31 July 2011



Time demands his coin

He takes our youth

And all we possess

And rewards us with dust

A dark silent grave

And eternal oblivion


Relentless as the waves

Crashing against the shore

The seconds of our lives

Hasten towards extinction


Time sits patiently

On your shoulder

Counting the pages

Of your life

Until one day he closes

The book for forever

30 July 2011

Comes The Night


Here comes the night

So long expected

The shadows lengthen

As the day decays

Wrap me up

In coal black mantle

Hide me from all sight

Where I await

Beyond all dreaming

With memories

That dare not slumber

Until at last the dawn



29 July 2011


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

28 July 2011

Leaving This Town


I’m leaving the sleazy grip

Of this dirty one whore town

Before they hang me

Or someone guns me down

They say the grass is greener

Up on the higher ground

Anywhere is better than here

So I won’t hang around

I’m quitting this dirty old town

Before they find me drowned

I’m leaving in the morning

This boy is freedom bound

When sunrise comes tomorrow

I won’t be around



27 July 2011



I’m high as a kite





As is the order

Of my days



I’m oozing light





As is the chemistry

Of my head



I’m crashing fast





As is the way

My spirit



I’m falling





As is the power

Of too many



26 July 2011

Lord of the Flies


Nothing quenches my fire

Nothing slakes my thirst

Nothing feeds my hunger

Or fills this cavernous hole in me

I tried, booze, drugs and women

I found the road of excess

Leads to Pentonville Prison

Still that gaping maw yawned

Deep in the core of me

I could never be satisfied

If I had the whole world

And everything in it

I’d swallow it down in a gulp

And ask for another

I made my bed here

And I’m going to lie in it

That’s all you’ll get from me


Each day is an eternity

Stuck on a pin – like

Some junkie retard moth

Reaching for the flame

Of oblivion

I will never sleep

There’s no peace for the wicked

I have itches to scratch

That cannot be measured

By the instruments provided


The Cult of Words

In the beginning there were no words, without people there are no words. You must not sacrifice to the cult of words. Words are parasites; they have no life or power of their own. Words are totally impotent if they don’t use your blood, incarnate in your flesh; engrave a picture in your skull, force action, rip your guts till emotion bleeds.
Words are just dead, they exploit to produce, like impersonators, they are make believe, they are crooks. They are tools by which you turn on, or off, a projector. Words are carriers of germs; ships of spirits, mere instruments of silence without your volition, they are servants, slaves of a good master. Words are not magical – they are apparatus, agents of thought.
Treat words as your warriors, through words you command. They must be sharp and solid. The mellow watered mumbling of poets is merely noise lost in space. Words must be harder than your deadly look. Leave no space for misconception. You reign through words.
Your words are weapons. You can slaughter and burn down villages with words, or your words can build new cities of awesome and terrible beauty. Using words you can bring light to the blind and illuminate the dark of ignorance with knowledge. But words are not knowledge; they are only Pandora’s boxes containing the thought that moves your hand. Words will never fill your stomach, or stop a bullet, they might start a revolution, but people must fight it.
Words are bricks for building or throwing, words are incendiary and soothing, obscuring and revealing. Words are the kilns we bake stories in – words combine and disseminate to weave narrative and plot in the tales of antiquity. They are the little soldiers in our armies of reason. They are tiny beasts of burden; the principle carriers of meaning in vast caravans of knowledge that trace trails across occident and orient in universal trade.
Words are never sacred, they have no intrinsic value, until we invest them with meaning. Words are conveyers of meaning, but the meaning is in us – words are signs and we are signifiers. Words are hollow vessels – we fill them with meaning. This is why sticks and stones might break your bones but words should never harm you. In the end whether a whisper or a scream the word belongs to you, you do not belong to the word.

