Writing Sleepy

Heathy

2012-01-19T10:20:00.000-08:00

Nothing is real.
Tiny infractions, small dogs.

2011-12-24T12:33:00.001-08:00

The Polish waitress wafted over and actually towelled the crotch of my black jeans as I removed a slice of beef tomato from my thigh.

2011-08-15T00:46:00.000-07:00

it was gonna cost £25k
i wanted posters at business-like stops
with boobs and bums
and qr codes everywhere
and he said it's too adventurous
i said you've asked me to deliver
do you want people talking about us

2011-07-14T14:07:00.000-07:00

It is two thousand and twelve in my head
And every year after.
On a separate note, I have no idea how old I am
My old skills lie somewhere at the tide or scum mark

Gannon

2011-06-15T09:30:00.000-07:00

Gannon’s shoulders began his motion, leading his legs and hands, and appeared (his shoulders appeared) splinted with stiff pads across their length. His frame wasn’t large, he stood at 5ft 9”, but the children couldn’t assign Mr Gannon his tastiness, as he was seen only standing, or walking, and never performing another action - some examples: sitting (the splay of his legs may have revealed aggression?), running (a good ‘barometer’ for tastiness; to see how the upper body is pumped, in what coordination) or, obviously, fighting. But Gannon only walked and stood. The children had, to sum-up, no clue with what accuracy and power Gannon could strike a football. This was bound to alienate, and protect him.

Stiff you, Christianity/Humanism

2011-03-20T16:04:00.000-07:00

Mr Nobody
Mr Hume
Mr Rees

Not really any point in writing further, is there?
I agree with them all
Following Mr Rees:

My tooth was broken when I was 10
Marks, Sherrin and O’Brien, wouldn’t return my football
I skied in French Canada
I won awards as the cleverest kid, amongst a bunch of no-hopers
My wit was not valued at college
I could not get a nice girl on her own
I appreciated the roll call of British learning, failing to join it
The gardens of West London became my own
Sobering up, I doubted my stage career
And spent long days working in shops with beautiful women.
I worked in business, meeting my wife-to-be
On April 17 2010

There you go, that’s it
And none of it adds up to anything simple
Or identifiable.

Untitled 1.2wo

2011-03-16T16:25:00.000-07:00

You’re in the mud and you’re fucking playing around in it
You see an old college friend and her chest is bigger
She used to live in a rotunda

Look at these annoying people
Tall whites with Japanese hair
Most people have seven studs in their body

And wear glasses and never ever have a sense of humour

When you see daffodils, in triangles or rows

The daffodils don’t care if you get shot by a gun.
There is no aesthetic
And they arrange themselves, themselves

They are not corollas or rotundas or cupolas, just plain
Trumpet heads, on their chins
Letting their eyes die

The reason daffodils will let you die
Is cos when you were a kid, like a paranoid
You only enjoyed toys in your own home

Untitled 1.1

2011-03-06T14:10:00.000-08:00

A man read a press release
‘Fresh filter coffee, with rewards’

A separate man was delighted

A man with curly unwashed hair said
‘the machine is a Mastrema and it does eight
coffehouse favourites’

Separate people saw the power of the speciality and
The power of the fucking-bastard-cunt-cock fucker

Untitled 1

2011-03-06T14:09:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if there is a community

It’s freezing and daffodils
Stand around in families

I saw a boxer dog in a cardigan
It had a battered face and its tail was docked.

Everything is fucking freezing.

going away to write a novel

2010-06-17T09:07:00.000-07:00

Subjugating Culture

2010-06-14T16:46:00.001-07:00

I like Charlie Parker, because when I found him
To me, his was the music of Ren and Stimpy.
I am fond of Jean Cocteau, because I have not yet read
Him or her.

The best cartoons are soundtracked for miracles of believability
So it is only a last touch or cherry to add a yellow waistcoat
to a cat.

If you must, then employ the simplicity of the trade:
Would you swap a Rambler television.
For every Martin Amis in its Joseph coat?

I have read two of his; barely a sniff at his entire,
But fuck me, or believe it at face value,
the oeuvre is not part of the international system of units.

Stalling

2010-06-14T12:36:00.001-07:00

You’ve put a lot of hard work in to your porcelain
But I know how you indulge, quietly in geophagy
I know you grind up your plates and eat white dirt

It’s nice the way you have arranged blue and white
Over dolls that hang limp, above teapots, prepared to boil
Like stereotypes of the three hundred year old African

Badly drawn as the fake wooden statuettes
Mahogany, and modern as the never tongue-in-cheek t-shirts
The things that hang and stand beside your fragile living

I know you are hungry, and would eat raw Kaolin
Because I hear it in your voice when you ask an old trader
How much sleep did you get, aged 45 at peak business?

