Friday 30 September 2011

2008/2009

me my mind and i
together and inside
turn indecent with intoxicants
i
took
on
purpose.

they take me back to basic garage/i listen to Dylan sneer.
its a school night.
pretend its poor old 68
when its poor old 2008.

i
am
poor and old.

i lie on the tobacco carpet.

and NO is the word right now/NO NO NO
in this Robocop breakdown . . .

so
so
so
i’m heading out there/out to get myself
absorbed into the greater mass.

i have to/this is always
a hard night for me
and
i want to be
absorbed
by
a
greater mass.

this year a new layer lies itself down/down like a tombstone
and
i listen too hard to the holes in the wall.

Fairy Light Lady
came round in the night/didn’t understand me
at all.

i thought/hoped she did. 

but
that is beauty at its most simple
and
history at its most recent
like
old jeans always hanging off the back of the door.

NOTHING HAPPENED
she
always
said
after something happened.

Thursday 29 September 2011

DIHYDROCOEDINE CHRISTMAS

it’s a dihydrocoedine xmas
a dihydro-hydra xmas.
its like
red snakes
and
hot dead bowels
its like rolling 24 on DVD.

I am dihydra-full of feelings.
horrible feelings
I want tuned out.
I have no comprehension, no skills to cope here.

I am the dihydra-softling
druggled
out on the periphery.
weakened and confused as a bank.

in no way am I tooled up for the job of life
life!
life hovers
like black choppers
in the one moon sky over my detached head.

things;
hateful
and
exclusive things.
a world full of oblivious girls busy
in no-name jeans.
(I am
their no-name jeans)
car keys bulge practical in their no-name pockets
tight on their thighs
thighs
thighs

it’s a dihydropainkiller and I take it for my dihydropain
with any
red wine
Mo sells
for 5 pounds.
I am Jack Bauer’s mission, man and machine.


and
like a Buckowski
I will grab your innocent shoulder
say
I WILL HIT YOU!
while staring hard at your no-name jeans
because I am angry
angry
angry.

I am
thinking
about
girls legs
in their
no-name
jeans.
I am
no-name
too.
I am weirdly invisible in the streets light.
          my mind
          (all that is really me)
          takes a back seat . . .
is willing and complicit in my delusion
     because
     the world is so fucking boring today
          and my escalated drama
          is the only palatable FOOD.

and if I let my mind think now I would fill it
with sad
and
cry.
mostly
this happens at night time,

mostly.
  
I am Jack Bauer’s Dobson Override.
his
mental dihydro-drive
but my heart has no CTU.
          I am
dihydro-moth hungry for one bulb.
(she smells,
in a good way)
but obviously EVERYTHING is pointless
and soon
to be
old dust
dead as skin down by the skirting board.

life alive flies like black choppers out the front door
a FAMILY!
(my dihydroheart shits with old fear)
out for a day out
in some car
some car
some car
some no-name hatchback car.
full of kids stuff and moods
is driving
sadness and living nostalgia
to the relentless and crowded beach.

oh life alive I will know you gently
weirdly so weirdly
with happenstance
soft time
and kindly intervention.
AND
there’s
black choppers thud-thud-thudding
in place of a
babyheart pump-pump-pumping.
oh old child heart grow out of your no-name tracksuit
you wore in Devon 1984.
  
I am Jack Bauer’s creamy bokah.
the beautiful backdrop to relentless terrorism
to Hollywood love propaganda
love propaganda
love.
love.
propaganda.

when I don’t even have the dihydro-skills to follow myself
out of
the storm drain.
when a new dawn fades; tho really it was always black.   
it was only
her reflected light
that I could see.
when reflected glory,
vicarious,
fades in a new dawn I know
                   know
                   know
         
REAL detachment has a rush
has value
has euphoria
has safety
has a reassuringly black coat on.
dihydra-xmas, dead now,
    
I march on
detached.

Wednesday 28 September 2011

TEXT MESSAGE 1

i'm seeing 
intense imagined spite
in the 
innocent intended kindness

(my furious fear
is a naked uncool satchel
a shoulder bag weeping and wailing and
stuffed and compressed 
with steaming complicit delusions-
its EXPLODING and unzipping and
it
reads 
THINGS 
in the 
NOTHINGS)

its only
an
integrated template 
some seasonal interphone message . . .
 
but a incensed cold rage covers me
in
doorless windowless
ice

Tuesday 27 September 2011

XMAS EVE 2007

you were meant to be in your gypsy dress
you were meant to have mistletoe in your jet hair
you were meant to meet me when I got in late;
a CELEBRITY because
I been to see an ENT specialist!

