31 March 2012

All the monsters came out tonight

Clock_02

All I need is time. I want to live forever. There is so much to do and I just need the time to do it, now that I finally know what needs to be done. I need to cleanse the monkey in my soul. I’ll never go further than too far. She said 100,000 poets would rise up in the land and that art was the only truly noble vocation, but comfortable truths are usually lies. A man, a real man, has more love in him than he has hate. Upright as the corn stalks - home is for heroes and ripe for the threshing. All the monsters came out tonight - elephant men – parasites; ask Google - he knows everything. I didn’t see them, not at first, I didn’t see them, or I would have turned away. My blood blanched like refrigerator juice and drained into my sink. I hate this place and everything in it.

Are our lives carved by giant hands in some great white building thousands of miles away - Or by some omnipotent being in the sky? Perhaps they are shaped by the minutiae of our everyday lives. Perhaps we captain our own destinies and if it all fucks up we only have ourselves to blame. I’m back in the dog house with my mouth full of wasps. My words are poison, my gestures are lost. I have my weapons close at hand and a return ticket in my pocket.

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29 March 2012

Grandad

Grampa's-Van

He had an old Volkswagen van he liked to take apart and put together again. He grew roses of exotic colours – his ambition was to grow a black one. He knew the names of every living thing in his garden. He taught me the names of the birds, the ways of the animals and the secrets of the seasons. He was a patient and loving man who educated me in the ways of the world. He showed me that all men were basically good and no man erred willingly, but were forced to by circumstance. He believed in the Lords love and that we were all his children. I never could believe in God, but I believed in that old man. He taught me an appreciation of nature and he taught me love.

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Dogs & Cats

Grandbag

At the end even death

Will lie in its sleep

Why not give it a glim?

When the best of intentions

Simply peter out

How all our dreams slither away

Sensing waves of terror

At the appointed hour

The fear opens

A whole new can of worms

Bring out your dead

Grandbag’s bedside

I knew he was dying

When he forgot my name

The world is full

Of cats and dogs

Which are you?

Makes no difference

We all die

Life costs more

Than we can pay

One more (or less)

For the bone pile

One more day

Is all I ask

One more day

To bask in the sun

To tie up my affairs

And post them to Fujiyama

The mountain of ghosts

Hangs high on the horizon

Many miles away

Very far to climb

The tombs of our ancestors

Are empty

Except for bones

Fit for dogs to chew

Dog or cat – which are you?

When it comes to you

Will you screech or whine?

I’ll bargain for more time,

But then I’ll make do

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28 March 2012

Happy Head

japanese-art129244111337110
No longer alone in my bed
I awaken each day with a smile
You have me dancing on a string
We have that loving thing
I’m a happy head
All the while
The morning brings
Those beautiful things
Since we were wed
The joy you bring
Makes me sing
For all the while
You make me smile
I’m a happy head
With you in my bed
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Fist

freud.reflection

You always love the one you hurt – it’s a matter of adrenaline, it’s in the blood. Freedom – violence means freedom. Just for that moment you endorse your pain – suffer the little death wrought with nervous fear – violence is fear – violence is no good, but violence works. The shock of the real – the rude awakening - a punch on the nose isn’t so sore – a slap in the face is more shocking than painful. The pride hurts more than the flesh. For the victor justification, for might is right, for the victim humiliation and a stricken ego – wounds that take longer to heal than bruises and cuts. A pair of black eyes is a badge that screams loser, or at worst innocence. Hunters and gatherers survive in the jungle – martyrs and villains – predators and prey. Our city streets are a Serengeti where the strong predate on the weak – where men can be reduced to animals – where the feral in us is let loose.

