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21 December 2011

Ash Wednesday


Someone must’ve spiked me with methedrine because I’m way too high. 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. I’m halfway to Ash Wednesday and my penultimate oblivion. 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 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. 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 the church is completely at odds with the natural universe. Iconoclast is the answer; smash the idols, burn the churches, free the mind.

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7 December 2011

The Sickness Of The World

Fear[5]

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 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 confectionery 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. Fear has driven me to the contortions and exploits that map the surfaces of my life, but the hidden depths are his alone – he is Emperor of the interior. My internal story is one of revolution, of my struggle against his tyranny. I’ve learned throughout the years that even tyrants fall, but the odds are stacked against it.

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4 December 2011

The Sea of Souls

Sea-of-Souls


Fuck 'em - they are already dead in their minds and 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 because they gave it no stone.

What’s the point in discussing it? These people can never change their perspectives. No, rhetoric is their game and 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 because 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 because 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 our souls.

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 shrivelled 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.
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25 November 2011

A Criminal Mind

CrownA thousand Kafkas, arithmetically sound; file the dreams scouted awkwardly in your sleep. 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 as congealed blood into the night. No-one can reach you now; you’re out of kilter. This place is the last elaborate station 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 re-enact before ever you see another dawn.
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16 November 2011

Flight

Flight
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

Joyride

NightTrafficTimeLapse01InlinePreviewImage

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.

Plague

Rats
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. 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 the net 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; 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 it, 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.


10 November 2011

Head Held High

Head-Spiro
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 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 nine to fives 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.



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8 November 2011

Feast of Souls

Grave

 

The dogs will have their day

When the beast calls us home

We will devour the world

The last great feast of souls

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We shall call on a saviour

But no saviour will come

We shall eat our children

In the last great feast of souls

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There will be no burial rites

No funerary procession

No-one there to mourn us

At the last great feast of souls

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7 November 2011

Immortal

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 isolation is a stamped gun. Later sophisticates will stand in line for slow suicide and suspended animation. Better to live one day as an immortal than to die a little with each dawn in the frustration of conformity.


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5 November 2011

Timothy Leary

Leary_01


I knocked on the doors of perception,

And I got a frosty reception,

I explained about Timothy Leary,

And his tune in - drop out theory,

He said I would find the key,

In magic mushrooms and LSD,

And the drugs that I ingest,

Would help me in my quest,

But what I could not see,

Is drugs won’t set you free,

So the answer to my query

Was never Timothy Leary.

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4 November 2011

Psycho Reflex

psycho_by_lintza-d31jnic
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.
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3 November 2011

Anus Mundi

Anus-Monkey

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.

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31 October 2011

Cabbage White

Cabbage-White

nothing corrupts a boy
like his father’s love
a few blows here ‘n’ there
some bruises,a little blood
and a thousand humiliations
cause you're a useless cunt
you're shit, you're a prick
an’ you’re  fuckin’ thick
words that trampled my heart
like his big work boots
his filthy, ugly boots
I looked for a place in the shade
closer to the cool earth
while fire poured from the sky
but it wasn’t as hot as his words
there was butterfly illuminated
in a corridor of light
it was nothing very special
an ordinary Cabbage White
but it was beautiful to me
I’d have joined him in his flight
I’d have gladly run away
but that could never be
and so I had to stay
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29 October 2011

Popsicle

popsicle

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.

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25 October 2011

Experience

03BEY_Experience

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

Truth

03BEY_Truth

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.

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23 October 2011

Decisions

03BEY_Angle_Blk

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 vacillations; 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.
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21 October 2011

Love is the law

LurvGun
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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17 October 2011

Ravens

Raven
Beautiful ravens, eyes beady black as your glossy wings can will worlds into being and collapse the infinite into sentences. You know the secrets of the songs and have revelled 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 shit 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 a wicked sin, but you should never bend before the hollow men. 

You came from the land of spirits to capture both the sun and moon. Your stones created the world before man was 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 beaks nor wings.
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15 October 2011

Fences

Fence-_Blk
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.
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13 October 2011

Fool’s Gold

gold-bar_blk
Everything that glitters is not gold
Things are seldom what they seem
When the sands of time run out
It 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
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4 October 2011

Now I know better

Blind
I used to think that people are basically good and that conflict arose from misunderstanding. Now I know better. People are basically stupid, selfish and cruel. We spend more on weapons than we do on medicine or food – what does that tell you about the human race? People only care about what’s in it for themselves and are only ever altruistic where it concerns self image, they want people to think well of them – no matter what their motivations and goals are.

I used to think that good would always prevail, but I’ve been disabused of that childish viewpoint. Now I know that stupidity always prevails and that all you can count on in this world is crudity of thought and deed. You see we are just monkeys after all. Our basic outlook is tribal and our prime motivator is fear. It’s hard to think straight when your default position is fear – all you can do is react – fight or flight are the orders of the day. Shave a monkey and you have a man, but being human takes effort – constant effort. Most never make that distinction and so they are immersed in the tribal.

