21 December 2011




It’s no use carrying an umbrella if your shoes are leaking. I’m sick of the sight of umbrellas, they are unlucky and they look like bat wings, they are creepy. If I ever see another umbrella…

Someone must’ve spiked me with methedrine – the black stuff; I’m way too high, or is that low? I can never tell. That shit gives me crank bugs and the heebies. Another nightshift scheduled – my body aches and my mouth is dry.

I saw him, we danced real close, he has black eyes and the blackest smile. The drinks were on him – black wine from Corsica, he said. I’m halfway to Ash Wednesday – to my penultimate oblivion. The Black Forest was terrible – and no cake. I hooked an angel with my kite and cut him loose with the Devil’s scissors. I wrapped him up in a parcel and mailed him to the Church – they said it was a miracle he ever arrived considering the state of the Italian postal system.

You must send the boy away. If he goes to his father the old man will think him evil and wild, like his mother. His father has religion now and has become a terrible bore. He sits all day issuing sober soul orders; “Repent! Everyone is responsible for everything they do. The Lord God demands his supper!” His inquisition isn’t welcome around here; we’ll have to stone him one day. We’ll paste him into Rodney a la king. We’ll mail him to Church as pate for the Holy Father. All organisations are built on lies, but he has all the best ones.

Exile the boy and nurture the man - with regular beatings. Spare the rod and spoil the child, or spoil the rod and spare the child? It’s in our nature to nurture, so beat him relentlessly. Cut him with the devil’s scissors, make an end to his childish ways. Take him to Church and bury him - every church is a tombstone for the spirit of man.

My mind is my church; no altar, no preacher, no ceremony – just thought. The Church is theatre and religion is politics. The God venerated in church is completely at odds with the natural universe. Iconoclast is the answer; smash the idols, burn the churches, free the mind.

You don’t need an umbrella if you walk in eternal sunshine – right? Umbrellas are unlucky; a tall man in a sea of umbrellas could lose an eye or two. Flapping bat wing mushrooms. Tear them – shred them – why fear the rain? Next time I see an umbrella…


20 December 2011

and where is love?



No fear, no hate – just sorrow. We were walking in the sunlight cold. We were holding hands, but we weren’t together. We’d never been together. Down by the river to the drowning fields. Pronounced deadly on arrival – aborted in sensate focus – all is madness. It was a long time ago, but not too far to walk.

This is a fear planet – predicated on war and hatred where women drown their children and priests set themselves on fire; war, plague, famine, death - all orchestrated by madmen. No enemy, no friction; no friction, no heat; no heat, no life.

My mosquito enemies wake me – their buzzing a minor irritant – more bug juice is required – ease my nerves. Pour me a tall one, my muse has failed me – I’ll shoot the bitch. This is a war universe. No conflict, no passion; no passion, no life. My edge has withered – it no longer cuts cleanly. I have a bloody mouth and I enjoy the kill – if it’s clean. Pornography kills slowly, too slowly for my taste. I’ll have a tall one, with ice.

Some people just can’t get out of bed in the morning – no energy, no passion, no conflict, no life. The neighbours are spying on me, I know because I’ve been watching them - curtain twitching bastards. The main one is still young, but he shouldn’t get much older. I believe that cosmic processes are at work – I can feel them tremble. There’s an earthquake coming – a giant tsunami of shit heading in their direction. I burned entrails as an offering to my God – we shall see. No question asked goes unanswered. Most folks don’t know that. Me - I never did nothing – it was my neurosis that done it. I’m an innocent man, though that was never my intention.

This is a fear planet – a world of friction and heat, of hunger and pain. Where is the love in such a place? Is it hidden in the space in my brain? Is it lost in the layers of complexity of my mental nodes? Unpinned by the wonders of science the human spark flickers dim in the cortex, but bright enough to illuminate the race in filaments of hope too radical to comprehend. Love is wired into the brain pan, the co-operators built the world. The vagaries of intent are manifest in our every gesture. I wonder what you think. Do you wonder what I think you think? You can read me like a book, my pages are much like yours. Is that what makes us human? Is that where the love is?


17 December 2011



Abolish the word and sit in silence – what a farcical and mind numbing idea. Kill the words; cut them out with an assassin’s blade – though the ribs and into the heart. Incise them with a razor sharp scalpel deftly and surgically like cancer in the mind membrane. Maybe if you all stopped talking I could hear myself think. I could find the time to read my poison pen letters, anything for a laugh. It takes a poisoned mind to write a poisoned letter – imagine the words choking that poor fuckers head.

Human frailty; pride, envy, gluttony, lust, wrath, greed, sloth and above all stupidity, the cardinal sin. We are all victims, we are all susceptible, but we need not spread the contagion – we could always keep our mouths shut, or we could dare to be honest and fear no labour in our pursuit of ‘truth’ – whatever that is. Remember, one man’s meat is another man’s murder.

Give me ergot ‘cause my head aches, give me acid for my dreams;  I want to lose myself in my Las Vegas; I want to crash in Bangkok and wake up in Marrakesh. Strangle my intracranial interrupters with velvet chords and agonise my receptors into delirium. Cogito ergo sum-thing, at least I think so; What if I’m just the regurgitated remnant of some collective unconscious? What if I’m just a soggy burlap full of words with no particular meaning?

