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.

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. 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

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.


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 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.


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.