(he put cameras up my nose
he looked DEEP inside
says he cant see anything/says deal with it)

you were meant to meet me
but you’d been
on call
all night
and didn’t come in at all
all day

or ring me

or turn up last friday

or
answer
your
mobile
phone

ever 

again

Monday 26 September 2011

STRANGE AFTERNOON

this afternoon is stale is strange is naked.
i am as exposed
as global money (never heard of sums so big).
i am a gaping bag of sorry guts.
the Dr 
could SEE
could SEE 
but couldnt HELP me/found me funny
and he referred me
to a hospital I have to ring myself.

in the shop the shop was strange.
colours and shapes/just 
colours and shapes
and i am in the cool cool aisle of glass
in the supermarket so cold
but i have no list with me;
i am not capable of that.
no system . . . nothing at all/just 
nothing at all
but a spaced out funk punk filling a plastic basket
with any wine/sundries that 
catch my lost eyes.

sticking with only wine i am back home.
drink it from the bottle
straight from the bottle thats on the kitchen table
under the clock i watch thinking and thinking.
i pace the tobacco carpet
looking at the dead street out the windows.
there is horrible rain out there
dark and falling
just dark and falling.

i am Jack Bauer’s third runway
this
weird Monday naked afternoon . . .
a Monday afternoon
when the Dr. SAW me but couldnt HELP me.


Sunday 25 September 2011

HEARTRATE

only been writing at the old kitchen table for less than one hour/on drink three/lowered my heart rate with migraine pills/need more for the mercury in my back/i’m smoking
and
all
i
think
of
is
the woman whose smile spreads
like heaven opening and
like heaven surrendering and
like heaven submitting and
like heaven knowing
when
I
got
her
laying
down
pinned where I need her warm and happening
and
how 
her sweet lemonade tastes better 
than 
my 
salty tears.

Saturday 24 September 2011

MEMORIES


i smell the smells again from when i first moved my stuff in here.
in and out of the
loft
for
days
i left the thrown egg to dry on the front window.
3
years
later
I haven’t cleaned any windows at all.

i smell smells from last years autumn fires.  London’s winter comes in
hung with last years spring
thats still
waiting
round the corner
of the house
by
the
blooming
crocuses.

i smell the smells of all the seasons.  some mixed bag of weather
and
air.

putting out red sheets for drying new sun reminds me of last years summer with the insects
everywhere
when 
the right teeth
sunk themselves
in
all
the
right open door wounds.

this is sweet history hanging in the firmament
fragrant
with memories
drifting 
in
the
cigarette smoke.

Friday 23 September 2011

SUDDENLY HIGH

i am suddenly high and rushing/bank holiday Monday
tho
it feels
like . . . a new clean dimension/but
don’t know if its good.
toilet flushing is v loud/hurtling hissing rivers in the wall
a volcano – i freeze.
i am touching the kitchen radio/it is another heart
external and eternal . . .

my shirt is a soft and loving skin/luxury now –
just laundry this morning
and i
breath and breath and breath
shrugging and moving/tactile
in wonderful new space
that used
to
only
be
the sofa.

cold cider in a bottle/so WELL designed/a sweet booze kiss
from a cool round mouth/never closed
and
my
feet -
SO FUCKING tactile! squirm in pleasure
bare naked rubbing
the sofa arm and the cushion/cheap fabric
is
angels
hair.

rain out in garden
is a weird windy English gothic treat
touching the windows
with NOISE and ATMOSPHERE like a classic novel –
on TV is a CGI heavy movie*
every kid
seen
three years ago and still high
I sigh into
my busted dusty sofa and all the red cushions there
eyes wide
like
a
child/cigarettes forgot for now.