Image; Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ in X-Ray.


9 December 2011



I don’t know why, something was just in the air I guess. The fragile thread of reason seemed to have unraveled freeing the ghostly minions of failure; they threw open my portfolio of disasters and scattered my pages around me like fallen tombstones in my graveyard of dreams.

It was like that scene in Dumbo when he got drunk and hallucinated pink elephants singing macabrely. Only instead of pink elephants it was my memories; every time I cried, or was struck, or was left alone, but worst of all – every time I was embarrassed – every time I behaved like an arsehole. Those memories gathered in procession around me trumpeting ‘arsehole’ and with every blast I shrank a little till they towered above me and I dwindled into insignificance. Embarrassment is a killer – I wonder how many people have actually died of embarrassment.

Selective memory is a godsend, but my selective mechanism failed me and all at once I just fell apart, my whole flimsy house of cards came tumbling down. I tore like a wet paper sack and all my secret secrets fell out onto the floor. There was no place left to hide them – no way to avert my gaze. I sat there in dread fascination as the whole farcical comedy of errors played out before my eyes and I puked from deep inside my soul. I cried until my eyes bled and still the show went on.

For a while there I lacked invention. I lost control. I had no understanding of magic - a punishable offense. But I got it back. You never truly have it until you have lost it. You never truly have it until you lose it and win it back. Some never do. It’s like writing. Writing is not an escape from reality, but an attempt to mold reality. In this respect we are all of us works of fiction – the reality is just too much to bear.


7 December 2011

The Sickness Of The World

The golden monkey perches on my shoulder at a jaunty angle and whispers sweet somethings into my shell; acerbic poison drips from his maggot tongue. He has a hard on full of malicious spunk for my ear. He knows the words that I dread and the words I long to hear – I’m a receptacle to the villainous bile he spurts across the frozen waste of my heart. He’s a long term vice, as addictive as smack, and harder to ditch; he’s part of my fabric – my DNA.

I’ve been on the outside so long it looks like the inside to me, but it’s cold, colder than hell. Far beneath my ice, in the filthy gloom, blacker than midnight, darker than the soul – I glory in the pain inflicted on the self. I count the strokes of my flagellation and the degrees of my abomination and cry foul, but – there’s a but in my throat.

I have always been the victim of my own machinations. I always gave in to the blunt and vicious side of my nature. I feed that hump monkey with my bitter delusions and confectionary lies. I’m not a victim, I’m a volunteer. The sickness of this world is fear; fear of disclosure, fear of truth. Creeping fear is my enemy, but my fear will set me free. Fear is the prime motivator, the scent of excitement, the stench of dread apprehension; take a little whiff and he’ll make your wildest dreams seem true.

My cloak of invincibility, my masquerade of masculinity, are driven by the shameful quirt of fear. The whole public edifice hangs on one tarnished nail – the threat of exposure, the disgrace of discovery. Fear is the touch of death, my most secret paramour. She has driven me to the contortions and exploits that map the surfaces of my life, but the hidden depths are his alone – she is Empress of the interior. My internal story is one of revolution, of my struggle against her tyranny. I’ve learned throughout the years that even tyrants fall, but the odds are stacked against it.

4 December 2011

The Sea of Souls


Fuck 'em - they are already dead in their minds - living out an argument long settled by history. Their future is in the past – how much more dead can you get? The dream died, but it died of natural causes – I don’t know when - they gave it no stone.

What’s the point in discussing it? These people can never change their perspectives. No, rhetoric is their game - they already know the answers to all their questions; logos, pathos, and ethos - these guys are sophists - their minds are not open. They seek to persuade – not to learn... It’s all about identity and reinforcement – you are what you believe you are. They are motivated not by the things they love, but by the things that they hate. Broken – everything is broken and the others broke it. The only solution is to break everything that’s left and start over again. They have problems, they have solutions, but they have no soul.

I might die if one of them said something original - it would be like a spear through my head. I don't think communication can be wasted time - everything is useful - I just find it so very predictable sometimes. Did I say it died? Did I say it never was? Did I fart in church? Well stick that in your collider scope and puff. I’m not a believer – I don’t believe in gods – I don’t believe in ideologies, but I believe in love. I believe in love; not in the abstract, but in living, breathing, fleshy, heartfelt, human, love. I believe in actions, not words. Love is natures call to action - love is the voice of my soul.

I wasn’t born with a soul, I carved one from experience. Our non-corporeal essence is a figment of fairy tales, the product of wishful thinking. We shall not survive ourselves, we are not immortal. The soul is a construct – an abstraction of our experience – it can’t be measured, it can’t be weighed. It is not real in any physical sense – the concept of an insubstantial substance is an oxymoron. The soul is an act of imagination. You need imagination and feeling to grow a soul in the garden of your mind. Without imagination and feeling you’ll never have soul.

Not everyone has a soul. Some were too cheap, too scared, or just too lazy to get themselves one and simply went for an off the peg identity; they pass their second hand clothes off as their own. Some had a soul and lost it. They did not tend their gardens and their souls were strangled by weeds, or they poisoned their flowers with bitter thoughts and their soul gardens shriveled and withered until they were deserts populated by ghosts.