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Conjoined

570-A-Woodprint2
Conjoined at the hips
Devoured by the lips
We fuck until dawn
So baby come on
Lets let go
Nice and slow
Lets feed the beast
With a loving feast
Baby lets roll
Get out of control
Drive and then thrust
To satiate our lust
You are a woman
And I am a man
Let’s prove our love
The best way we can
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27 March 2012

The Sun Lovers

Sun

Strange, beautiful, fluorescent, children bask in the sun with the heavenly stone weighing on their lids. I was once one of you. In days gone by my youthful friends and I – loaded with beer and weed – would worship the sun as our sister star. We’d frolic in days that went on forever and pledge friendships that would never end. There is a time in every child’s life when they are like a flower in full bloom. Natives of the sun, when summers are eternal – and fun is like worship of the child within. We learned to laugh and love with no inhibitions, no jealous restrictions. We’d talk all night with our hearts in our hands – we’d talk until dawn making impossible plans. I wish I was nineteen and on a heavy stone – I’d dance in the sunshine – I’d love without reservation. I’d make mistakes do doubt, but that’s what life is all about.

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Ape Man

ape_profile

I can’t sleep at night, I’m wound too tight – there’s so much to do and so little time. If I ever I met my maker I’ll ask him why life is so short and fraught with pain. I suspect though, that we’ll never meet; that I don’t need his hand and I don’t need to understand. Freedom to think is something real. Don’t accept substitutes and don’t accept candy from no-one – search for the facts, before you throw them away. The facts never mattered anyway. I don’t believe all that I read. I take it all with a pinch of salt. Words are good, but can mislead. Some stories are just stories, some stories are true and some stories are just lies. Others may signify greater meaning, but I don’t believe a word

We’re a mass of contradictions, generating conflict and confusion over the emotional battlefields that scar the surfaces of our heavens. Emotion is what your body feels about what your head thinks. The thoughts in your head and the feelings in your body, that’s you. Your psyche is an abstraction, a construct of your thoughts. Your heart is what pumps your blood; those feelings in your chest are the result of neuro-chemistry and the stimuli from your brain. Your soul is a metonym for consciousness. Let’s face facts - you are an organism, an animal, but you are, nonetheless, miraculous. You’re the product of millions of years of evolution monkey boy. Evolution is about survival – the conquest of death.

Every successful evolutionary adaption affords greater control over our environment; it’s the process of perfecting living. Ironically death plays a pivotal role in this process; weeding out the weak and allowing the better adapted to reproduce and pass on their useful traits like strength, intelligence and altruism, but the truth is that our lions lay with lambs – so long as their stomachs are full. We are carnivorous by nature and killing is natural to human kind. No matter what you do; it has a hold on you. You are an intelligent animal, but you are an animal. You were not made in God’s image, but in the image of your simian ancestors. Buried beneath your veneer of civilization you are an ape with all the tribal instincts of an ape. Now just how deeply buried you simian instincts are is up to you – are you an instinctive, reactive creature with volatile emotions? Or are you a thinker who weighs the appropriate actions and outcomes before you react? In short – just how evolved are you?

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26 March 2012

The Mothership

Mothership

The Mothership will fly just like it always does – it’ll take us away – far away – to the land of love. We’ll pilot her to into the unseen dimensions between the cardiac attack and heavens gates. We’ll float between the fragile paradox of existence and the immortal shell of death’s frozen acres. This trip is a wonder of incalculable fractions – a division of infinite numbers. We bend science on our golden machine into the unknown and the unknowable. A thousand Einstein’s could not calibrate the trajectory of our momentum. The Mothership will take us where she will; according to the dictates of our hearts. We are headed beyond the infinite, beyond the imaginings of men, into the spaces between the spaces between. We have been without and within – flashing through space and time on our golden machine. The Mothership knows everything, she will take us everywhere we want to go, teach us all we need to know.

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Coffee

coffee_BLK

I like to take my time in the morning. Set myself up for the perfect day. I need to smoke and drink my coffee before I’m ready to face this imperfect world. Cause life is hard, but so am I. I’ll do some living before I snuff it. Nothing and no-one will drag me down – I’ve been there before, but never again. They say I’m a freak – they say I’m a creep. I keep my own council, I’m nothing like them. I know beauty when I see it and I see it most everywhere. I know ugly too and I hear it everywhere. In the mouths of innocents and on the tongues of the not so innocent as they curse and slander the angels who walk among them stepping high with the good vibe - riding tall with the sun in their hair.

