Friday, 29 November 2013
dont be a poet
i tell the children
or BE a poet
but youll have to put your balls on the page
they get caught by staples
so dont be a poet
be an earner instead
cos theres no money here
or BE a poet
if you can be mad and wrong
and write down the truths
year or two later
can still shake you
sending your words across the world
in the hope theyll meet paper
we need poets
i tell the children
but it doesnt have to be your job
or BE a poet
i tell them/cos every job finds its man
and if the world burns your edges
like paper thrown in the fire
and the contents or your bathroom cabinet
nothing that bubbles in the clock ticking surf
concrete unless you hold it tight
madness down in bursts like epilepsy
and catch your balls in the staples
Thursday, 28 November 2013
the notes written in exploding scribble
insight desperation and bluetime
appear like a weak brain farting
gentle waves breaking
choppy surf birthing
maelstrom art and revolution
floating functioning and breathing
the redberry hedge
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
who's that joker
smalltalk to nervous automated laugh replies?
that joker - the 40 year old underachiever
chewing nicotine and biting pens
and scribbling in a pocket bent pad
rubbing his scalp in the stairwell
pounding his temples in the tearoom
kickstart his mind
Tuesday, 26 November 2013
into the quietest of rooms
comes the loudest of guns
bubbling in near silence
flat crack echo of a late starters pistol
rumble thunder of the cannons of age
of the suppressed assassins pistol
right behind you
mid afternoon sun
Monday, 25 November 2013
Saturday, 23 November 2013
like an empty bellied winter bird
falling on a breadcrumb in the snow
i walk fast
and talk loony
anywhere near real
cos something happened
hurtle into any pub
empty middle of the day bricked up window joints
open fire tourist guest ale taverns
beers without asking
tired of the weight of the bags
the thing that happened
i dont know who knows or how much anyone knows
about the thing that happened
and my wild mad head doesnt know
buy scotch deliriously in supermarket queues
drink it in hurricane gulps from bottle while the glasses chill
in some afternoon flat
thats is not really real
channel hopping the tv
murdering and swearing
on the play station
and its never enough never enough never enough
hobo-crash on the cheap and rough rented carpet
to london trains and planes
rattle and rough
at exact intervals
then i run away at dawn
forcing my hangover to eat greasy food
the something that happened looses its grip
motion and solitude
the cool fizz
bought in cans from the station shop
Friday, 22 November 2013
the artist didnt know who they were but he called them.
everything was done.
he was due his payday.
he called them, the angels/aliens, whoever, and they came to see.
he'd met them, well it was weird.
enough to say he met them.
their taste in art was expansive and he had an idea.
he had technology too.
physics was his slave and the angels/aliens had promised him Paradise Now.
the artist went to work.
he froze the earth.
or rather he froze all the things that make up time.
or rather he slowed them down.
weather cycles, metabolisms, chemical interactions.
so it looked like the earth was frozen.
he created a still three dimensional living diorama of everything on earth.
the couples in bed frozen at the moments of conception.
the criminals trapped guilty in a still orgy of evidence.
rockets firing with frozen flame.
in hospitals and retirement homes the instant of death captured.
all you can think of.
the fairytale moments with kids in the sun with drifting blossom.
the moments minds were lost and hearts broken.
car crashes and tumbling planes.
the miracles and the mundane.
he'd dome it.
he called it Earth.
and the artist called them and they came to see.
they were pleased.
Paradise Now he asked?
Paradise Now they said.
they put the artist on the moon in a glass room of money.
there was a plaque that said Artist and his name down by his shoes.
the angels/aliens renamed the work Losers.
they brought all their school children to see.
then they moved on.
Thursday, 21 November 2013
BUT YOURE BEAUTIFUL . . . she is wound to the wire.
she carries one bag to the station and buys a ticket north.
out of here.
but his head is a problem he thinks.
hes not wrong.
all the years of sunglasses and high collars and bad beards.
his head is a problem he thinks.
or is it?
he is in front of the mirror looking deeply.
he is still there at dawn.
it IS problem!
but he sees it then.
in the soft dawn light.
he is beautiful.
he looks at himself in wonder.
he is still there when police break the door in at the hinges.
he smells bad and he is bloated.
his head is a problem now.
Wednesday, 20 November 2013
somethings changed in the old ether
the star dust
with the heart blood of old wounds
weird and fierce battle
as reality skydives in the supermarket
solidifies in black winter streets
Tuesday, 19 November 2013
observed the two minute silence
i was made to
back at junior school
was Carey Grant in Father Goose
thought of the end of empires
wars new clinical terms
the radios dead air was pregnant
ignorant chatter in the corridor
Monday, 18 November 2013
a coarse and loud scottish cleaner
she lists all the english words
in a harsh
dried up cronies
a ticking stream to her rough tsunami
Saturday, 16 November 2013
faster and faster i went
deep into the dark hug abyss
i scribbled on the graffiti wall of denial
fountain pen loaded with accident blood
the words became a blur of white icefire
drowning my dumb exile
fearwave of panfried panic
booze stopped working its wonderfire
and i crashed thru my own shoddy walls
burned bright and black
Friday, 15 November 2013
Thursday, 14 November 2013
he left the single story concrete building glad to be outside the modern steel frame doors. it was autumn and it was cold. a crowd of bodies flowed onto the black tarmac touched by evening ice.