Some people confuse their feelings with soul. Their emotions feel so tangible that they imagine they are real, but your psyche is an abstraction, a construct of your thoughts. Your soul is a metonym for consciousness. Let’s face facts - you are an organism, an animal, but you are, nonetheless, miraculous.

It’s time to set sail on the Sea of Souls, time to find those roots in the cosmic tree. It’s time to discover those constantly repeating and changing patterns in the yesternow. Flush your head clean of all thought and feel your way out of the sewer into the sunlight. Steer away from hysteria, dissociation, split personalities; away from mental illness, soul sickness. Harvest the energy that flows from music and leaks from books. Tap those axons and neurons that connect us to the stars - stop trying to be holy and learn to be whole.

28 November 2011

John the Revelator


No one is innocent, but none of us are monsters. We are all damaged, no one gets out of here unsoiled. We inherit the sins of our fathers through our defective monkey genes. We are, none of us, possessors of milky white souls. Each of us is polluted by the cesspit of life, but we are human – loved and loathed – disgustingly beautiful in our glorious imperfections, beneficiaries to the cumulative hurt of uncounted generations.

It is our nature to be cosseted in the bloody membrane of the caul, never to fully cast off evolution’s legacy, but to live as hybrid apes in our own private jungles. Evolutionary adaption affords us ever greater opportunities for recreational transgression. Jezebel spirits and catamite charmers lure the righteous from the straight and narrow with seductive promises of the big pay off. Coitus interrupters and the chastened faithful, having read the scriptures thoroughly, vie for the privilege of the first stone cast – judgement, they say, meted out against our sins.

John the Revelator condemned his brothers and sisters to the tender mercies of the beast on judgement day. That’s right; they’re going to have a special day for judging and weighing souls. Our names will be in a ledger against all our various sins and in the name of love we will be adjudged and found wanting. You know it doesn’t matter what you do – those people will be judging you. Their God is a judge – their devil a jailor, their lives are prescribed by a cosmic judicial system of crimes and punishments they call religion. From Genesis to Revelations the bible talks about saving your soul, I’ve never seen a soul – I’m just looking to save my sorry arse from all these judges.


26 November 2011



I’ll leave no bridges standing on my way out of here; I don’t ever intend to return. We live in the instance, but there are dark rooms in the back of our minds where past and future everythings are played out for the blind. The past is a broken mirror full of distortions and lies. Shattered mirrors tell a story; a pastiche of selfish delusions and generous untruths. That’s the deal, we get what we are given, but we lose what we have taken. There are no free meals in this diner.

Diverted drivers take much forked roads in dim response to change. I stick to the straight ahead - I’ll be still be around when my deal goes down, there will be no more hard men waiting in the winter, no more contracted teams with transmitted skin lurking in their conflict stalls. I made the promised preparations and I’m able watch for nominated academics and costermongers with dodgy fruit. I’ve seen them arrive in squadrons to fleece the flock and misdirect their children. Dreamed folk with unbiased disease submit to versatile cheats who pull an elegant trigger. If it weren’t for bad luck – they wouldn’t have any luck at all.

Of course there is no difference between us and them – the sirens sing as sweetly in any tongue. Travellers with vintage thirsts, passionate producers of closing injuries, drink deeply from the cup of promises. Their notorious ambiguity is arrested in a matrix of primary floating and tiny movements of salty pork. Barging through the often doors into ocean aerial sunshine – insensitive to the empty disposable exposure of bright injustice. Speaking personally, I’ll gladly rid myself of the whole stinking rot terminated paranoid concerto as soon as I collect my papers.

I want to go flexi time, and I want the shortened terms of responsibility written into my contract. I want the thousand year warranty, with interest free credit and no money down. I want golden alligators in my swimming pool – the kind that wear badges that say “see ya later…”  Fix my stars into new constellations, like ‘Aquarium’ ‘Exagittarius’ and ‘The Big Tripper’. I want new stories written in the sky - and million dollar hookers who wait on my every word. Give me moonshine for my elbow grease and bubbly for my bathwater. I need folding mirrors and hideaway wings on my heels; my feet should never touch the floor. I unmade up my mind never to walk on feet of clay among the helplessly, religiously unkind. They are unhappy for adventure, which is an unnatural and fatal flaw in people. I got my own situations and I’m plagued by demons from past dimensions of caustic intensity. Those were dark days and they left their scars. That’s why I’m negotiating a new deal with my god – I’ll let him exist as long as he pays homage to me, his wicked inventor.


25 November 2011

A Criminal Mind

CrownA thousand Kafkas, arithmetically sound; file the dreams scouted awkwardly in your unholy nights. It’s the low sleep; the sleep of dogs left dying. None shall trespass here in hollow space – none will hear your cries, or read your laughter. It is a wretched thing - scrutinized by panels and commentators in the prime time of your imagination – it is a wretched thing. 

You are a pile of limp bed clothes in an empty room. You are the blossoming of dead flowers in the dark. You are the silent echo of screaming corruption; poured out like treacle into the night. No-one can reach you now; you’re out of kilter. This place is the last elaborate host before damnation – there are no roads out of here, just a gradual sinking into nothing. 