I got empathy for those angels who cut it with a smile in this hell hole, but I don’t take sides no more. I’m a one man army – I long ago realized that everybody is pretty much the same – and that ain’t a compliment. When it gets to the nitty gritty we are all dogs and we eat dogs. That’s why I keep myself to my myself. There are plenty who know me by name, but so very few who know who I am. I have a smoke and drink my coffee before I’m ready to face this imperfect world and I’ll kick ass if I have to. Cause life is hard, but so am I.

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25 March 2012

The Sweetest Malady

Sweetest

Mack the pimp seeks extra glory for his killings. His gun posse threads secret dreamers with fantastic chemical goodies jacked up into the veins of unsuspecting whores – bursting blood and junk into a jetstream of horror. Those sick fucks will profit by anything and human flesh is their stock and trade. Social workers in sickly fashion explore the impossibility of purchased love and the perversity of the offer. These plug-in romances die of friction and the ten minute rule marks time to cough up the dough. We all have our price and some are cheaper than others. Rich politicians with bundles stuffed in their asses know that power pays dividends and the lack of it pays taxes.

They say love is the sweetest malady, but life has many twists. It may not last, it may not please. Love is the cheapest calamity paid for by the squeeze - nothing’s as hurtful as a love that’s gone bad. Everyone gets burned sometimes and the scars that burn most painfully are the ones that are faked for a few dollars more. Love for hire is the dirtiest of all and the taste it leaves behind is squalid and bitter.This is all there is, the centre of everything, wrought not by design, but by self induced life. This beautiful agony of immaculate chaos - all of it passes through your dynamic, enthusiastically attached to the core of want. You still want to love it all and you’re prepared to pay the price – if only for a taste of that synthetic thrill that holds you in its thrall.

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Burned

Burned

Everyone gets burned

And write the names they loved

With blackened fingers

Cradle broken dreams

Like the swaddling clothes

Of dead infants

Scars remain

Wounds heal

Those who rise above

May take another chance

Reticence is natural enough

Fear gives us lead feet

Love isn’t for those in two minds

It’s for those who seize it with two hands

Mao Tse Tung

MaoTseTung

Wanna be the chosen one?

Be adored and respected?

Then get yourself a gun

Some say love is the only weapon

That’s just pussy minded bullshit

There would be a lot less trouble

If we all carried guns

I think it’s time for change

I agree with Mao Tse Tung

Change only comes

Through the barrel of a gun

Revolution is not love.

Revolution is the hammer

We use to crush our enemies

Everyone will be involved

First we learn from the masses

And then we teach them

Let a hundred flowers bloom

A hundred schools of thought contend

War in the street and the classroom

Each child is a revolutionary in waiting

With the right weapons

Change is inevitable

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Crocodiles

2898016959_f8f59da0cb

Over in lizard city

The girls sit pretty

They lounge around

Their skins well browned

With carnivorous smiles

They practice womanly wiles

They get stoned in the heat

While they gorge on man meat

Meaner than a sack of rattlesnakes

They play for the highest stakes

Most of them are highly strung

They bask like sharks and eat their young

They like black eyeliner and nickel plate guns

They save their ammo for setting sons

That cherry red lipstick spreads like blood

On every boy and would be stud

They got a billion dollars in nickels and dimes

Saved against the risk of harder times

They’ll take you down to Chinatown –

Show you how to keep a good man down

They’re all simply mad about the boys

And treat them like they were toys

With carrion breath they suck them in

Never to be seen as boys again

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24 March 2012

City Of Gold

castle_edinburgh_scotland_G3919

I want to live in a city where no-one knows my name.   I want a place with a pulse, because I’m awake now and I need some action – don’t try to hold me down cause I’m all fuelled up and ready to go. Don’t look to closely ‘cause I’m liable to hypnotise ya. I got too much momentum to be confined – I rattle the bars of my own cage – they can’t hold me; I’m on a mission, I’m an escapee. You know freedom can be counter intuitive? If you’re gonna do the things you want to – you don’t take control – you learn to let go. Are you only going through the emotions? If you ever feel differently, look me up in my city of gold.

