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


8 October 2011



I got a belly full of snakes that twist and coil in a sickening flux of nostalgia and regret. There is an ocean of surging breakers crashing against my heart like great tsunamis of shit and vomit. Each ebb and flow of the tide brings resurgent flotsam of remorse and shame. Each wave burns acidic into my recoiling psyche. Somehow I surf those oceanic waves, tottering on my board, balanced like a drunk on a tightrope. In my circus the high wire act are suicides and the clowns are psychopathic killers. The sword swallower has cut his throat and bleeds into the sawdust as he gurgles the details of my every disgrace. The snake charmer has seven deadly vipers each named for my sins, seven deadly venoms that course though my body to poison my thoughts and twist my emotions into grotesque and bitter shapes.

Image: The Medusa Rondanini


The Drinker Drunker


The drinker I’m drunk

The thinker I’m thunk

The further away I am from home

The further away from everything

The further away from everyone

The further away from the future

The further away from the past

The further away from Jesus

The further away from me – at last

The universe is suspended in aspic

It wobbles as I walk and I don’t want to walk too far

The jelly legs of freedom have their limitations

The freedom of my confinement is temporary

And illusionary

But I know that by now

The drinker I drunk – the less I feel

But I can still hear them drowning cats crying

Is that some childhood memory calling to me?

Is that something I should remember?

Or something I’m trying to forget?


The drinker I’m drunk

The harder it gets to remember

The drinker I’m drunk

The harder it gets to forget

But I can still hear them drowning cats crying

The drinker I’m drunk


7 October 2011



There are monsters sitting quietly in the dark corners of my memory. They wait patiently for the moment when they can jump out to waylay me. They carry delectable instruments of torture; bespoke designs for yours truly - their significance only I would understand. I shoot my cherished monsters, but they never quite die. Like the Frankenstein’s of the movies they always return for the sequel – and there’s always a sequel. Homunculus animalcules lurk in my cells ready to devour – beasts of deadly burdens lurk in my psyche. I am their keeper, their jailer, their feeder, the breeder, the one who harvests their bitter crops. There’s a discomfort that resides in the angles between the world and I - a crawling chaos that lives under my skin. Some great dark god bellows my name from beyond the stars and I shrink beneath his baleful glare. There is a motherless child within – a homeless urchin lost in a crowd of spectral demons, freaks and villains. He fears the shadows; and that which you most fear you draw to you.

6 October 2011



Golden brown crisp scales flutter down like dying birdies. They land like pancakes on the sodden fungal ground. Miles blows a riff on a muted horn while Coltrane breathes reedy in the obscured haze of afternoon. Solitary homuculiod rain dancers wrestle with winged batbrellas in the glooming. They brave the tumble down in wind snaggers, pressed out onto the streets slick with splish splash by pressing business. It’s time for soup and firesides, drawn curtains and sodium nights. The world seems weary – she is marching half time. Hibernation is on us; the season of sleep stretches out its hand to darken the Earth.


4 October 2011

Where Do Dreams Hide?


Cherry blossom hiccups float heaven bound where caterpillars graduate into butterflies that pollinate magic dingoes outback of the Taco Bell which rings every time an angel forgets his wings and falls to earth soft as a snowflake. In the hollow darkened hush strange spectral hobos panhandle for dreams in the cool electric machinery of night. They sell sea shells in the pink of dawn when our heads are as open as pillar boxes stuffed with letters addressed to nowhere. While the birdies drink in the sky, our fleeting thoughts dance around the impossible like rubber balls and bounce off into the improbable distance. We waken with the silk of spiders in our eyes and half remembered melodies in our ears. Our crystalline fancies melt before our innermost eyes and vaporize before we can recognize their shapes. Another world beckons, other voices call our names, back to a place no-one can ever speak of; at least while they are sane. What is that phantom memory that hangs before us – invisible – intangible in the almost here and now, but in the way back when? Why do birds salute the dawn? Where do dreams hide in the day time?


Picture: The Dream, Henri Rousseau, 1910.


Now I know better


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 – to me. 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.


Photograph ‘Shout16’ by Misha Cordon


2 October 2011

The Sun King


Any shade of day the pumpkin seeded Sun King shines dragon’s breath on the parchment theatre of life and its conflated asymmetry of being. There’s a billion pieces of monkey puzzle melting into the asphalt beneath a giant orange ball of gas. Does gas keep you up at night? – There are salts that deliver great belching reminders of the recent repast. Dandy lions replete in sartorial splendor feast on buttercups and daisy chains on the African plains and sing bawdy limericks – too ribald to quote here. The sun sure is hot, but not as hot as the ladies who parade semi clad up and down yo yo avenues in the hope of catching the eyes of young matadors already blinded from previous adventures in Pamplona – that’s in Spain – on the plain. Bull frogs tell tall tales from little green islands and geckos interrogate flies with inquisitorial intensity – you must listen carefully to questions because they contain answers.

There are war dogs torturing stray cats to ascertain the position of fictitious plots of sand where hobos dream of big rock cocaine mountains. Any tide of night you can hear them howl and screech in a language only lunatics comprehend because only lunatics see the moon queen as their mother. By night or day the hipsters recline in the shade – impartial observers to the insane dance of the sugar plum cough drops that fall from heaven like pennies from leather spittoons. Weathered gauchos play serenades on Chinese mandarins; their fingers sticky and kumquat stained. Roy Rogers is flogging a dead horse; The Lone Ranger is flogging Tonto – ‘it’s for his own good’ he lisps through his forked tongue. People come in different sizes; some are never big enough to admit when they are wrong; others are never brave enough to admit that they are right.

The brave relax and float upstream, they know that you have to be here now – not be there then. You have to learn to be free, it’s never gifted you. Cereal boxes contain trinkets and cereal; nothing is for nothing – everything costs a little more. In the upside down where cats chase dogs and neighbours are loved – there is a fountain that pours out jelly beans to the rotund and cheerful children of all the nations. The snakes there play flutes for hypnotized men who sway to and fro in hashish induced rapture and chocolate soldiers with plastic guns melt slowly under the warm gaze of the Sun King.