“It’s them or us” they say, “If you are not with us, you are against us.” Well they look just like us to me. We all look the same – stupid and ugly. I used to think that the good outweighs the bad. I still do. A little good can undo a whole lot of bad, but we live in a world where they tell you that to kill can be bad, or good, depending on the cause. So now I know good can be bad and bad can be good – depending on who you are. If that sounds crazy to you – you’re right, it is. I used to think people were basically sane and that enlightened self interest would save us from insanity. I know better than that now; the greatest insanity was to believe we were ever sane.
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Photograph ‘Shout16’ by Misha Cordon
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14 September 2011

On My List

















I made a list
Of folk I will not miss
You are at the top
I’d place the pennies on your eyes
I’d dance on your grave
If I only gave a shit
I’ll remember you
As someone, I can’t recollect
So don’t come round here
I don’t do forgive and forget
I won’t turn another cheek
Because I do unto others
Before they do unto me
Jesus wants me for a smoke screen
But I won’t fall for that
If the meek inherit the earth
It’ll be because it’s fucked
Just like you are
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13 September 2011

Like A Dagger

Dagger
I abandoned rhyme
As I abandoned reason
I like my words jagged
As crocodile teeth
Dirty as a whore’s tongue
And rabid as the breath
Of infected dogs
Rutting in the street
I don’t require prettifying
Or disinfecting
Keep those nice words
For old ladies
To sprinkle on their cakes
I want you to feel me
In you
I have no time
For ambiguity
Or tickling ears
I want to ram my words
Right down your throat
One day I’ll find the beat
That forces the rhythm
Of my concoction
Into your heart
Like a fucking dagger
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2 September 2011

Can you see me now?

angry-eyes
I could feel your eyes on me
Your cold, dead eyes on me
I could feel the spittle
From between
Your clenched teeth
Spray against my cheek
I could hear your words of hate
Feel your fists slam into me
All I want to know is
Can you see me now?
Can you see me?
Set the stars alight?
I’m beyond your reach
But I always was
Can you see me now?
Did you ever see me?
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23 August 2011

Souls

moon_sct_big
For tender souls
Who wield the knife
And know no right or wrong
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For lonely souls
Who shun the light
The night seems very long
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For twisted souls
Who embrace conceit
The lure of pride is strong
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For tortured souls
Who are sorrowful
And sing a sadder song
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For all the souls
Who long for home
But never quite belong
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4 August 2011

29 July 2011

Lamentations

moon_sct_big
Her pale orb silent shines
Painting monochromatic still
Over those at rest
Both the living 
And the dead
A million lamentations wept
Silver tears for lovers lost
And children taken
In the soft and bitter night
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25 July 2011

Yo Yo Adjustment

yoyo-(1)

I don’t know which way is up

And which way is right

Some police officers

From the mathematics division

Was asking me the square

Of the hippopotenuse

But I kept shtum –

I ain’t as dumb as I look

And I don’t look as dumb as I seem

I just stared at their Velcro macramé feet

And acted all sweet and innocent

Like a Spanish hyena in heat

“I had shoes like em once,” I said,

“but they wouldn’t hang straight.”

They beat me relentlessly

They beat me thoroughly

When they eventually left

I knew I’d been beaten

Cops don’t hand out beatings

Like that no more, no pride

No professional pride in their work

I’m not complaining see

And I ain’t going all nostalgic

It’s just I hate to see declining standards

I lost my sense of up and down

So I went to have my yo – yo adjusted

The man said we don’t do that no more

People use satellite navigators

“I can’t afford no scatellite,” I said

“If everybody gets a scatellite -

They will blot out the sun!”

But we’ll know where it is,

He said, we’ll track it on satellites.

I got a new string for my yo – yo

But he said I’d have to wind it myself

They had declining standards to maintain

I no longer know which way is up

And which way is right

My yo – yo pulls to the left

Or maybe it’s me -

Standing a little to the right

.

21 July 2011

Burglar

window

 

The morning sun creeps

Through your window

Like a friendly burglar

.

19 July 2011

Thief

Mirror

In the mirror

A familiar face

It was stolen

.

Monkey Business

Typing_monkey

Give 1000 monkeys typewriters and what do you get? You get nothing. Everyone knows that monkeys have no interest in literature, preferring as they do a strong oral tradition of story telling. Some have asserted that the complete works of William Shakespeare were written by monkeys with typewriters. That’s just silly, everyone knows that there were no monkeys in those days.