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Charles Atlas

Charles-Atlas-White

Charles Atlas

Had the world upon his shoulders

He had a tiny waist

And muscles like boulders

He had a thirty day plan

To make me a man

It didn’t all work out

But I’m doing what I can

..

Dream Tote

winning_lottery_ticket (1)

Climbing up the stairs I met two people on the dream landing. They reintroduced themselves as Greed and Avarice (we had met before). They were touting lottery tickets for the Dream Tote. “What would you buy with the winnings? A new car? A house? A dream holiday?” I shook my head sagaciously, “That’s not the way it works, all those things are just pipe dreams – they can only slow you down”. They looked at me aghast, “Where do you get such unnatural ideas?” they asked. “I don’t know” I replied, “I just think them and write them down in my note book”. Curiously they enquired, “Where is this notebook?” “Up my ass!” I replied, facetious like. They subjected me to a cavity search. “This is just like immigration!” I complained. “You ain’t going nowhere” they replied.

Half an ounce of finest green, a hookah pipe, a continental road map and a packet of cough drops, but no notebook. “Why do you keep all this stuff up your ass?” They asked. “I didn’t know it was there” I replied. We just stood there staring at each other. “We’ll put it back then” they offered. “I’d rather you didn’t” I said.

In the end I bought a ticket and spent the evening feverishly smoking my hookah pipe and dreaming of my new life in the Seychelles and my luxury yacht full of Miss World contestants. I sat riveted to the television as the winning numbers were read out and my dreams dissolved one by one. Just for a moment though my expectations were high and my possibilities seemed expanded, before I crashed back to earth – just a little sickened by my present circumstances. Maybe the man was right when he said that lotteries were a tax on fools.

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23 March 2012

Return Ticket

Magnadata_group

I’d like a return ticket

To where?

To here of course

Where is here?

I’d pay good money to find out

You came to the wrong place

Where is the right place?

Not here

But that’s where I’m going

You’re out of luck then

I got so stoned on bug juice I up and flew away, but my wings were polyester, cotton mix that did not fare well in rain – So I sheltered in the arms of comely farm girls until the sun came out – when I flitted off to get my nectar fix. I tasted all the flowers – drank my fill from their luscious lips. Until someone punched my ticket and cut short my trip.

That seems like a lifetime ago – longer in dog years, but dogs have no sense of time; which is why they don’t wear watches. I don’t wear a watch either – life seems short enough without measuring it out. That’s the problem with this particular journey – it has a finite length and you can’t buy a return ticket.

You local apothecary carries lotions and tinctures to soothe the passage of your days and obliterate your nights in dime bags and quarter ounces. Your friendly neighbourhood shaman will salve your aches and pains with the universal panacea of godhead and eternal life. Playing with your joystick will eat up the hours between dusk and dawn. We all eat the lotus in some shape or form. However you spend those days and nights there are no refunds; you cannot get them back again.
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22 March 2012

I Must Have You

lovers_embrace_2_by_Suzuko42
Give me comfort
Bring me sustenance
For this is a grey world
And there are hunters
Sharpened for murder
Awaiting a piece of us
I’ll trust you
Just for the hell of it
You’ll trust me
Because I’ve nothing to lose
When we met
I sank to the quick of it
I knew there and then
I must have you
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Image: “Lovers Embrace 2” by Suzuko42
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Static

Static2

Stop talking

Stop it

Shut up

Shut up and listen

There’s static, beautiful static inside. It fills me up. It pours out of me to fill the empty space. The emptiness is sparkling. Everything that ever was is suspended in the instant. The downstairs of infinity stretch out beneath my feet; their winding steps draw me down into the forever and ever.

