts 200 pounds
and art-modern shops hold one dress
in a vacuum and three colours
and a lonely manikin
posing at the till
gazes out from perfection for help
and afternoon drinkers
sip short coloured cocktails
sat in enormous window thrones
with fashionably flaking gold gilt
and the Kings Road Macdonalds
of widescreens and sofas
has hanging baskets of blooms
above the high wide porch
and the Pret is run
by a rom-com casting agent
and has steel mirrored stairs
to steel mirrored bathrooms
and would a quick handful
of painless poisonings
really matter at all ?
i'm only in this fuckburg
to see a Royal Brompton professor
about my madness anyway
Monday, 24 March 2014
mac the cleaner has deep carved wrinkles under wide bloodshot eyes. this morning he hides himself under a blue anorak hood. a brown roll-up is visible sticking out toothpick thin from white bristle lips. he lights it in solitude out on the hospital back lane.
he looks rough these days. he is death white pale.
he didnt used to be. he used be old leather.
his eyes look down at cracked concrete and pebbles laying where the rain left them. he used to look at the grey clouds and loudly disclaim all and any weather.
he says MORNING but the life has vanished from his voice. less a greeting now an automatic observation.
i know he used camp with old rockers and retired bikers for the volkswagon weekender and drink homebrew from stone jars and cook Aldi steaks in a half-drum bbq.
i know on a monday he used to say FIVE DAYS TO GO and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
i know on a wednesday he used to say HALFWAY THERE and laugh a throaty smokers cackle.
and on a friday WOOHOO.
i know he has a married daughter over the river and no wife.
i know he visits his dad twice a year saving up for the train. until he had a fall and they moved him from country isolation to a local home.
i know his moaning used to be cheery.
i know he stops for a pint with the market traders on the way home everyday and sometimes i'd lend him money for it.
i know he always paid back prompt.
i know he reads fantasy paperbacks by people i never heard of feet up in the broom cupboard clutter of the private ward.
i know before pay day he'll ask for baccy and i'd let him roll a few from my pouch for the evening.
i know he'd use his own brown liquorice papers.
i known him a long time but i dont know him well.
i think he may have had bad news.
concerning his dad.
or his own health.
but his face no longer invites conversation.
Saturday, 22 March 2014
youre dirty marked immature
youre unclean a leper lit up - a target!
youre not a really real actual person actually
you lack credibility mass presence
youre downcast trapped shamed
you hide sidelined shrivelled and mean
acne by saccstry on deviant art
Friday, 21 March 2014
is an undead London land
forever social clubs - tall white castles
hot old diamonds
cheap cold beer
free salty seafood
mirrorballs turn evil-eyes
hypnotic disco dots
on high artex ceilings
tall black windows
dozens of black rollneck joes scitter on overdrive in there
FUCK SHIT WHATEVER and I AINT GOT A PEN
another dozen black rollneck joes
recite sad poems in there
local hero boxers and dead corner boozers
eternal early doors and unknown graves
dark red stages of decks and wireless mics
a simple table oasis in the eye of the storm
holds fine artisan pages
joes hopes dreams memories
scribbled and stabbed home and abroad
motorised beer fuelled mashup
dozens of black stocking dancers
from old gone Hollywood - from Fante's dusty LA
throw elegant retro shapes
impeccable held posture and cool knowing faces
like the hotel california - you can checkout anytime you like
zorita burlesque dancer 1940’s from sloth unleashed
Thursday, 20 March 2014
were the too many shadows cast too long
of the too many long cool drinks
in the too late soft hotel bars
where a quiet barman in a too tight tie
always said sir to my bleary smudge face
too many too bright dawn slides home
too many birds sang too loud too many words
all too much
scribble my literal anus in too small hiccups
too tired to write anything too long
back brain and its dim fluke glow
catching its too dull diamond flashes
too yellow post-its
that curl and collect too much fluff and ash and dust
their ideas fading slow in too little sun
waiting too long
Wednesday, 19 March 2014
too much inner dialogue of ill hot thoughts
to get my
burnt hiding mind round tomorrows real future
the spot light of accidental university
to the retail rut of shift work mall
killing me every dawn over greasy spoon breakfast
where time crushed its top hat
standing on its subjective head
too much - i poured neat cheap rum in bitter black coffee
and smoked a smokeless hash pipe
on the two trains home
after found whisky and babbling high existentialism
1988 ford escort by scott barrett
Tuesday, 18 March 2014
twenty four seven in the pitch black day
corner shop eyes and canteen white noise
paranoid in a big drum sweat
struck fear-dumb in the after-school streets
loopholes of black dream disasters and numb i went
shutdown caverns of liquid anaesthetic
FROM READING QUEERLY
Saturday, 15 March 2014
beige buildings with bullet holes
bleached desert backdrop
reporter in white shirt crisp three days ago
olive flak jacket says PRESS in black
he plays up his dangerous locale
pastel family sit round a huge tv
logo filling the screen
more ads per hour than ANY OTHER channel
we tell you what you need
make room people!