There is only so much natural light that makes it back here
Where your stall fades after lunch, taunted by browsing
Of the satiate, and please help me - you say - the mute.

Dehydration – you are the one who knows what this pottery has done.
Before it comes to what you think of, now, as its dead use.
In another life, it protects apples from sun scald and

The wholesomeness and the love of this
Will not leave your lungs, kept in crate-packed air
Opened every morning again, for somebody else’s holiday.

It would be easy to assume from your hunchback
That your wife no longer loves you, or that you don’t have a wife.
But I think it’s porcelain that has kept you bent double

Wrapping and unwrapping what will adorn any dresser
Refusing to sell lighters. Refusing to sell posters.
Refusing to sell anything that breaks more easily than you.

It shall not be hidden

2010-06-07T15:09:00.000-07:00

Nobody wants lessons on feeling good.
At the close of day a slate roof gets wet
And triggers
This state friends ignore.

Simply peace.
And oh it hurts but they prefer no goodness
All is to be diverted next door,
Even those blushing titbits.

It is plain
They need to be deaf to my chirrup
As I steadily people, with one baby,
Their own little teary dreams.

Violent sugar I love her
A right to defend their weeping
And blessed loneliness,
By using a hardness.

Stop me pointing down the street
To paradise and kick
Steel tads into my shins keening
There’s a bit of joy reserves
Left in my sexy body for you.

On my girlfriend’s breakfast she always says
TWO BACON, and it’s something we’ve laughed about
Then we were in bed and she said
She was pregnant she wanted bacon

For my baby. I said she was my baby.
She said TWO BABY
And it’s something we’ve laughed about
That nobody needs lessons
And wants to know how goddamn happy we are.

fleshing in

2010-06-06T02:47:00.000-07:00

Soutine paints meat,
Like Bacon. For both,
Occupying rooms
Adjoining lesser talents,
They are below medium,
Transcending canvas,
Being more about the gut.

Winchester

2010-06-01T16:09:00.000-07:00

The pub had marble pillars
In three directions scars on the
Patron’s cheeks
The bulk was racist
There was lonely hearts
On telly screens
A ‘paki’ kissing a Caucasian
He says disgusting
Which was that comical indictment
But shuts the fucking traps
Of young guns.

Through the farm

2010-05-31T14:09:00.001-07:00

Travelling again now
The lambs are older now
They are sturdy and to fence them in
You have to fence in unmoving trees

Pylons are always in my blindspot
I was born in 1985
Still 3 hours
On-board entertainment
I have a smooth-running biro
Enough paper not to be scared
She can never remember the name of cypress trees
I can never remember more than a month ago
We are only a little while
The best thing that was only a little while

An orange windsock parallel
Unmoving running the ground
Pointing my path
Black lambs so close
Laburnum and caravans
No one sight is truly pastoral
Good, it means closer to st pancras

Barns and tilling machinery are now posh
And must do more than the job
Spreading fertiliser by hand
Is a little party anecdote
A trout farm, so much netting
Herons abandon flight and decapitate
Food chains

If one cow moves away from the herd
What can we say about her temperament
And her chances?
Are these cows us?
We are blackbirds
We are books.
We are prosecco.

Lights

2010-05-29T11:50:00.001-07:00

Lozenge black our tastable sky
This blue rusted out
Drawn and tired horizon
If it isn’t dark yet
The lights at houses’ gable ends
And their streets’ cinder torches
Keep a neighbourhood’s glare
Hot in tomorrow’s cool blanket
Like some fire about vines of grapes
Misleading in marriage
As the safety of good streets
Is quite obviously blindly absurd
And is not true

Bone cage

2010-05-25T16:10:00.001-07:00

Rat-rat of an organ
Slowly cardboard pitching
On a bone cage,
seeming box-like and without echo
In, we know nigh, empty cages.

In the face click, empty,
Like the characteristic
Sound of latches closing, releases,
what I mean
Is – I only stare at drunken ground.

Nigh empty cages;
Settling much of fluid
When exams were easy
Because dizziness
Is I try and write fashion

Is the point of you.
The answer to aches
And pains
And verses that search (exhale)
Your collapse of me.

Woof-ripped table cloth
Leaves pristine settings;
Finally analogy
I am hammered and not,
Not not not
Quadruple negative
Your little baby.