I’m lucid, but fluid. My insides are outsides and my outsides in. I’m pouring constantly into now and returning now and then. I’m out of my closet and stepping far beyond control. I’m open eyes and ears. I’m losing sense of self. I don’t know what I’m on.

Maybe this time

Maybe this time

Maybe this time

Maybe

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21 March 2012

Mythic

Mythic

Subject to the lesser infinities and circumspect in our aspirations we are limited by our own dreams. The trajectories of our imaginations are hobbled by adherence to vegetable apparatus. In the indifference of our wilderness – in the emptiness of our dreams – we have found a home where all things are simulated – all things are the same.

The modern world demands the absence of difference and against our better judgment we are dragged into the modern kicking and squealing that we like this, but not that. We worship difference while we stab and hack at its roots. We will only be happy when difference is dead and all things being equal – all things are the same. The genius that drives innovation offers us fantastic liberty, but at the cost of discrimination. We hang out like weary spectators to the invention of the modern and the entropic movement of civilization towards the toilet. The modern is the most degrading phase of history – the most eclectic and fictitious simulation of reality. Alienation, conformity and standardization are the hallmarks of the dehumanizing banality of the dog culture that collapses in on its self like a broken deck chair.

Only empty things come from that land to the west. Only archetypes and chimeras cross the ocean in vast projections that simulate the mythic tales of salesmen and snake charmers. They have turned us into voyeurs wanking helplessly into the chalice of dreams. They stole from us the stories from which we built a culture and sold them back to us in cuneiform jackets with advertising slots sewn into their pockets.

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Brompton’s

Bromptons

Squeeze me a Brompton’s cocktail and blow my joint while I eat this bird. I have a hard on for the kind of gasm only a world class hooker, or a hard shot of junk provides. My old man got tarred for drinking this bug juice, but I don’t care about tar – it’s the feathers I object too. I’ll blow my own brains out before I let anyone turn me into a chicken.

Those cold blooded bastards down at the lizard house have it in for dissenters who sup God’s own from the crystal cup. They incarcerate anyone who jacks up or spreads a little green on his lungs. Their war on drugs is a futile exercise in enforced conformity. The pressures of the market lead to standardization and the ubiquity of the mediocrity. Prohibitions cause criminality which keeps the law enforcers in business. Everyone is a would be snitch. Everybody is an enforcer trying to gun us down in a hail of psychic bullets. Pour me another baby; I’ve come over all terminal. I need to cradle my consciousness in velvet gloves if I’m gonna write lullabies on a night like this.

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20 March 2012

Leave Me Be

Anxiety

My spring is way too tight

I’m on the fight or flight

The roaches beneath my skin

Are threatening to do me in

I’ve reached a certain velocity

It’s an animal ferocity

.

I can’t sit still

I think I’m ill

I pace the floor

Make for the door

But out or in

I’m stuck on a pin

I can’t get free

Just let me be

.

I’m rotating left then right

There is no peace in sight

I’m spinning like a top

I don’t think I can stop

I’m struggling for breath

I might catch my death

.

I can’t sit still

I think I’m ill

I pace the floor

Make for the door

But out or in

I’m stuck on a pin

I just can’t get free

So please let me be

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Children of the Sun

NationalGuard

They writhed around in the shit and dust, flowers sprouting from their hair, petals filling their eyes. They were becoming a new species - the children of the sun. It was a time of change.  It was a time of wonders.

It was rutting season for the initiated, all over the city boys clung to girls - biting their necks and humping furiously. They lost all control and took to the air like mayflies blotting out the sun and singing their twisted hosannas to the lord of hosts – the holiest of holios.

Numberfucked, the straights called out the National Guard to shoot these ungrateful weirdlings. The geometry of flight ruled the streets as the bullets flew. The corpses of the flower children were piled on street corners – food for the flies.

The odour of chaos, the stench of danger filled the streets. Police rumours acquired instantly the status of legend. The kids were drug addled criminals intent on overthrowing authority. Those eliminated in the violence reappeared as fictitious examples of murderous intent.