*Transformers

Thursday 22 September 2011

NO POST

no post today
in honour of Health Workers and 
for 
the 
Uniformed Invisibles and
for 
the 
clerks running closed cluttered offices and 
the long ward circus
bright eyed smoking green menthols 
in the overcast sun.
big hearts
swollen on cardigan sleeves 
wondering
WHY ME and WHY NOT ME/impossible not to
hug
for 
simple comfort/only and all i can just do.


no post today
in honour of endless dangerous daughters
and
strong sweet mothers still smiling smiling smiling.
soft and strong and deep running rivers 
that nurture and turn and hold
the problem and disaster world/let down by
others silent sons
still hug him happy/simple comfort
in the Tesco car.


no post today
in honour of polyester hospital staff
that tune and tweak 
mortal soft machine.
no post today
in honour of hot stomach knots/arrive with the cool dawn
wicked whirlpools of Every Feeling and
realisation and
open windows to let sky and pain
come in as they are/like spun
moments 
enormous and
wet with eyes.


no post today
in honour of everyone who needs
two days to think/to make a simple plan/no post 
for A&E phone calls/turn pretty lips serious and small
and tense
in determination thats inspiration
for a spinning whirlpool man.


no post today
in honour of 11AMs furious foundless
delicate mists/no post for perspective flung and 
lost and
found late thats hot
like new
roses picked and placed in glass
on the apology table.


no post today
thursday of 1000 moments/no post today
for the sun and 
for no sun and 
for the great swept ships; unsinkable.
no post today for mercury mothers/never 
think of themselves like they think of us/weak 
children 
not 
posting/spoilt in troubled freedom.

Wednesday 21 September 2011

THE RHYTHM AND THE PUNCH


the rigid rhythm and the kidney punch
of
all
the
furious flamed and god-blind calendar days
can never deny
the baritone
of
the brave ignored and infinite silent sunlit NOW.

slim identity slipping away behind still music/sound of peoples
rushed waking sleep.
i hear them
over
back
fences
and behind front doors.

a glass man spoke about this on TV/i heard him/i was napping/i was breathing.

well, home I am in/i am awake/morning panic mist now.

well, home i am in
and
the
cooker looks to me for dinner.

Tuesday 20 September 2011

NO MONEY OR TIME


useless and bored and defeated and angry.
its a brilliant may monday.

heat lays like steel slabs over everything.
everyone comes out 
and lunches
on
sad
patches
of
grass.

little brown nurse says it for me.
FUCKING HELL FORD!
she says
NO FUCKING MONEY OR TIME!

home i sneer poems into a microphone over ambient grunge.
i launch them electronically
into
another
world.

today
the
chirping dusk birds are no natures joy
but
ignorant irritants of careless creation.

breath deep breath deep . . .
i water the garden pots
for the calm/for the plastic zen.
my mother and father put them in
and i hope i can
enjoy
them
some
easy
afternoon.

Monday 19 September 2011

WOT IS IT?


some sort of crumbly brown rock/you all discuss what it is/leb or blonde or slate or rocky/does it fluff up or crumble/all hard to get now they grow skunk up tower blocks/don’t need to process it at all-
the
oily sticky smell reminds
me
of
burnt melted fingernails in brown half moons you trim and chew
and
hot clipper ridges of solid skin in both thumbs/best use a candle/no one ever got one
and
90s campsites burnt wood/pretty faces lit by nature/drop a blim but somehow someone can just SEE IT clearly even against the night brown soil of not-blim stones
and
backgardens round old white plastic furniture/its freezing/papers get wet in fat rain drops
and
garage forecourts/stand there in the weeds looking at the windows to see if someone can see
and
third hand ford hatchbacks with bongs made out of coke bottles/radio on/parked behind a school when a rockstar died
and
the rizla rolling roadshow in brighton after morning mescal that was hilarious when i had no skins
and
outside by phone boxes on childrens corners and in strangers bedrooms/everyone sits on the bed/always waiting always the waiting/the endless waiting for ringing phones/torn foil holds small brown triangles/right money folded right
and
high fear paranoia in day light city centres and TV you cant believe and racing games you cant play
and
the hilarious street sign telling me where i am/wooden bus stops where we all loose our fags
and
army surplus smells of wet dog in spring college rain and climbing winter trees with own brand booze in green tins
and
not being able to climb down/when you do how scary a close horse is
and
all the hundred stars between the glowing clouds on the  school field/broke in sat in old maths chair from years before
and
hanging out a sunroof yelling at the thrill of summer night of some girls car/she’ll never give me a lift again
and
every taxi is a police car and all the footpaths between A roads and all night garages are marched/sparks coming off our heels/laughing wanting food
and
rolling up on country styles under creepy churches and in grey metal street corner transformers/danger of death somehow funny then
and
all the hot rocks bouncing/and all the 
t-shirts and hoodies with worn hot rock holes like thin nets
and
all the tent zips zipping and all the travel tired clothes
and
the lingering stink of spilt cider/sodden walking boot socks
all this is singing to me
from
fumes
of a hot glass rock.