25 July 2011

Yo Yo Adjustment


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


24 July 2011

Boys From Monkitown


Monkitown boys think they are tough

They have the tribal tattoos to prove it

They’re decked out in wife-beaters

Nylon monkey wrappers

Looking gangsta good to go

Hooded street corner athletes

Training for the monkey Olympics

Smash n grab, stomp n stab n run


Monkitown boys walk in insolent slouches

Making hip hop tracks with their B A treads

They lack the grace of stray dogs

The scoffs smeared across their faces

Are ritual masks of the ‘don’t fuck with me’

Kabuki – rapper theatre of hate


They are articulate the language of scorn

The feral grunts and whines of hyenas

And in semaphore signals gesticulate

“I’m a badass motherfucker”

Monkiboys don’t own their words

They borrow them from the pack

To regurgitate later for their young


By eighteen they are absent fathers

Who look after their people

By picking their pockets

And bleeding them dry

They dream of the big score

Not so they can escape

But so they can big it up

From their Beamer

As they drive by



Monkiboys fill premature graves

Their lives are cheap as chips

And their prospects marginal

There is only one certain escape

From the drudgery of Monkitown

That’s in a box


21 July 2011




The morning sun creeps

Through your window

Like a friendly burglar




I was such a lonely child, even my enemies were imaginary. Every day I’d go to feed the ducks in the park. Only, there ain’t no Ducks in the park. There ain’t no park. I’d feed Crows instead and even they would mock me, for a little while. Fast acting - strychnine bread.


20 July 2011

Empire of the Eternal Sun


I slept underneath my cloak of dreams
Where snakes and leopards shed their skins
And emerged as children playing
In the ziggurat gardens green
Of the empire of the eternal sun
Chasing flutterbyes and moondogs
And pinning donkeys on their tails
They shone like newborn stars
In the planetarium of my mind
They spoke in secret ciphers
Sang in silver tones celestial
Of mushroom rings and secret things
That people know, but do not show
My dreams are still tangled in my hair
I'm trying to thread them into a necklace
For my lover to wear round her neck
As fragile as a spiders web
As sparkling as children’s laughter

Elevator Shoes


My hypomanic elevator shoes have lifted me high enough to stare into Jehovah’s own baby blues. I’ve seen the arc of this world and the cusp of creation and used my slide rule to calculate the circumference of eternity. I been sitting pretty with the nitty gritty and shoveled my molehills into Himalayan heights that would steal your breath away – if you could only wrap your head around the world long enough to get where I’m coming from – I’m coming from a long way off the charts where the only living creatures are myth and logos. I’ve ridden unicorns and smoked keef with nicotine stained hydras in the forests of imagination. I’ve danced in latin rhythms the oceans deep with fearsome conga eels who loved a party dress to fit tight and slinky as their partners. I have surfed the froth blown by Brahma’s breath and crashed upon the shores of entanglement with a thousand lewd and cumly strangers who wanted to bake my babies. I always come back to one thing – people. Our lives are bound up in the flotsam of acquaintance and our oceanic blue is populated by creatures just like ourselves. Some voyage across the high seas skimming the surface as the lone Albatross on sojourns of quiet solitude searching for their soul mate. Many more shoal in vast formations of co-ordinated cultures of colour and brilliance – never knowing who leads, but playing follow the leader nonetheless. No matter where I have explored on this fantastic journey of a life there have been people. For us life is about people. I believe that our lives are defined, not so much by what we do, but who we do it with. I believe that if there is a meaning to existence it is in the friendships we make and the love we share. Put on your elevator shoes and see if I’m not right.


Plasticine Lions


Cellophane zebras

hunt plasticine lions

in pop up book jungles


19 July 2011



In the mirror

A familiar face

It was stolen




I don’t suffer fools

I don’t have the time

To work out what idiots

Have on their mind

I just don’t like the stupid

You might think me unkind

But they are the most vicious

I think that you’ll find

The trouble with the stupid

Is that they are blind

They think they are brilliant

In that tiny wee mind

This is why they get nasty

When they’re undermined

So you might tolerate them

But I’m disinclined

‘Ice Cream Kid’ by Alton Kelley and Stanley Mouse.


Monkey Business


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.




an act of love is like giving birth

to your lover through the exchange of flesh

hearts pump thunder in the abandon of bliss

blood courses through the temple of life

it ain’t love if it is not an act of innovation

an act of creation - procreation

the greatest beauty comes

from the greatest gory spectacle

we are born baptized in blood, yes

we are born of pain and baptised in blood

ripping our way out through a human uterus

only women bleed in the sacrament of life

no one ever entered this world alone

we are organic, fleshy beings –

not angels born of vapours,

but creatures born of bloody eggs

fertilized deep in the womb


18 July 2011

Mr Soft


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.