This journey was in your stars; this place was always primed for your acceptance – you want to go home, but you are home. You were incarcerated for possessing a criminal mind – you saw crime in everything, you saw injustice everywhere, but you lacked the imagination to act like a criminal – you had to play the martyr. So take this crown of thorns and sow your dirty sheets. There are betrayals and crucifixions to reenact before ever you see another dawn.

24 November 2011

If You Could…

The part of you that doesn’t speak
Sleeps hollow on your shoulder
Always on the brink of discovery
Awaits the night to hide your shame
Feels the things you think you should
You’d eat the cancer if you could

But everything is
As everything was
There is only one story
One story since the dawn
Love and then betrayal
Triumph and then despair
The story of the ages
Written on the pages of your heart

The part of you that’s going wrong
Teeters on the edge of expression
Then sinks back into the dust
You let the night conceal your pain
But it doesn’t do much good


18 November 2011

Shadow Dogs


Shadow dogs crouch in the dark protecting well gnawed bones. Their teeth have committed those contours to memory – they’ll chew on nothing else. Innocence never lasts; they’ll blink in the cold light one sorry day, but return to their bones as old friends. They’re unlocking the future with the keys to the past. Each day their organisms inch closer to oblivion and the security of obsolete credibility.

Every morning the king of the kennel reads from the great book – the justified edition. He rasps notches in their wood with his saw tongue; the indicative spiritual therapy of a wicked religion. The book is the binary revolution – the mandatory magic of the shadow dog. Everything that can be conceived is contained within – a book of old bones for the charnel floor.

Every night the indeterminate company assembles to receive comfortable intelligence from elite myopic scouts; the world has gone to hell in a bucket of shit. The end is nigh and their day is come, but not quite yet. They coordinate keywords for paperback editions of the book – a ten thousand word prescription, an evocation of the placebo effect – to be distributed with reasoning kits and pointed sticks.

Shadow dogs regurgitate bony fragments for their future meals. They are standing in the shadows of giants; they have turn literatures into litanies, ideas into gospels. Shadow dogs dig their own graveyards, but never lay the dead to rest. They resurrect their heroes to place at the feet of their king; ever mindful that big fish in little ponds must one day eat their friends.


16 November 2011



At a run we could leap between the garages quite easily. The wooden rooftops would give our footfalls an extra spring and help us to build up momentum until we reached the final garage in the row. Then we would launch ourselves into the air with a final thrust, our arms and legs still flailing as if we were running on air. We experienced a moment of exhilarating flight then, a moment of ecstatic buoyancy, before gravity took hold and we landed with a thud on the grassy ground. We would compete to see who could fly the furthest, my brother Tommy was the best flier by yards. He was part bird, my brother Tommy.

14 November 2011



Richard brought her around
they brought some booze
which soon ran out
while he was out buying more
I fucked her on the kitchen table
I still can’t remember her name
but she was a looker
or I was very drunk

Richard arrived back just in time
to see her straighten her dress
and me pulling up my jeans
he had that resigned disappointed look
that told me this was not his first time
he dropped the booze and left
not all bad news then – he left the booze

we drank some more
she tearfully told me she loved him
as I undid her blouse
we fucked with less passion than before
we took the time to get low down and dirty
when the booze was gone
she remembered
she had a full bottle of gin at home

I was beginning to get the impression
that booze was a big part of her life
she took a minute to locate the car keys
“Les go” she said
“No” I replied, “Les call a cab”
she would have none of that
she pronounced,
 in slurred speech,
that she’d drive home
with me or without me

that’s how I found myself driving shotgun
in a weaving death trap
I steered from the passenger seat
and she operated the pedals.
we were both blind drunk.
still, I wasn’t so drunk
that I wasn’t terrified

all the time I was thinking;
will I die like this, drunk in a pile up
with a nymphomaniac alcoholic
squeezing my crotch
as I steer through the blurred traffic
on my way to a bottle of gin?
Christ, I don’t even like gin.



Rats! – I saw rats. What kind of rats? - Big fat hairy bubonic rats, delicious rats with long juicy worm tails. That’s how I know this ship is sinking. A plague on all our houses, a pox on all our children. Flea bitten scurvy rats are deserting in droves; it’s not too healthy around here anymore.

This place is a cess pool of vice and debauchery – not the fun fleshy kind, oh no, but an inane limp variant of isolated key punchers and video hoaxers vying to impress with the vacuousness of their thought. This is a plague of ineptitude, the triumph of mediocrity. Mankind is doomed to die of impotence; a whimpering lovelorn adolescent reaching across broad band’s – searching for human contact by remote console. They have not deserted the sinking ship – they have locked themselves in their cabins. They say the Roman Empire died of decadence – our civilisation will die of negligence.

There’s a pandemic stretching an ugly hand across the globe – one that reduces all it touches to the commonplace. An imagined empire of sameness; “Like my status” “Be the first to follow” - The current composite existence is dwindling into a mire of self restraint and tasteless simulacrum. We no longer touch. We no longer experience firsthand. We share. We share a pseudo reality where even our dissent is manufactured and orchestrated by unseen commercial interest. Our every thought is digested by the combine and regurgitated to inform new patterns of consumption. The machine has set us free. The machine has relieved us of the burden of thought and feeling. There is no choice to hate in this brave new world; only the option is to ‘like’ – not love – ‘like’. Even our emotions are being reduced to the mediocre. We can rage against the machine, but will do so next to advertising selected by the machine to reflect our current status.