Minute compositions (in a minute)

2010-05-23T15:57:00.001-07:00

1.
It is the skin
Sets wine dark, as ethereal veil,
Blind at the surface,
When underneath an irreversible churn
Colours fruitful
Somebody you like.

2.
She makes my partly-me body sweat
And her herself-locks swab
Along the cherry freckled forehead.
Sip some of this water, please,
To make you feel comfortable
And those orange fingernails.

3.
Whisper-weak Earl Grey
With a hot sticky neck
Reddening for a day
Because the pergola
Is, too, whisper weak
And shades Mrs Pocock’s bench
Here and there.
Ah, Mrs Pocock, you know what?
We are sunstroked and drunk.

Doubler

2010-05-22T13:39:00.000-07:00

A loving

Is this a testament
(I doubt myself further,
And my gifts)
To an open face,
And a spirit,
Gathering others’ strengths,
With finality watching,
Calmness, absoluteness
For him who suns a body
On a sunned heath.
Falling in love, one’s own gifts
Find exit from the heart’s swelter
And the brilliant amateur turns
Wafer thin a transient new born.
He is ready for something.

A leaving
The moon, the ever-present
Followed me today
As sun rocked up
For thousands of us
Daring to leave houses
We personalise in colder months.

Trace

2010-05-17T16:03:00.000-07:00

When she was here
And lay, nothing overpowered
One sense; and rightly
My body’s ends looked
Long ago for such agreement.

A drawing up
Of equilibrium in plans
For neutral viscera and
Her in her softened scents
Of apple and tobacco

As she leaves me
Searching linen for faces
Remembering above a mattress
That amberwood bedcovers
Flow in eddies to be snatched at.

The candle she gave me
Was like the pillow slip
Colouring us cream
And filling the air with tea leaves.

Midnight Man

2010-05-12T15:57:00.001-07:00

Trees in a drape vertical
Last vestiges of sky on hills
House looks on a school fortress
Sky here grey at the sea
Clothes bank sweat-rust manky
Play park older than me
Log-built waste bin of wasps
Sudden copse
American proud firs
Thugs course get lonely
Cast iron roe deer with lord’s air
Stacked complexity of redbricks
Pink stone church taking one evening and hearts
Buddleia beacon in cooler dusks
Turquoise with violet-set cloudstones
Whites are grey
Oncoming shine pressing vehicles beam
Fence topped yellow forget-me-nots
Magritte and Fournier birch
I am the walking man

when i am happy NONSENSE i am scared

2010-05-10T14:32:00.000-07:00

In coal Nostrils
I the skirter
Doin rounds
Rounds them woods

Darkness give red over,
green us eyeball
Now on a walk
Thunders rounds eyeball

Inside perimeter
Away in Purple
Scratchingit in purple dark
Wool dark

Something ist bold
In me something is in me
Now up the walk
sincere Doin

Fearing of the deaf
The deafness in it
(rubbed out chances of)
the dfns in it.

Clerkenwell

2010-05-06T17:29:00.000-07:00

In the diamond sellers district
We kissed
Hatton to Old Street
Her smoking blossom
As the night takes an agreement.

Hungry and cold
Must be light acquiring darkness
Around we give each other whole
In and for these
backstreets.

Petting

2010-05-04T15:29:00.001-07:00

We were told by children
That’s a public place,
Their rudeness
Still potted in a juvenile innocence.

Their manor,
Their scratch,
And we steadfast with our nails
At the glued envelope
Of their nervous maturity.

I apologised quick to the lot,
Aiming a vocalised impression
Of we two
Over their chirrups,
Barking my skin-shod truth
Under a playground or yard
In a green (of a sudden) borough.

Everything in these territories,
Green like two talking.

Station

2010-05-02T14:46:00.000-07:00

Indigo sky all at once,
Hundred dollar cars,
Between the chestnut wood
Cool as yoghurt.

The red and white station,
Slips so naturally, into town.

The young old warden,
Is with an old old wood,
Taking you to a great blossomed hill
And dusk-thrilled churches.

Orange shopping bags
Light the forest now.
I open my house
And you read with me.

Mars

2010-05-01T13:54:00.000-07:00

Humanity clutches at Mars,
Feels entitled to it,
And life on it.
Get on with your own planet.
There's enough fucked up in your workplace
And at home with your wife.