the path split around a flower bed and he took the lower path. it was quieter, he remembers the brief solitude walking by the bare rose shrubs. it divided the crowd of bodies like white water.
he doesnt remember the bag he had but he must have had one. it had a new book in it the lady gave him and the home made bookmark.
the crowd was as noisy as white water too. he's eyes were pinned ahead like lamps looking out. his head was filled with the new smells of the building, his eyes dim in the new dark from overlit corridors inside.
and he was full with the surprise of survival, surprised its over, surprised he was allowed to leave. he was alone in the crowd of bodies and it scared him. his eyes looked out like lamps.
the bookmark he remembers. the vivid and glossy blues and pinks. cut from the front of a humorous greeting card it was the police pulling a drunk over under a huge pink elephant in the blue black night sky.
the more he remembers it the more it tries to fade. the details fade. exactly what the joke was he didnt know then and doesnt know now.
he sees his mother waiting with other mothers. she has a long coat on, maybe a dull itchy pink. he remembers the fabric and the fibres thin and silvery poking out. he rushes up to her and hes holding the book mark. it seems important. he shows her the book in his satchel too. the bag - its a satchel. he remembers now. but not what the book was.
he doesnt remember talking to any kids or anything else that happened. just the early dark and the bookmark and how all the other kids were talking about star wars.
he hadnt seen it.
he'd never heard of it and in his wildest imagination he could not comprehend what a skywalker was but it seemed really really good and i wanted to be one.
Wednesday, 13 November 2013
thinking about buddha and his noble beginnings
thinking about warhol and his pre-fame work
fire alarm and i know it must be thursday
or else it isnt
and i smelltaste the burnt flesh
surgeons are working
the room next door
for art and for sense
in the tumble stacks
ripe for ramming and jamming
in the feeble soft machines
too noisy here
my eyes that way today
Tuesday, 12 November 2013
Monday, 11 November 2013
moments come out of nowhere
and no one asked permission
and you didnt see them coming
clunky and blunt
and its like the last room you were in
and the people sitting down in there
Saturday, 9 November 2013
cant tell his age because of how his hair has come out in clumps and his walk that's a straight-legged limp. he's fiddling with a phone like a younger man but his eyes are watery will illness. his skin is indoor blue-white and his belly bulges randomly like overstuffed pockets or hernias.
he comes rolling down the hospital corridor with that awful limp rocking him side to side swinging his bad leg out wide pulling a trolley too big for the narrow space.
the guy he's with, cant tell his age either but he has to be older. he's balding in a more conventional pattern with a greasy wispy top tuft bending to the corridor drafts. a thick handlebar moustache hides a mouth that never smiles.
they take the corner in each others way in a moody silence. the loose padlock on the empty box on the trolley is hanging free and bouncing back and forth in metallic rhythm.
i hand urgent drugs in a box dense with stickers, a before nine delivery i'd been lumbered with because today's DHL driver is new and didn't care.
the sick guy with the watery eyes signs for it in a laborious tiny cramped scribble. it is illegible. i ask him to print too it takes longer but looks just the same.
the moustache guy stands silently big hands by his knees clutching at nothing.
the bleep of a hospital pager prompts a flow of swearing from sick eyes. he drops it in the silver box bleeping still and limps on hitting laundry trolleys and fire extinguishers and everything else he can.
i watch them go. their pace is slow. bleep still bleeping.
they stop and talk to a teenage cleaner with a short mohican who leans on a mop handle with no head.
sick eyes and the cleaner have their phones out, jabbing with thumbs. moustache stand there silently.
i turn my back and head outside. i have time for a smoke in the bus shelter with the dizzy and the elderly by A&E before the meeting in the admin tower about my sick time.
my work phones rings. it is my union rep. he cant make the meeting and that really doesn't matter at all.
Friday, 8 November 2013
they bring in shortcake
big multipacks of crisps
on the round table in the corner
monday 8 AM
i bought too much for the grandkids
cant have these at home - they're LETHAL
these work women -they're dieting
i snack the day away
and they say
where does he put it all
Thursday, 7 November 2013
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
its only when having a crap
how raggedy and frayed
crumbled down around my work boots
the lights are friendlier
my frugal keks
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Monday, 4 November 2013
its no big deal
do your time
spend a bit of time
that plague you
pitter patter of tiny words
and the scribbled notes for the grand schemes
no big deal
off you go
Saturday, 2 November 2013
the sixty foot conifers on garage corner
leave an absence
my eyes repeatedly explore
a blown open gap in the A road skyline
Friday, 1 November 2013
i see a certain arrogance in retired drivers driving some '85 Jaguar or high-end Rover when there were high-end Rovers, bought with retirement annuity or whatever, when they cruise slow and pointedly sedate down the crescent, him fat and red faced and unsmiling with the wife, and he'd call her the wife, sitting silent next to him, both in good overcoats, her clutching a bag on her lap, him full of thoughts of owning the road because of his massive no-claims - because the car is all he has to remind he was a man and it is blandly spotless, has regular garage visits where he bores the mechanics talking about its smooth running and borderline classic status, and he makes the grandkids clean it for meagre pocket money while moodily supervising, yes he cruises SO slow, the turns calculated and inyourface smooth and neither of them look left or right out the side windows and neither of them see me sweaty on a muddy bicycle judging them accurately
yes, a certain arrogance