The guardsmen killed in the name freedom – convinced, as were the kids, that right was surely on their side. It never occurred to either that right and wrong were fictions of their own hearts. The killing went on, as it always has, the killers and the bereaved imbued it with a sanctity that was both touching and sickening.

The simulation of freedom had become a dance macabre. The scene entered into folklore as the burning of wooden ships, the slaughter of butterflies. The world soon settled into familiar patterns of banality and indifference. The story took on the dimensions of neither dream nor reality. In the end the whole issue became both invisible and obscene.

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19 March 2012

Alkaloid

Flyagaric

Travel me

Unravel me

Baffle me

Turn me out

Face me east to my western horizon. Scoop me out and lay me down. Feast me on the bitterest poisons. Fix me with a fungal crown. I just crossed the great divide - I am weary from the journey. I am nearly upside down.

Pump it in

Pour it out

Rub it on

Inhale – exhale

Spark it up

Sniff it down

Snuff it out

Skin it back

Tear it down

Break through to some new dimension. Set my course for perverse direction. I am hungry for the knowledge that means so little, but says too much. I’ve been stuck here in the middle, now I’m flying toward the end.

Anoint my head

Manna from heaven

Spike me upward

Drag me down

Ball my lightning

Take me under

Turn me on

Turn me around

Make me a bosom

For my pillow

Innovate

With my confusion

Make me whole

If not holy

Bake me outside

In the sun

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The Wild Eyed Boy

Wild_Eyed

The wild eyed boy

Of yesteryear

Hasn’t gone far

He’s still here

Just waiting

.

All alone

He sings his song

But you’re unable

To sing along

You forgot the words

It’s been too long

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Homunculus

woman-with-homunculus-by-egon-schiele-1910

Gimme a dig of that juice, mix it with my medicine so it bites like a bitch and turns my flesh to stoned. I like my dragons green and full of sap so I dangle by a silver thread vibrating on the frequency of ecstatic union. Spread those creamy thighs baby and let me glimpse heavens gate. We’re gonna fuse into the night and roll along the back roads of eternity. Take me to the moment when the stars within flicker and pour me out like honey and liquid gold. This flesh, yours and mine, is food for the gods. The feast we lay before them is succulent in its orgasmic intention. We are everything and everything is equal in the moment of our coming.

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Image: ‘Woman with Homunculus’ by Egon Schiele

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18 March 2012

My Old Man

Beret
Meat and two veg
On a formica table
Jim Reeves and distant drums
Twenty Kensitas Club
An ashtray full of dog ends
India Pale Ale and glass of rum
Plastic teeth in a grimace
The smell of Brylcream
A splash of Old Spice
And a clout round the lug
Tailored suits immaculate
And cuban heeled boots
Off to see a man about a dog
He was hard as nails
My old man
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17 March 2012

Zip Gun

zip-gun
You blew me away
With homemade bullets
And your zip gun baby
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God’s Own Medicine