J

2010-04-27T14:43:00.001-07:00

What I did to you
And I did it

Cheeks to such coldness
You should have frozen

You warmed me
And I never warned

I broke your arm
So you couldn't wave that flag

Whiter than tiniest
Unmarked spots

Of a grey soul
never,

To your lovely absolution,
Gifted. And still my thank yous

Fall.

Francois(e)

2010-04-26T16:14:00.000-07:00

Strangely in a gallery
In sand tide and marram grass
Watching striped and white finches
Wallow in pools of grain
The shallows of an instrument
Her head on my shoulder
And it was the finches
In their complicity
That made everything twice
Gentle and fleeting.

Differences

2010-04-24T04:51:00.000-07:00

Intuition precedes, is the prerequisite
for love. She sees what I
do not present.
Perhaps all do, but those fearing
a foreign nature choose
to ignore intracacies
they know stand.

Stand

2010-04-23T16:59:00.001-07:00

His knowledge of all equal need
To be completely conquered
Said why ever be intimidated?

Look your oppressor in the eyes
And he wants to be swept off his feet
By a similar and ordinary girl.

As your fantasies impress their objects
Must the whole word be taken in doubt?
Anyone for taming, is.

Dysing

2010-04-22T15:53:00.001-07:00

I suck in love like a vacuum
Ripping bowels out whenever
Man ignores my face
in time.

I snap icewind through intellect
And by your sense of fun
Leaving cold-ablated minds
in time.

Just as cleaning fluid scathes
The skull bone inside
And so a toothache invades the eye lost
in time.

I was it
And you were it
in time.

Party in Hackney

2010-04-19T14:03:00.000-07:00

One girl fell about with the grace of a drunk,
The night failing to put a crease in her dress,
And in the next morning’s sun,
As the bed sheets dried,
A mouse was caught in a mixing bowl
Where it ran at the sides,
Frantically dying of exhaustion
As I drank tea on the lawn patch.

More and On

2010-04-09T15:08:00.001-07:00

In my last two posts I have been thinking about working to a consistent style of my own. In the poems here, perhaps I take a style to caricature. They make me laugh for different reasons. Do they make you laugh? (a question posed in didactic tones of morning television for children).

Magnolia
Magnolia splash open,
Pink and white the kindest colours.
I am beaten up in spring.

Prettiest time of year,
Without the iciness would numb a ripped face.

Branches kink to raised arms of a man;
And flower-baubles over my wasted body.

Heat
It is hot tonight.
As last darkness is given canvas for action.

It was near the church
Copying Notre-Dame that made me feel nervous.

A spy will cut my neck
There in a John Le Carre book in the snow.

Earlier by the river light shone
Dispassionate from bulbs on to yobbo concrete.

And ah, a violent summer
But don’t begrudge it, hurting in the suburbs.

Blood Wedding

2010-04-08T15:14:00.000-07:00

For a while Madrid Romanticism
Or something similar kept away,
In a cold bedroom, depression.

You are unhappy so a restless dealer
Of a mind turns cards in urgencies,
Sadness forcing images sideways

In a desperate slideshow.

Connotative, your best guess
Of how ideas exist
(Think of the way sound travels),

Always dynamic,
Like alternating current,
Moving every way so forward.

The phrase you go over tonight-
‘The sun does not wait’.
But in your dumb flat

In England it has, unless you
Were asleep, when everything waits,
And you are not mad.

How things are going

2010-04-05T16:28:00.000-07:00

The days hurt.
I want to sleep all the time.
My workmates irritate.
Standing still, dripping from the shower,
It can be impossible to move.

I want to drink all or nothing.
No woman is uninteresting.
If I am a bastard I am
In control of my own mess.

Books and pictures
Interest me less and less.
I like to swim,
Feel a woman in her incipience.

Tide

2010-04-01T16:14:00.000-07:00

Crossing that bridge winks at the tide
Between parliament’s union jack
And south bank’s little carousel
With its own six small
Matching and flying, tattered union flags,
A different statement, primary colours, just,
Attracting foreign toddlers
And provinces' first-time excitables,
Moving in our capital.

Crossing that bridge to see huge
Concrete offices standing where Auerbach looked
Down through Waterloo crust,
Now under vertical sheen in a cold warm sunset.

Seagulls when I look left
Wonderfully only circle in a dark cloud
Solitary, higher than gothic,
And glide now slowly
With the peace of Pterodactyls.

The next I wake in Wimbledon South,
Part of a train journey
Away, and return fast to the river,
Half in shadow, on by-noon
Bright pavement, feeling again
The morning’s comfortable icyness.
If only I could wink at the river tide,
Jumping in would make my core’s heat total
In a bed of shells pressed fine,
Or under Earth from a net.