the smiling family fill bin-liners with belongings
men in vests fight and swear by back-alley bins
next they team up to swear and fight someone else
hyper active presenter
obvious merits of owning a bed
sandbags and fast attic conversions
featuring a roof-dingy
from flood inc
Friday, 14 March 2014
i feel a flow now
the flow often spoken about
in college canteens and late night
everyone bright eyed with possibility
looked at the carpet and the floor
not feeling the waters direction at all
in my own black pool
now i step aboard the small boat
call to the captain
but theres no captain there - i am the captain !
all calm and quiet eyed
let the rudder eddy its overdue path
Thursday, 13 March 2014
since turning 40 in a hot sticky summer haze of fever
and cancelled trips
there is question mark hanging
over ever dry dust and fresh scrubbed
and palm-open or fist-closed face
could be printed in a bold times font
i am unable to fill this gap with a number
but prefer to place phrases there like
or WILLINGLY DELUDED
i label in lower case
always ready to erase
in the accepting wind-tides of change and progress
above my head is not for me to write there
but i do lean back
or quickly look up
in hopes of catching a glimpse
current perceived status
Wednesday, 12 March 2014
bleeds fm pop hooks into my mind
short salt-of-the-earth neo-proles clot the checkout
a movie out on sky
the big oscar winner/mumbling dont bovva wiv it
bruised blue from amateur boxing
in freedee cos it woz all space and that coming at ya
youd ave to see it in freedeee
i wait with my perishables all the great films dead in my head
bleeding pop hooks
Tuesday, 11 March 2014
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
coffee steams out the round cup like ghosts of ground beans
and field labour
he rubs sleep from tired eyes
he'll do this all day
he squints eyes tight shut fingers still over keys
he thought on waking
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
the cat passes by - sits back-to-him on the wide window sill
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
from Hospice Matters wordpress
Monday, 10 March 2014
write a poem he said
wot now ? i said
yes now he said with words from this instant ether
ok i said and wrote
coffee ring table
cheap electric eye
board of burst words
hungry for rest but hungry for something else too
light with exhaustion
surroundings/room buzz/cold feet
the still-world painting on the window glass
with children and a cat and the blur of vans
the silence in here
desperate for a song
ok he said you did it
i did i said but it needs work
it does he said but thats ok
throw up into the typer at at dawn ? i said
and clean up at noon . . .
the classic typewriter page
Saturday, 8 March 2014
when we wake up lazy without deadlines
and eyebags and yawns hold no matter
thumb-check smart phones
news of fresh dead
and instead find
an airliner has vanished from the near east sky
almost no noise
outside the window here at all
when one of us gets up to make coffee
monster-cat comes in purring and looking and padding
his tail a question mark of fur
he perches on side tables
as creepy as he can
and gaze at the haze of late dawn
coming blue-grey round the curtains
is only a few sheets of toilet paper left
in the bathroom
and nice meals