The regardless monitoring of thought will reduce us to machines. We will become the machine and the machine will become us – gathering and sharing data in a faceless world of status and likes. This plague is all pervading and all powerful and you will ‘like’ it.

12 November 2011


The indifferent held a parade today - It had no particular route and no particular destination - It had no particular purpose and no-one particularly cared. Hundreds of marchers meandered through the city streets (No-one was counting). They resembled a swarm of zig zag bees – Casanovas of the flower kingdom. They shed no pollen; they shed no light on their singular lack of purpose. Only people lack that focus – only people can be that out of step with their surroundings. It’s a luxury only people can afford in the bore or be bored, dog eat chow world of synthetic existence. Any given day you can see the parade of indifference wander through the streets of any given city; naked monkeys shrouded in the cotton cocoon of isolation; ambiguous members of the master species lost in introspection.

Night Swimmer


Caught in the undertow

Torn by the current

The night swimmer

Struggles against the weight of water

That drags his weary limbs

And draws the heat from his pale body

Thrashing panic gives way to plaintive cries

Every stroke takes him further from the shore

His agonies are muted by the water filling his lungs

As he drifts down into the darkness of the deep

Limp and lifeless, eyes unblinking, unseeing, stare blankly

Into the emptiness of the abyss – inert, unfeeling

His journey is ended – no more lonely nights, no more tears

Did he come here to flirt with death?

Was that thought in his mind

When he made that fateful decision

To go night swimming?


10 November 2011

Head Held High


I have witnessed the distortions and the twisted morals that pass for piety in this sick world and I am not offended. But I know that times being what they are I have to hold my head up high – or drown in my own shit.

The moral majority, the self satisfied purveyors of ignorance, are cloaked in the mumbo jumbo of revelation. Those sanctimonious souls mystified and hypnotised by superstitious monotheism reverse into dingy moveable cul de sacs and diversions of spiritual wonder. Redefined offenders of the carnal variety search for available exits in the sky. Likely intermediates in the war of the sexless they cover their modesty with the transparent fig leafs of suppressed imaginings.

Sticky capitalists hoist pirate flags and savour the taste of blood in their 9 – 5 and on Sundays give thanks and praises to the sky god – the CEO on high. Dealers, pimps and gangsters chant down Babylon, assured of their own place in Zion and the righteousness of their crew. Starving millions turn to HIM and comfort themselves with the thought that there shall be no hunger in heaven.

Each believes in future treasure heaped high – untarnished by time in a palace of milk and honey. Each is bound by a negotiable madness and present hazy arguments to moderate ears. None can conceive of finality. There is no surface and no dimensions to nothingness.

A man has to make his own way in this world, or be lead by the hand down the path of least resistance by the apathetic syndicate of woolly minded bead counters. I have no time for the implausible editors of reality and the awful genius of the sky god. My promised land lies straight ahead in this world, not the next. I’ll get there under my own steam, without the intervention of the mythic. Until then I’ll hold my head high; an independent being riding the contours of reality.


8 November 2011

Feast of Souls



The dogs will have their day

When the beast calls us home

We will devour the world

The last great feast of souls


We shall call on a saviour

But no saviour will come

We shall eat our children

In the last great feast of souls


There will be no burial rites

No funerary procession

No-one there to mourn us

At the last great feast of souls


7 November 2011


White Angel Wings

Orbital mornings spin fractal imaginings in my living room. Memories parade arm in arm with fantasy like cheap drag whores in malicious habits. It’s a tense collaboration between fear and anticipation – the intensity is unbearable, but delectable. A silver fuse awaits ignition by an expert spark. My organs are filleted by razor sharp blades of solid brilliance. Today I wear the miles travelled on secret roads as my badge of honour – my leopard skin cloak.

I stand on the cusp of my equinox. Nothing can exclude my ascension to the throne. Throw off the sticky remnants of bargain gossip – come join me in the valley of kings. Silver tongues tell sweeter lies, but your stepping stones on the way up often await you on the way down. Isolation is a stamped gun – later sophisticates will stand in line for slow suicide and suspended animation. Better to live one day like an immortal than to die a little with each dawn in the frustration of conformity.


5 November 2011

My Monster


He’s a monster

But he’s my monster

I spent a lifetime

Waiting for his apocalypse

When you have nowhere to go

You retreat within

I have seen things

He has never seen

Not everything that happens

Happens for a reason

There are so many things that happen

That really have no cause

But my monster plays the blame game

He believes in retribution


4 November 2011

Psycho Reflex


The arcane pornography of bitter regions burn solemn on your doomsday pages. Baptismal fires ignite in fragmented stages; you always had that minus touch. Stimulated dripping suspects cling to the trophies of their lust, their burning members trailing in the dust. You were never one to flatter, when you could kick them in the crotch. Your skull is packed with stained sheets and rare botanical exhibits of the widest insularity. Taught to help yourself, but not too much – you flounder now on the shores of reason. Your public decomposition and damaged precocity have burgeoned into insane dimensions. You have become a spectacle for leering jaws and wagging tongues. You are making manic with the sorry classicists who bought you dinner and stole your luggage. They share their condolences as they rifle your drawers. Still you stand insubordinate in your monomania – awkward in your anaemic droplets; attempting regeneration through your psycho reflex.