Pterodactyls, unimagined but missing now,
And flags at excitable mast;
I find a wide-eyed lizard harnessed,
Reassuringly green, awaiting my seat,
Stuck firmly in grimace to said carousel.
That rounds and rounds
Stopping the black cloud’s reappearance
God, suddenly my bridge and the horizon
Float but I hold my lungs and hear
Seven million swimming, who
Gasp in the strong and sad tide.

Council

2010-03-30T17:08:00.000-07:00

The bulbs got changed in the street-lamps
And the World looked no newer
In the street facing silver birches
Seemingly back-shot with flash
Or luminous gun-smoke clouds
That tell the moon it is just a candle
Shining dull glass.

Pretty Heath

2010-03-29T15:57:00.000-07:00

Wonder
Should lead to no surprise or presumption
Like the lady on Hampstead Heath

Posturing to think on
Whether it would close at night, somehow gated,
And safe,

As if, since childhood and the care of our parents,
We all decide what can open and close
And when.

My Landscape

2010-03-29T15:48:00.000-07:00

Suddenly(moral re-birth)
One idea of import, a baffled statement,
Laughing to be here.

We must only trill to be.
Remembering be fulsome. Hot opinion
Has brief conductance.

Remember, ironically for agnostics,
Tolerance breathes diving
Within us. Why do agnostics

Emerge inglorious? Because my own
Liberal being will not go forth, threatening
Shy businessmen with exile,

Or an alienate existence
Coloured green....believe I am able
To swallow quarts of bullshit.

The track I’m losing is observance
(Being quote-unquote alive)
Should be enough to preclude acting the clever useful cunt.

So I have fallen under truth, an unknown
But powerful opiate, existing fatalist and bracing;
My landscape’s very wind.

Pages Sucked and Gone (Aeroplane)

2010-03-27T15:50:00.000-07:00

Poets will carry our moon fading behind lit tails,
And they are burdened for the new extent of movement.

Embedding venous, imagination damages,
Ripped out, your hyphae of dreams.

A net torn away with turbines and kerosene,
Noisily climbing from destruction.

The stripped cord or ribbon, lashes clear,
Tearing earth and penned communities.

And it roars, jumbo to America,
Staring blind to hundred-year old hills.

Viol

2010-03-25T14:35:00.000-07:00

Viol singing
And you

Viol
And coming by you

Who would and I
Cannot sum

All of contribution
To my score

Anita my viol singing
And burning

With hands pulling soft
As glass

As stringing hot glass
My culture and passion

In all music and this
My viol held us

Between London as city
Berliner the home

Deutsche bed singing
Your viol my back

And we back
Wooden-we arching

One viol of friendship
Forever and me.

Thames

2010-03-23T15:44:00.000-07:00

Boulevard.
Here in a sea of faces I search you.

Spitting to my jacket hood
By the full river that sat

Preparing for dusk
As hills of black stone

And in my chest I fell
Because you were angry and yet

Towards a bar
Your nerves prayed take you

Unsure of this town
And adorable in lipsyl.

Vast reworkings of things that always moved me.

2010-03-18T18:19:00.000-07:00

Half Term

The dead and pointless school’s held high in Bank Woods,
Above, the black children shout, Charlie’s Fields;
A twitching palm is hard and moist.
This peak pins activity down. Fucking grips it quietly.
Grey, so not a forbidding fairytale, or densely dark;
The feeling of a quadrangle relies on light.
Mill-town wash drains, terminal,
Shorted boys of a painful afternoon.

Teens feel it too, in November;
In their portacabins, uniformed,
Where weakness is double in the young,
Cold rain troubles plastic ,
Looking out on frozen rivulets of mud.

Ruined kids warn about prayer,
One droning psalm about clouds:
‘Never again, Sun’

Cocktail Bars in Falmouth

Reordered my priorities,
With my developing a newly adult
Discernment. My friend says

‘I appreciate cocktail bars’
Looking closely at a menu.
And in here I can write a bonus.

Anywhere warm is meant
First off for comfort.

Desire is my experience,
Negated now, traded for non-fiction
In a sea-salted hut of wood,

Where I cannot sit with anyone I know.
But girls ride the London underground.

Suffocate me with sand
Throw a curtain of rack,
Respecting my happy self.

‘Doesn’t know he’s limp!’
No slight sadness,
The truer being is me for mine own,

I am for wet sand alone,
Bursts of coastal sunshine.
People know I’m not home.