Thoughtful zebras

Sometimes die

Of self reflection


17 July 2011

Neruda’s Ghost


A million necromantic poets gather

On Santiago’s solemn midnight streets

Over unquiet stones, under errant skies

Down Sta Rosa to the Biblioteca National

They are singing a song – holding a discourse

With Pablo Neruda’s Ghost – holy, holy, holio

The form of love sculpted in flesh imperfect

In the cancerous crevice of his thighs

A monumental erection to freedom’s

Demands for sacrificial blood

What did you do for her lately?

Poets of this unnatural world unite -

To worship Neruda’s desiccated remains

To sing woefully of the torch unseen

That lights the path for his memory

That you might feast upon his bones

And compose conversation pieces

For dinner parties gleaming incestuously

Over tapas and luke warm Chardonnay

With gravitas and earnest funereal meaning

What is the glowing origin of the rose?


16 July 2011

Paper Tigers


Tigers? – I grab ‘em by their tails

I fasten them with six inch nails

It’s an old technique that never fails

Because only the real ever prevails


Judge the material by the feel

That’s how you can tell the real

From the bargain basement deal

Squeeze their toes until they squeal


Tug the seems until they tear apart

You can tell if it’s a copy, or if its art

If it’s got soul – if it’s got heart

Or if it’s merely slick and smart


If they did it just because

They relish the sound of applause

The work will contain fatal flaws

And paper Tigers have no claws


Seven Wonders


The Seven Wonders

Walked in the park

But no-one listens




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


Velvet doves

Coo silence

Over my radio


14 July 2011

Charles Bukowski Is Dead


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



I feel them still
Pressing cherries
Her lips on mine

12 July 2011

Gently Turn The Tides



They say that life ebbs and returns – that those you know, you have known before. That could be true. Is that why you know her scent? - Is that where you heard her song before? Are you turning, or returning?

We weave with words strung on a gossamer thread and speckled with candy dew drops that sparkle like opaque diamonds in the morning sun and cascade like bluebirds taking flight into the soft ruby pulp at the heart of the Sun’s beating. Words that glisten golden, like sunflowers embroidered into God’s shirt.

How beautifully and delicately we paint our quietly folding dreams – the eye averted from desperate acknowledgement – the surrender to malaise. Some truths are too painful to even feel. We tread the tepid water shivering in silent denial that we are slowly drowning. We cling to dreams barely remembered, unable to return, but afraid to advance. Gladly we pay the sharpest coin and pay it day by day. No more than the lingering odour - the barest trace in the ocean indifferent and call it love.




It’s not the things I did

That shame me most

But the things I did not


11 July 2011

The Wolf Moon

The Wolf Moon,
Casts silver daggers,
That pierce the night.

Girls from Monkitown


Girls from Monkitown

Have chromium teeth

And window wipers

For going down in cars

Spitwads and balls of wax

For thinking with

Shopping carts loads

Of well sustained brats

I never said they

Were bad mothers


Girls from Monkitown

Are always up for it

Their feral breath

Smells of white lightning

And bubble gum

At baby sitter parties

Where jungles juice

And monkeys dance

The hey Macarena

In drunken sequence


Girls from Monkitown

Have got brass lungs

For shouting the odds

And holding their breath

Until the cops arrive

In the nick of time

Arresting developments

Hammering the doors

Languished lovers rage

All our yesterdays


Girls from Monkitown

Have a sense of irony

They’ve seen time and tide

Drown men and dreams

And the empty promises

Of horny young jackals

Jack the dads in casuals

Horizons are near here

Promises don’t get far

Not in a vacuum



10 July 2011

Jesse James

She’s packing her bags and this time she means it. She throws clothes into her case as if she’ll make more fit with force. She’s angry, but it’s like a protection mechanism with her, indignation and blame shield her from the painful realisation of betrayal, but I don’t care. I’m just standing thinking what a sexy bitch she is when she’s mad. I want to ask her to stay, I never asked for anything before and I aint gonna start with a flat refusal. I’m taking this in while thinking this will be the last time I ever see her and that makes me sorry. 