3 November 2011

Anus Mundi


I hate this place and everything in it. I hate its sights, its sounds, its smells and its tastes. Since the monkey moved in this place is loathsome to me. He’s my monkey and I hate him. I hate his bright beady eyes, his cowl of white hair and his screeching voice. He’s my cunning you see – my animal nature; furtive, subversive and sly. Enough of this crazy scissors talk. I got this insect burrowing into my brain and 24 more years of freedom to endure. I have no time for nonsense - I got a monkey to kill.

His eyes are black shimmering coals, he is almost totally stoned. All his crazy shit about loving the sun has him burned out, maudlin – the booze has gotten to his brain. He sleeps out in the sun – he made his pact years before and is at war with himself. He’s lying flat on his back, he’s pissed his pants. I’d be glad to be rid of him – softly softly…

It’s a small world, this maze – or so they say. I knew monkey many years ago. People said that he was to be avoided, but he never did me any harm. So when we bumped into each other years later – he said he’d been to Australia – I saw no harm in inviting him around for a spot of supper, he’s been here ever since.

That monkey has driven me into penury and ruin with the webs he’d woven (he’s a Spider Monkey, I think), which only goes to prove that you should never entertain monkeys of any description. Take my word for it. Initially I thought that we were very much alike, but the adage ‘Monkey see, monkey do’ springs to mind.

My head is like a soft boiled egg. Everyday day is an unpaid bill. I’m living on borrowed time and I’m way overdrawn. I think I ought to simply leave this place behind – it’s crawling with monkeys now – and start anew in a cooler climate. I thought once that I’d found my Nirvana, but this place is the arsehole of the world and it stinks. I can fly over the moon; I can swim under the sea. It’s time for me to move on now and leave the monkeys to their tea party.


31 October 2011

Cabbage White


Nothing corrupts

Like a father’s love

A few blows

Some bruises

A thousand humiliations

You little shit

You bastard


Melodies from an opera of cruelty

Words that trample on my heart

Like big work boots

Filthy, ugly boots

I look for a place in the sunshine

Hidden in the tall grass

Among the crickets and the flies

And the cool earth

The fire pours from the sky

But not as hot as the abuse

That pours from his burning lips

Every syllable scalds my young ears

And makes my head ring

I sweep the leaves

Great mounds of dead moths

There is a butterfly fluttering

In the corridor of light

An ordinary Cabbage White

But beautiful just the same

I want to shield its ears

I wish we could fly off together




This is how the axis turns

The curve of your hips

The smile on your lips

This is the last place on Earth

The flowers grow

The moth men of Mars train for war

But the children of Venus are made for love

In our garden green an eternal summer shines

The soft rain of long dog days washes away the dust

Of constant destruction and reconstruction

But we are timeless in our wild haven


My wicked tongue speaks of sin and delight

On the shores of a silver sea

Where all is permitted under heaven

All is open to the lovers of life

Nothing is forbidden to you and I

Sacred Ravens fly in the great circle

Carrion birds picking clean the bones

Of old ways and customs

Our children sing in new dimensions

Of the coming of the king


29 October 2011



I once knew a guy, a square, who would unfold his elbows to disgorge great chunks of scripture from his ugly fissure of a mouth. He claimed to be an artist and a writer – a literally terrible Baudelaire under the influence of an evil river of semantic bullshit. I used to abhor the sound of his voice and his predictable Boy Scout denouement.

This bead twisting bastard considered himself to have been appointed God’s lawyer. His mission was to weed out and pull down the atheistic, agnostic blasphemer hounds of hell that kept bad company and cluttered up the corridors of hope. They only tripped up the unsuspecting with their weed, speed and jumping Jack Kerouac; preventing them from reaching a state of grace in God’s red white and blue heaven. It was his task to usher, forcibly if needs be, the vile unbelievers into the glowing light of HIS love. To this ends he would grind out sermons on every subject from evolution and the ‘monkey fallacy’ to homosexuality and AIDS as a judgment of the Lord.

He was a loathsome little bigot of a man who pulsed negative energy in every direction, but worse than that he was a complete drag who could banish a smile at three hundred yards. One day I spiked him with cyanic acid and stuck him in the freezer to cool off – I turned him into a Popsicle; bitter almond flavoured.



27 October 2011

My gift to you


I don’t sleep, but I still dream…        I dream of elevators and sliding doors that lead to rooms familiar, but bizarre, which contain things I have and have not seen. Each particular is arranged anew in misaligned and juxtaposed symmetry. There are people there who I know and are strangers to me. Everything is clearer and more confused in the parallel behind the veil. I close my eyes and I am there, my life played out in Mandelbrot variations. I remember, but this was different – and the same. These people were never here, or were they ever there? Collapsible worlds just beyond reach open for me like the pages of a book – each page forgotten as it is turned. This is the experience of unfolding, life without a past – a living only for the now. If I could give you anything beyond love – my gift to you would be the power to dream and dream each day anew with no memory of things past. My gift to you would be the promise of eternal tomorrows.