Hunt

No man in one, a hierarchy.
He sees himself in a wine bar,
Daily hunting a reflection.

At work the bathroom has no mirror.

He looks at the fireplace,
Makes himself wonder,
The nature of smoking lies, the nature,

Aspiration and belief.

On fire some six dull tiles,
The fireplace no one knew was opulent,
Made with ham hands of idiots.

That’s great. A blackish hearth,
With no charted fall, or no fall at all.
Free to hunt logs and blue eyes.

Love cocktail bars

2010-03-03T15:50:00.000-08:00

Reordered these priorities,
With the developing of a new
And adult discernment.
My friend says

‘I appreciate cocktail bars’
Looking closely at a menu.
Whether I can write, a bonus
Of anywhere warm, destined

For cosiness in the first instance.
Desire: my experience,
Negated now, traded for non-fiction
In a sea-salted hut of wood,

Where I cannot sit with anyone I know.
But girls ride the London underground.

Suffocate me with sand
And throw a curtain of rack,
Respecting my lifeless
And happy self, limp.

No slight sadness;
The truer being is me
For mine own,
Me for wet sand alone,

Bursts of coastal proper sunshine.
They knew I had to go.
Others enjoying my talk unknown.

3 Poems (date woman rack)

2010-02-28T16:13:00.000-08:00

Date

In its pleat paper case,
Shiny was a date,
Whose sweetness translates
Quickly through its unresisting skin,
Lazily warming the mouth.
One memory of green sunshine.

Woman

Permissive she lies
And I suck on her breasts.
Her little sighed squeak,
Asking for the jigsaw of neck and nose.
Ha! Well even in the dark.
Ha! Well looking to the moon’s making,
A chalk white window,
Yes, I can see her face that is a smile
To obliterate
The sorry hang-dog looks from a boy’s faux hard-working countenance.
Is she has her hand on my dick,
Nothing will ever do that
(bring me down).

Rack

Stooping to take a twisted piece of rack,
From beaches more like idylls
Than even my own sleep.
Open your body to this view,
Never feeling ever like this,
A million miles from your unassailable
City mask.
Here, the sound of waves alone,
Breaking hearts with contracts to honour,
In places where air is never taken,
Only snatched at.
Bring me here
Or take everything else away.

Grandad

2010-02-23T13:26:00.001-08:00

To avoid splashing,
Fill up your cup
Waiting for water to cease
Its flow from the push tap.

This was the ceremony,
Before to the road,
Walking back
On leaden feet frozen numb.

Hands warming in air
Below zero, degrees above
Such icy water
As cleans. Then

Emerging from a train station
In a later fog,
Dripping wet like a warm bathroom suddenly cold.

Two of us carry his star
On its chain,
From a child
Into that quiet.

Grab-me Girl

2010-02-22T17:19:00.000-08:00

Its streets to walk,
Exhale, brother.

Coldness creeps,
You mustn’t leddit.

Think Nourishment-Sweet (Swim),
Drink it on a bus.

Fall straight on a pillow
With yer nose-crested face.

Numbs? It’ll do.
Can I talk, like, to the ends.

Opinion, inspire,
Grab me, girl, please.

rice-pudding

2010-02-18T15:39:00.001-08:00

Sticker up your psyche,
With a badge of ok.
Are you not?
How are you?
That is just the offer of a shoulder;
Without meaning they come, offered.
What is ok?
Something and a nice glass of wine?
But am I turning in to work each day?
Allow me the fuller answer.
Arbitrary badges, ok and not.
Let me know if you're not.
Let me know, are you ok?
These fucking questions,
Offer them as shoulders,
But do not expect the fuller answer,
Around consistency.
Time is around. Days, we notice, play round.
Don't pray gall with absence.
Are you in need of my shoulder?
There is a Godot-like tree in the courtyard.
Daffodils emerging at the base of the tree.
There is a cold sky for you,
And diabetic rice-pudding.

Old can be new

2010-02-15T16:59:00.000-08:00

Retirement can be bought at a jumble sale.
Why are we looking for things unfound?
Vehicles have previous owners but crucially new mats are provided.
Traces must only be traces
And not grey the anything-old’s spanking newness.