“I’m not the little girl I was when we met you know. I don’t need this shit and I’m not going to live this way. I love you, but not as much as I hate you right now.”

These words coiled in my gut like a fecal slimy snake infection - chain linked, half remembered nightmares of blury psuedo relationships with poisoned peoples and their noxious breaths - my averted eyes and awkward instance - how did I get there and what was I looking for? Did I trawl the bars searching for nightmare dogs and bitches? Did I give off some retched pheromone that brought the carrion birds to roost in my bed - why would I beg 'em to stay when they made my stomach wretch - when they sickened me to the core, to the marrow of my soul - why did I like that? Why did I want that? Love me (I hate you) I love you (I hate me). 

Her words dredge up feelings that stick like nicotine stains in my memory. I've been knocked about so much I thought I was being tempered, but I was only being tampered. Still, all them sticks and stones gave me a teflon coat and I need it with all the shit that gets thrown my way, but do I care? Hell no, I'd rather live and die for one day as Jesse James than live safely for a hundred years as Robert Ford.

google facebook blog sex sexy lesbian cock dog android app apps book american idol cnn dvd ebooks firefox ipad japan kids kindle harry potter linkedin music microsoft pussy men mod movies obama

Terminal Velocity



The raindrops crash into the sidewalk, splish splash. They have no choice, they have the brakes on, but they have reached terminal velocity. That’s the fastest you get going down, there’s no velocity after that, its terminal. When you’re falling that fast – no brakes will stop you – you can’t accelerate no more, but you ain’t slowing down neither, so you may as well just scream. Terminal velocity is something you only think about when where you’re going starts to seem so much closer that where you been. Gravity is the sucker dragging you down and you can’t adjust gravity – it’s a question of mass and you never been to mass. You may be thinking of praying, but you’d be best advised to concentrate of growing wings. If you had wings you’d be a bird, not a raindrop, and terminal velocity would be something you fooled around with. How you wish you were a bird right now.

Some of the raindrops say that when you fall it’s just another part of your journey to the sea, but you could do without mingling with your ancestors just yet. You’d like to escape, but how? Escape velocity s the speed at which your kinetic and gravitational potential is zero. That’s the speed you need to break free from a gravity, but that’s fast, very fast. You would have to be a rocket propelled raindrop to do that, because you see escape velocity is the initial speed required to go from a given point in a gravitational field to infinity with a residual velocity of zero. From zero to infinity at a speed of 11.2 km per second – you’d be the fastest raindrop ever – you see it now! – You don’t have to crash - if you were to fly westward you could use the earth’s rotation to... splash!




The Folly Of Wisdom



The glamour of corruption,

The conceit of men,

The folly of wisdom.



The Great Dictator


I thought he was magnificent

Our leader, hero of the revolution

He freed us from repression

Saw off hostile foreigners

Who would turn us into slaves

He built schools and hospitals

And made us a modern state

Then he arrested my brother

For talking too much

Then he arrested my sister

For kissing a girl

Then he arrested my father

For being a bad parent

And he arrested my mother

For crying too loud

He’ll arrest me next

There’s no-one else left


9 July 2011

The Dark

The Dark

Afraid of the winter dark

The ghost in the window

Was your own reflection


8 July 2011

Mojo Bag


I got a little bagful

Of John Le Conqueror root

With a little wolf hair

And some lucky hands

The tip of a raven’s feather

A piece of rabbit foot

Candy I took from strangers

Some Californian sunshine

And a sprinkling of weed

A little phial of moonlight

And a broken compass

A list of lips I kissed

And the promises I broke

I carry a little lodestone

And half a silver dollar

My baby got the other half

In her own mojo bag


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)

6 July 2011


The hollow static throb of empty streets
Eats into my head relentless
With the breath squeezed from my lungs
The two connect with the refinery thrum
And the distant report of a pounding pile driver
That echoes into the hiss of car loads of strangers
On unseen highways, careening into darkness
Cold sodium headlamps bleaching their passage
To various nowheres

I fear sleep
I fear I shall not dream

Buried alive

My shrunken eyeballs are dry gecko tongues
In gritty, stinging orbits with weighted blinkers
That Project heavy mosaic patterns in red
And when they draw the shades
I push them open again in alarm
My head is thick and heavy
Filled with pools of black mercury
That threaten the drag me under
To the nod, nod… bang!
Alert – snap to it!