25 October 2011



Somewhere in the back of your mind – or is it to the side? You hear Coltrane playing ‘A Love Supreme’ – Blow your horn Gabriel. A sequence of filtered memories flash past your eyes; you only want to remember the good things, don’t want to mess with your high. You were a singing boy, a dancing fool; you were in love with life and kissed the girls to make them cry. Everything is fragmented. There is no solid narrative in life – it’s not like the movies – things just happen and sometimes for no particular reason. Boys OD, boys drown and it isn’t anyone’s fault – there was nothing anyone could do. It wasn’t fate, or karma, it was just one of those things – that was the final page in the broken narrative of their lives.

Sometimes memories come jagged in sharp relief and sink their teeth into you like a shark – and won’t let go. The way they moved, they way they smiled – the way they laughed when they were stoned. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. You remember the difficulty of swallowing in the moment of the lies they told and the blood flush of late night confessionals. You remember the consolation of friendship against the bitter cold and the softness of the pillow, the lingering bitter-sweet of her scent long after she was gone. Far away across the ocean someone dreams of you. Things are found and things are lost. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. It just happened that way.

Memories pick at your brain like tiny mites devouring dead skin - uninvited visitors to your bed. They come unbidden like burglars to steal your peace of mind. They’re not like movies, you can’t change reels - you have to let them play out. This is no cinema of distraction; these memories are your life in all its glorious and gory detail. You ought to savour them, because in the end they are all that is left you.




There are no free lunches, there are no free rides. Experience is paid for with the sharpest of currency and often in blood. We gamble all and ultimately lose, for the game is rigged that way. There is no point in complaining, our only failing could be that we had simply not wagered enough. When it comes to experience it is far better to have been a spendthrift than a miser; to have been prodigal, than left wanting.

24 October 2011



All truth is manmade. We make the truth; there is no truth that we did not create. Truth is dangerous, be careful with it. Truth can set you free, it can burn you too. Mostly truth is one big lie. The one big lie that ties you down, that draws you under. Beware of truth; truth is an imposter. Truth is stranger than fiction and usually less probable. They say that the truth will prevail, but it just isn’t so. Just as every lie contains a kernel of truth, so every truth is made of little white lies. Of course you should always tell the truth as you see it, but remember that one man’s truth is another man’s lie.


23 October 2011




Between thought and motion lies a lifetime of indecision. Between impulse and action lies an eternity of procrastination. We live in the angles between those split indecisions; locked in the prisons formed by our accommodations, shut out by our deferrals and postponements. We are exiled to nations of the yea or nay behind the wire of choices, judgments’, compromises and reconciliations. Isolated from our feelings by other considerations; our final adjudications are questions of reason. There are a thousand judges awaiting our every verdict. The sentence is mandatory for acts of treason.

In the distance between the thrower and the stone cast lies an ocean of experience and shared guilt. Behind every curse there is concealed a blessing; a secret prayer for atonement through condemnation. Just as in every question lurks the desired answer, so every answer is a masquerade of some unasked question. Life is an island in an ocean of questions – questions and answers separate us into archipelagoes of existence.


21 October 2011

Love is the law

That electric prickle of awkward instance pierces my skin like tiny dragons teeth and rains down on my head like bags of hammers. I stand embarrassed before the blank ignorance of my judges – speechless at their presumption. I am an innocent man. The crimes I committed were acts of love. They say that I’m a user and a lowlife dog, but I’m just wild that’s all. Don’t take my drinking hand – that’s all I got left – my right.
I’m pillared salt and codeine rush. You have to learn to trust the daggers thrust. You have to look within to see where you been. Spastic colon and diarrhoea mouth – my jury has been selected from jelly mountains. My fate is sealed before the judges of certainty in apocalypto jack boots. I’ve been a naughty boy and ought to be locked up with all the other glorious saddle bums who dared to live a while.
Love is the law - the law is love. Say it with feeling, repeat it endlessly until you are hoarse, or you get busted for feeling too much. Perhaps the cops will beat you with their love truncheons - if you are lucky. If not they’ll throw you in solitary with a hundred other misguided amoebas who dared to dream big in the isolation of their single cells.
They say you should write from experience. I write with my elbows; I need the room for expansive statements. It’s time to stand up and fight. Who? You’ll find out as soon as you stand up.

19 October 2011



He put up one hell of a fight, he was an individual. He laughed and laughed in self defence. He wasn’t to be beaten down by the kind of feral urchins you read about in the yellow press. He wasn’t one for packing up his stall and heading home – cancer ate his guts, but he was still a man at 83 years young. He’d learned a few tricks – he knew what it was to kill and he had a few scars from the battles he’d won.

It’s the terrible sun that wears us down – we decay from cosmic radiation, best to stay indoors – or wear a hat – whichever is more convenient. Get reflective – that’s my advice, and don’t stand too close to the sun. Back in the shadows a rotten film of garbage coats everything like cockroach slime. If you’re going to hide from the sun you better get thick skinned and learn to converse with radiation proof roaches and fat rats who quote Shakespeare and Marx. The shadows conceal terrors that might make you wish you’d shriveled in the sun. Old men have stared death in the sphincter and they ain’t about to run and hide from the hard light of day – once an individual you are always an individual and you’d have it no other way.