Long and thin, frosted window

2010-02-12T14:05:00.000-08:00

The guilty sod, he must have watched, resigned, as I talked to Laura in the bar. He must have watched and mulled over, slowly, with complete conviction, how he would slip this particular noose. No doubt he was a sharp slipper, of nooses.
So, stood in the street, at the police station, with mess-room coppers’ grunts escaping a very long and thin, frosted window (stirring my own by-the-way sick stomach) I turned and walked home to the park, justifying doing the right thing, of sorts. There was no right thing then. Reasoning shapes morality, not the act itself; whatever I might have said before – I can’t remember – there is no absolute. Apart from a comfortable bed; I hope this sound’s consistent? If I had dobbed J in, well, the right thing to do by Laura – justice and so on. But that act is surely based in mal-feeling towards J, and is turned upon its head. If I turned and walked home, if, well, that is what I did do, turned, not home exactly, but to the airport, and to Berlin. If I did that, I’d be leaving Laura to a very cold city indeed.

M

2010-02-11T15:47:00.000-08:00

The heavy flit of repeating images,
As though a leaden wheel
Was spun by travelling wind, acts on me
Like a steady hand

Through the night-mirrored
Carriage windows.
Darkness runs, that flickering Muybridge horse,
Through towns.

The sweating black colt
Drips precisely morning light,
But one day is never animal;
A brightness that cannot stray.

And just what is, of me, unsteady,
Offered weight by monochrome,
Shored somehow, centrifugally?

I am still on this train,
That calls ignorant for sleep,
So nothing done for speed
And a peregrine embarrassed.

Scenery now, muscles,
Denying that closer to you
Is technically apart,
And passing images
Start to whisper arrive,
Begin to whisperarrive.

I can do nothing.
And is that what I once told you?
I can do nothing.
But return to you.

In rain,
On these feet,
By any road,

I am carrying everything with you.

Pours

2010-02-10T13:57:00.000-08:00

Salford Royal Hospital.
A Jewish corm lies dying before me.
A Jewish propagule;
Corm of flesh and blood.

The fecund notions we share,
Of humour, temperament, God.
He is my propagule,
Schlepping my self in his body.

No matter how anybody
Feels. No matter;
Hands behind his head reclining.
All life has travelled in this runner,

To those that are other,
And those that are you.
And structures of legacy flake;
Seeds needed only in the glint of a generation,

But beginnings grow longer and longer.
Ah, the greyness,
Inevitable,
Pours.

An Impressive God

2010-02-06T04:17:00.001-08:00

How is it, the suit jars?
With knuckles dry-scraped orange
And the dialogue pain of a swollen fist
Balanced in the back-chat of an also battered nose.
You hope the smart man didn’t win

For his own sakes and his own souls
If any depend on him. Much better take your beating
And ride the trains home.
The definition, a place to heal.
Cover those hands!

Anything to rid the menace,
Of your war-broken fingers, of your potency, of the train
None of which can be willed by my forlorn state,
To translate, into a lion-hearted badge of you the passenger.

I hope somebody, who I already forgive, took your wallet

And you fell on your hand and didn’t fall on your peace
By striking unjust, a mugger in the face
Remember, or learn idiot, that morality does not represent an exchange.

Your wife, when fingers calm enough to remove one ring,
Might say goodbye to a pitiful hero
To the man who wanted to coil, snaked at the receiving end
Tightening ratchets to spit insulting couplets that wither.

Tonight, son, simply forgo your food.

Smilies

2010-02-01T15:27:00.001-08:00

I dun gone and said it
I ain't like everyone else
For me mate
'Appiness 'as CONsequences.

Islands

2010-02-01T15:21:00.000-08:00

You live on an island
And forget about the sea?
That must be some city,
Bridging a river with no fuss.

You can't miss me

2010-02-01T15:01:00.001-08:00

Yiddish glamour
Thirteen cards
Wash the plates before chicken
And wash them after
Try new jokes
And bow to old ones
But only jokes
But only

I am watched
Good stuff
Cordial needs to be measured out under instruction

I give to the same person
And take (correctly, receive)
From another, with a beard
You can’t miss me
There
Just there
Good card

Dreck sometimes
From the factory
Lately a pipe jaunts free and surprises (he pretends) my Grandad
10P a knock
20 a kalook
20 a buy-in
50 the game
When did it go up?
IT NEVER DID

Bobos

2010-02-01T14:33:00.000-08:00

The room’s dim light-bulb. I looked up each night thinking ‘if you must glow, look at her in the corridor, you insolent spark! How do you meet that? It’s embarrassing you even have a switch.’