GOM

God’s own medicine

Comes in golden ampules

The sacred heart pumps

The full half a grain

In heavens back yard

You’ll play like a child

Float in the air

A lead balloon

Gouch on the couch

A drooling zombie

Feeling slightly woozy

Like you are dying

But dying in comfort

It’s the final mystery

A little death

Does a man good

Just don’t do too much

Or it’ll do you in

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16 March 2012

Immortal for a day

19.-Unknown-Artist---Japanese-Lovers,-19th-Century

Easy the casual encounter

In the blanket of circumstance

Nothing is forbidden or forgiven

The stolen hour

Of fleeting acquaintance

Eyes filled with dust

Blind to all fault or frailty

The ebb and flow of time

Leaves ripples

Like the pattern lovers make

In the moment of discovery

Naked in innocence

Idle in the afternoon sun

Indolent from amorous cause

Destined to live in the memory

As a friend that never faltered

Immortal for a day

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15 March 2012

Vanished

crying-child

You didn’t ask to be born

They blamed you anyway

Yours was a faultless disgrace

And theirs a theft of dignity

Insult though injury

In the economy of pain

Violence is common currency

Little toy soldiers

In a war of recriminations

Minefields of love and hate

Claim limbs and hearts

The only escape, through time

Is not to repeat the cycle

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Harmonize

obey

Don’t run with scissors

Stay out of the long grass

Obey the regulations

Get yourself harmonized

Like a dog with no teeth

A car with no wheels

You’re a blunt knife

You’re no use to no-one

Until you are someone

You were born in a prison

You’ll never taste freedom

Unless you fight for it

Catalyze your revolution

Kill your parents

Smash the system

Sing with your own voice

And just learn to be.

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13 March 2012

Dead Flowers

Dead-Flowers

Dead flowers

Cut for the grave

Haunt your days

And steal your nights

Your ghosts have voices

Wired into your synapses

Agents of a past

That will not let you go

For all that was said

And all that was done

There are no remedies

No songs unsung

To bring you peace

The past is a shadow

A dark cowl across your head

That shades weary eyes

From the promise of tomorrow

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12 March 2012

Liar

liar_02

My world has grown grey

Coloured by my deceits

An all round man

An artisan of lies

Which converge at a point

Beyond all reason

Into arrows and spears

That pierce my flesh

Those self deceptions

That made life bearable

And the little white lies

That greased the wheels

The great black lies

That covered my guilt

Have returned to haunt

My waking hours

And scatter my dreams

Into the unbearable dawn

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11 March 2012

Paint Me Yellow

Street-light

Sodium yellow

The colour of caffeine

Paints the street

And invades my windows

My nights are long

Measured in solitude

The world is sleeping

But there’s no peace

For the wicked

And I am wicked

So turn me over

And paint me yellow

I have hours to wait

Before the dawn

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10 March 2012

Noah

noahs-ark_01

Noah built an ark

He was thinking of the future

I built myself a raft

I was thinking of myself

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Stranger

death-mask
Left to the mercy of the weather god
Drenched in the rhythmic rain
A man – a foreigner perhaps
Dark and curly – straight and bent
I’m lost in the open fields and dales
I carry the casts of my funeral face
And relics of the fallen saints
Always a stranger – stranger than life
I quarry great stones of remembrance
Once I was this – once I was that
Now a stranger in these parts
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9 March 2012

The Electric Messiah

Electric-Messiah

I forged my face in alabaster and sold it to a nun, telling her it was the death mask of St Elsewhere – which ran for six seasons and bored the entire world to tears. Still, she seemed so pleased I sold her Les McKeown’s foreskin, explaining he was the only Jewish Bay City Roller and widely touted to be the messiah.

There have been many messiahs, but none ever touched the majesty or lunacy of The Electric Messiah. The Electric Messiah kicked in the doors of the temple and set fire to the money changers. He did that a lot; he was bi polar you see. On the positive side he was very generous, but on the negative side he was quick to anger. The people had not asked for an Electric Messiah, but you get the messiah you deserve.

In a world of conflict he was the supreme arbiter; smashing the unjust and delivering the pious with a beatific smile. His days in the wilderness had taught him that temptation was a blessing and to succumb was to conquer. His right hand held a flaming sword and his left the book of mercies. He could draw thunder bolts from the heavens and calm the seas with a whisper. His road to Damascus was filled with doubtful blind men – The Electric Messiah offered judgment, but not redemption.

I met him in rehab, which was compulsory for him after the great pharmacology scandal of 76 when he was convicted of turning communion wafers into methamphetamine and baptizing new converts with LSD. The papers compared him with Charles Manson, but Charley was never so gifted as The Electric Messiah. We got on like a ward on fire – he was good at starting fires. He told me of his early life as the son of an electrician from Glasgow and how his great potential as a conductor of electricity was first discovered.

At the age of six he was caught in a massive electrical storm and struck by lightning several times leaving great charred craters behind him. His mother said it was a miracle, his father said it was a question of conductivity. All through his formative years he was known as Lightning Rod, but it was only in his teens while experimenting with magical mushrooms did he realize his manifest destiny as The Electric Messiah.