Life came to this planet on comets. I read that somewhere. I wonder how it will leave. They say that when we have finally fucked this planet up all that will be left are cockroaches. Cockroaches riding comets – that’s an image. We evolved from bacteria and we haven’t come that far; we still like to swim in shit. Maybe that’s all we do that’s of any significance – feed the cockroaches; the masters of planet earth.

You can’t kill them with pesticides or atom bombs. That’s evolutionary excellence for you – to eat shit and never die, unless someone flips you on your back. I saw this movie once where cockroaches learned to impersonate people. It turned out to be true – I’ve seen them lurking in the shadows. Now they don’t just eat shit, they talk it too.

For William Lee


18 October 2011

Don’t forget to kill


Kill Kill Kill

Kill in the old fashioned way

Develop a killer purpose

Prepare yourself for murder

Kill today

Kill tomorrow

Live your life

Get your kicks

But don’t forget to kill


Fear will keep you decent

Fear will keep you safe

But killing will keep you sane

Killing will cleanse your soul

Eat, drink, be merry

Live, love, grow old

Make sure you get your fill

But don’t forget to kill


Image by Andy Warhol


17 October 2011



Beautiful Ravens, eyes beady black as your glossy wings, sing beneath the howling moon with caws that crackle like fire. Shiny beasts full of miracle and wonder – the children of forbidden dimensions emerge from sleep with the power to dream. You can will worlds into being and collapse the infinite into sentences. You know the secrets of the songs and have reveled in the glory of flight. Don’t let those straight people take your eyes – you’ve seen things they never will. Don’t let them clip your wings; they won’t be happy until everyone is wading through the same dirt they do.

Those that bow their heads before the Sky God can only see the ground before them. They get crooked necks and limited horizons; better to nurture something sacred within. They will call that profane, they’ll call you vain, they’ll call it wicked sin, but you should never bend before the hollow men – those scarecrows who possess no hearts and straw for brains.

You came from the land of spirits to capture both the sun and moon. Your stones created the world before man were ever born. Your bloody beaks cleave the strong from the weak – you brought the light to the ungrateful ones who stone you and chafe you with their binding rods. You owe nothing now to those who have neither wings nor beaks.



16 October 2011



Moon zoom

Moon zoom


She follows me

Like a big balloon

I didn’t find the moon

She found me

Did I speak to soon?

Could it be

That I found moon

But did not see?


15 October 2011


Let’s be entirely zoological about this – cats and dogs don’t mix. One is east and the other is west and wherever you stand the twain does not meet. That’s why I say that you should stick to your side of the fence and I’ll stick to mine – sitting on that fence will only get you splinters in the arse. You can paint your side blue and I’ll paint my side red – neither of us wants purple do we? They say a good neighbour is a fellow who smiles at you over the fence, but doesn't try to climb over it – so be a good neighbour, stick to your own yard and I’ll stick to mine. Don't get me wrong – I’m all in favour of friendly relations, but you never take a fence down until you know why it was put up. I just don’t want to wake up one morning and find my yard full of cats that’s all.

14 October 2011



My heartbeat - the pulsing rush of blood in the vein that feeds my brain and sets it racing. The warmth of Sol’s light on my face that paints my eyelids and illuminates my body. The flaxen field of ripe wheat in the sun – the cadmium smear of summer sunflowers.The pasture where I lay me down to rest in the chlorophyll of the breathing Earth. The azure of limitless lapis skies and Krishna tinted Blue Jays. A night sky studded with stars – the electric third eye. The harmony of the universe and the colour imperial. The spectrum of life – the man painted rainbow.

13 October 2011

Fool’s Gold


Everything that glitters is not glitter

In fact things are seldom what they seem

Even things that are seldom seen

Are seldom what they seem

For example;

When the sands of time run out

Don’t mean you’re out of time

It just means you’re out of sand

And although fool’s gold

Is not real gold

The fools are real fools


12 October 2011



Those little piggy’s snouts are shitty from routing about in their own filth. They’ll make a meal out of stuff you and I would consider garbage, but you don’t see too well with little piggy eyes and you don’t smell so good when you spend your life in shit. You know some of those pigs are boars and some are sows, neither of which is renowned for their manners. Those omnivorous bastards gobble up everything that’s put in front of them, but it’s mostly shit no one else has any use for. Some say they are intelligent creatures; any animal that eats shit is not my idea of an intelligent creature. An intelligent creature shuns shit; wants nothing to do with shit. Personally speaking I shun those piggies too – I want nothing to do with nobody who eats shit or revels in their own filth. Those porcine entertainments are not for me; in my book if you live in shit and you eat shit – you gotta talk shit too.


10 October 2011

Machine Gun


Machine Gun rattles out the sting of death

Machine Gun makes a boy a man

Machine Gun spits hot lead into flesh

And turns children into meat

Machine Gun sprays the message of death

Across the continents and into the sky

Machine Gun screams – Machine Gun cry

Machine Gun bark and someone die

Machine Gun is everywhere

Every mother’s son has one

Everybody loves Machine Gun

Machine Gun rat-tat-tat

Machine Gun is where it’s at

Machine Gun sings a song of death

Machine Gun steals your final breath

Machine Gun scream – Machine Gun cry

Machine Gun bark and someone die