What was that?
The light within floods my night
I sit in bed composing broken words

Written in silent prayer

Smoking Winston’s cigarettes
I shall not forsake me now
No sandman will sneak up on this
Midnight cowboy
Why resist?
            I Cannot fight inevitables

Fingers shrall, fingers swalled
Everything treacle
Hedd thick
       This ship is slinking
Pooling me into puddles
Of muddy consciousness
Black liquid patches of uncounted oblivions


               for me…
.bi-sexual android children weiner dvd facebook google

4 July 2011

Word Pimps


Your coffee is getting old…

Why don’t you drink it up while you carefully weigh your words and strip them of feeling before you press them into your album with them opposable thumbs of yours? I’m crashing outta here, the night is getting young and I’ve got fires to start.

Your words are tired and cold…

You suck the life outta them before committing them to the dread asylums of pastures greener where they are measured for straight jackets and confined to padded cells where they’ll never be heard from again. Me – I’m going to Union Square to scream a lung out.

This place is a cage…

CafĂ© society is an aviary where the featherless and loveless perch on the brink of boredom surveying an endless procession of days without names. They say repetition is reassuring, but I don’t like to take the same trip twice – that’s why I never read your stuff.

I’m flying this coop…

Fare-thee-well my fair weather pals, you no longer rock my boat and though it’s been swell I really think it’s time to split before I come to blows. Remember that hippy who told us he’d rather die than fight, well he did, he’s dead.

I’m starting fires…

In this life I’ve been spiked, stabbed, shot and stamped on so often it don’t hurt no more. I swallowed more poison and stopped more bullets than Rasputin - I lived to tell the tale and do I have tales to tell, but I didn’t learn them in here. I’m gonna torch this jail before I leave, but you can stay, that’s OK.




3 July 2011

Storm in a Tea Cup


2 July 2011


   [ih-mawr-uhclip_image002l, ih-mor-]
violating moral  principles; not conforming to the patterns of conduct usually accepted or established as consistent with principles of personal and social ethics.
licentious or lascivious.

I’m gonna say right off I don’t know what moral means. I know governments kill and I know priests fuck children and that’s too moral to prosecute them for. I know it’s moral to deny human rights to people you don’t like and medicine to poor people on the principle that they are poor. I know it’s a big deal if I sleep with whoever I like, or if I choose to pollute my own body with drugs.

.I can’t stand moralists; they are curtain twitching note takers with filthy minds. They only feel better about themselves if they can find fault in others. I know, I’ve been called immoral by men who beat their women for talking to me and then send me hate mail because they are gutless chicken shit bullies who are to too cowardly to knock on my door. That’s your typical moralist – too scared to live and too scared to die. I’m immoral because I won’t bow to authority and I’ll knock the head off any man who is a threat to me and mine. I’m immoral because I know that people are gonna do what they want to do – they just need moral excuses and I don’t.

I can’t judge others because I’ve probably done worse. Affairs of the heart are at worst indiscretions, they are never crimes. It’s not good to sit in judgment, it’s a passion killer. There are no binding contracts between people, but there is love. I have no papers on anyone and no-one has any papers on me. Is it so wrong to prize freedom above security and obligation? I believe in free love, I expect no payment, or conditions - some moralist will find something dirty in that. I was taught morals by a man who beat me – I figure I can live without them ‘cause my body knows what’s right and wrong and I need no charts to tell me who and where I am.
Tell me if I’m wrong, but aren’t morals always evoked by people who are about to screw you? Aren’t morals just a way of getting what you want without guilt? Well I say if it feels good do it and if it feels bad don’t, it can be that simple and if that’s immoral – so what? Morality is just another way of saying ‘obey’ and I never cared for that. I just do what comes natural and never color it wrong or right, that’s the way I like it and that’s the way it is – I feel no guilt, how about you?