Things were to go disastrously wrong for The Electric Messiah when his doctors doped him with omnopon, strapped him to a table and crucified him with electrical oscillations. The electroconvulsive therapy was meant to cure him of his addiction enabling delusions. Instead it triggered a massive explosion which destroyed the hospital and sent out an electromagnetic pulse that destroyed London’s communications apparatus causing a major catastrophe.

That was the end of The Electric Messiah, or so they said. However, many have reported seeing him whenever there is a great electrical storm and his words have lived on, though his body is apparently gone. His intolerance and his anger are evoked whenever the powerful seek to justify the use of force. His generosity and kindness are evoked whenever they seek to preach restraint. Yes, The Electric Messiah left his mark on the world – you can’t be a true messiah unless you do.

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8 March 2012

Fire

Fire_01

When the fire went out

We played with the ashes

We painted our faces

We blackened our tongues

And fanned the embers

To start a new one

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6 March 2012

Bus Stop

Bus-Stop

Bright sunny day

With a chill on it

My breath plumes frozen

Graffiti covered Perspex urinal

“Jimbo sucks dick”

“Sandra loves Colin”

“No I don’t”

Empty wine bottles

Ground glass

A cum filled condom

This is the jumping off point

To a network of latrines

And municipal plastic bordellos

My bus could take me anywhere

Or nowhere at all

Depending on the fare

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5 March 2012

Bliss

Escape-Barcode

From the state of ignorance to the land of bliss is a short leap of faith. It’s hamburger heaven for the polyguttonous worshippers of the fat loaded masters of conspicuous consumption. Impurities in our drugs force us to worship mammon in the most obscene and wanton fashion. Life in the Pleasure Dome has become Dante’s holiday camp. Everything once precious is tainted by greed and fractured by incessant desire. The drive to satiate our hunger makes cannibals of us all. We are cursed by our own wealth – we sold out for buying power.

All across the world they sell prepackaged death – in cigarettes and liquor, carbon monoxide, plutonium, drugs and in bullets and bombs - A million deadly devices to murder our children with. We are easy prey to their poison. They laced the fabric of consumption with copious quantities of hydrocyanic death. We sold our souls the day we let greed into our hearts. We sold ourselves short when we decided he were just little people. The canker eats at us like worms inside our heads. Our lilies have festered. Our houses have burned down – The ashes fill our mouths and cover our eyes. We have no peace of mind – no place to turn where comfort might be found. We became worm food. Somebody should plant us in the ground.

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3 March 2012

Abolished

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Nourished in the warm rays of the golden sun

Nurtured in the easy days of quiet rejoicing

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Upright as the corn stalks

Ripe for the threshing

Home for the hero

Of a million tiny escapades

Cushioned in the micro system

You want to change

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Stranded in the warm rays of the sinking sun

Somnambulist of simple days of quiet reflection

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Dig for your meat

Sing for your supper

Surrender the hero

Of a million tiny scrapes

Secluded in the suburbs

It’s time for change

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Abandoned to the withering rays of a burning sun

Abolished to the dark days of quiet despair

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Image ‘Nebuchadnezzar’ by William Blake

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1 March 2012

Balloons

Balloons
Its midnight on the far side of the moon,
Where our dreams float like balloons,
Across a perfect darkscape,
Where wishes shoal like fishes,
And promises take flight,
Like baby elephants,
They won’t be forgotten;
The march of time,
The turning of the tides,
Will not diminish,
The lightness of our touch,
Or the weight of our love.
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On Day One

GOD

Words from the sky god

Float down like golden bricks

To clang heavily in the brain pans

Of the prophets of the ages

With profound resonances

And solemn intonation

There was fire in these words

Their smoke is the kind

That tangles with your mind

He said, “Red”

And there was red

He said “Blue….

And it was too…

He painted the world

In six days

And on the seventh

Cleaned his brushes

In the sink he’d painted

On day one

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