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18 July 2011

Mr Soft

House-on-the-Hill

I recently discovered that the hill outside my house had a sufficient incline to propel me to quite some speed, enough momentum in fact to crush small children. This is the only pleasure left to me in my old age, confined as I am to the wheelchair. There’s always some nice police officer who will help a distraught old man home, but not before I have collected my victims tears in a phial which I can drink later at my leisure, mmm - delicious.

.

.

16 July 2011

Seven Wonders

sphinx
The Seven Wonders
Walked in the park
No-one saw them
It was dark
.

Puppets

natchpuppet

I'll poke you,

You poke me,

I know it's pointless,

But it's free,

I'll tag you,

In my pics too,

I've got nothing,

Else to do,

I know it's pointless,

But you see,

I want you all,

To look at me,

It’s a bit of fun,

You must agree,

It might seem pointless,

But it’s free.

(A Facebook Serenade)

.

Over my radio

Radio

Velvet doves

Coo silence

Over my radio

.

14 July 2011

Charles Bukowski Is Dead

bukowski1

The fossilized remains of Bukowski

Washed up on the Santa Monica shore

They held a procession for them

And in the farmers market

His remains were divided

Among the flute players and lovers

Who blew their hollow horns

With soft mewling sounds

Whilst wiping honest sweat

From tear stained eyes

In the baking furnace

Of contradictions, no contradictions

Of passions spent, and passions lent

Smothering their innocent pretence

With fearsome glamorous intentions

Each helping themselves to his pieces

And handling them like hot rocks

Popped them into their charnel mouths

So to speak the tongues of angels

But nothing of sense came out;

“This is a nice vintage Bukowski

With a good fruity bouquet

And pleasant lingering aftertaste

Of plum and cherryade liqueur”

But the pieces soon turned to ashes

In their dried and blackened mouths

And the bitter taste of idiocy

Left no ironic stone unturned

There was no savor in this dish

For you see, Charles Bukowski is dead

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11 July 2011

10 July 2011

The Folly Of Wisdom

wisdom

 

The glamour of corruption,

The conceit of men,

The folly of wisdom.

.

.

9 July 2011

The Dark

The Dark

Afraid of the winter dark

The ghost in the window

Was your own reflection

.

7 July 2011

The Dragonfly Hunter




How far to-day in chase, I wonder,
Has gone my hunter of the dragon-fly?

A reinterpretation of a Haiku by Chiyojo (1703-1775)
.

3 July 2011

Storm in a Tea Cup

storm-in-a-teacup
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
.
I SLAY THE BUDDHA
I SLAY THE BUDDHA
I SLAY THE BUDDHA
.
JUST A LITTLE DROP
IN A CUP OF TEA
CREATES A BUDDHA
IS IT YOU - OR ME
.
I REMEMBER YOUR HAND
SHAKING
THE HAND OF FRIENDSHIP
TREMBLED
.
JUST A LITTLE DROP
IN A CUP OF TEA
REVEALS THE BUDDHA
NONE CAN SEE
.
I REMEMBER YOUR SMILE
FRAGILE
YOUR JUDAS LIPS WERE
KISSED
.
JUST A LITTLE DROP
IN A CUP OF TEA
SLAYS THE BUDDHA
IN YOU AND ME
.
I REMEMBER YOUR LIES
SUBTLE
THE SLIGHT OF HAND
CONCEALED
.
JUST A LITTLE DROP
IN A CUP OF TEA
BETRAYS THE BUDDHA
IN YOU AND ME
.
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
.
YOU SLAYED THE BUDDHA
YOU SLAYED THE BUDDHA
YOU SLAYED THE BUDDHA
.

29 June 2011

Mr Natural

silver-frame

Fuck you, fuck you and fuck you too! I write in the working class idiom blunt as a broken nose – plain as the blood on your flat fucking face. Eat my words suckers – I can deliver ‘em at light speed – hard enough to penetrate that thick skull of yours and jangle your cerebellum in the resonant frequency of your unconscious mind. It’s easier for me that way – ‘cause let's face it – your conscious mind is a shanty built on a landfill site. That psyche of yours wasn’t just constructed from second hand ideas, but from the shit that other people threw away. One decent rain will wash you away to the sewer where your dreams reside in the fecund detritus of a billion assholes. Man if I were to tap you in your waking gonads your tears would wash you way into the forevermore.

If I could draw a picture for you, so that you could see the difference between you and me, I would ram it down your idiot throat just to shut your ugly maw. I swear by all that’s natural that we’re a different species you and I. You’re learning how to steal, I’m learning how to give. You’re learning how to die, I’m learning how to live. 

Rhythm! I’ve taken every fraction and reduced the whole question to rhetoric and then into science. Testing every imaginable hypothesis and adhering religiously to the strictures of the rhythm method. I have established that my space cadet is from Venus and your monkey man is from Mars. You walk like a honky mother fucker and dance like a cissy bitch – you got no rhythm – you’re all angles and corners - ‘cause baby you are square. 
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