Skull

2010-01-28T14:58:00.001-08:00

The quadrangle. The wall.
The banking. The grass. The gates.
The passionate affair of two teachers.
The hall. The yard.
The gym. The courts.
The child who aches to be alone.
The football pitches.
The headmaster’s lawn.
The teacher’s car park.
The mother resenting pretty girls.
The lecture theatre.
The sick room.
The caretaker’s equanimity.
The staff room.
The uniform that still fits.

Bold Enough

2010-01-24T17:26:00.000-08:00

Before you,
I injured a woman,

Trying to yoke her with poetry
And pull the whole world.

It doesn’t matter what I wrote,
It was good verse.

Standing up, stiff with loneliness,
I thought writers were important.

I met you,
I went to my room,

To set everything down,
To make emotion work for me.

Through your sweetness
I wrote nothing.

I wanted to write the best things for you;
A poem to boil water, and put leaves on trees.

My eyes pricked,
I never desired the pen.

The dread we were a falsehood
For precisely this.

I forced, I tried to write,
Referring to words as clues.

From the page everything emerged
Soaking and neutral.

I despaired green wasn’t a colour
Biting like nascent passion,

So I picked up crackling
Old dried out...

...Washed out red lines
And knitted them together

With the wonder which was truer,
Poetry or breath?

Words as measure,
As spirit level.

And in these anguished thoughts,
Suddenly it broke,

A watershed of honesty,
The truth-simple verse:

Your turning-away half smile
As you threaten to blush.

The intelligence
You keep grounded.

Your beauty

And the way you take me,
Lightly, as a man.

Fish Love

2010-01-12T14:14:00.000-08:00

The light over the Fish Cafe
Flickers.
A greater wretchedness
For the place being full.

A couple that know each other better
Sit there.
Looking at the fishy menu.
Neither of them hates fish.

But this was an empty night,
Why not a happy night?
Neither of them loves fish,
Neither of them..neither..them.

It was made of a meal
Painful.
They were big fishes
Making mores the battle.

And the batter, the gold
Crunches-in a man’s chest,
In a silence
That highlights tiny tears.

The Ghost-Story of a Champion

2010-01-11T15:01:00.000-08:00

No man in one, a hierarchy.
He see himself, in a wine bar,
Hunting a reflection, once daily,
Because at work the bathroom has no mirror.

The way he looks at the fireplace,
Making himself wonder.
Aspiration fuels a fallacy.
His own beliefs the flames...

Because of six dull tiles, the fireplace
That no one can tell was opulent,
Or made with the bunched fists of idiots.

So that’s great. A blackish hearth,
With no charted fall, or no fall at all.
Full-fat and definite. Half-hearted.
The ghost-story of a champion.

Highgate Woods is Snowy

2010-01-06T09:33:00.000-08:00

Ha! Look at these white veins.
Does it piss you off I only talk of beauty in metaphor?
Capillaries of white ash.
Petrified, yet capable of movement,
But scared of it,
These strangely white lungs.
The whole thing is a paradox
(I think of trees as dynamic!)
Uneven breeze is enough;
Shedding a branch's soft glitter.
Shedding those creepers and snakers
Loaded up fragile and too high.
This whole places is trees.
This whole place is snow.

To Get Blown

2010-01-05T13:42:00.001-08:00

I had already dropped,
And was coming up
By now or almost
When I noticed the moon too
Was a white pill

That could not be plucked,
Or enjoyed in acid-tasting ways;
The breeder of things,
Anticipatory fever.

The one you wish,
If it's possible to wish against
This kind of warmth,
You'd split in halves,

To stop waves
Of shattering gratitude,
And hokusai proportion
Dragging me away.

With highs come lows,
The comedown undertow
And icy dark currents
Of normal life resumes.

Which is thus defined,
Normal life,
By things we aren't supposed to do.
Like getting fucked in your skull.

Day drops

2010-01-04T16:54:00.001-08:00

The day is a cobalt bodice,
On a dying orange skirt,
Garish and beautiful and happening,
Whatever you care to think.

Lately she's obsessed with dusk,
Where time is tight,
And the nerves consider home,
From a tramstop,
Getting there.

Twice North

2010-01-03T11:31:00.000-08:00

A thin sheet of frozen sky,
With nothing either side,
Is like winter steel,
And tries to light black-blue,
Fogging around showroom glass
In carcasses
Of new-builds.

And green-belt snow, we know
Is white.
But unsurprisingly a nascent 2D darkness
Templates things blue-grey,
And bears out all ideas
Of a season won by metal.

Blue again, a bell is coldly founded,
And with the sounds of inhuman tolling
Winter throws us all apart,
Together from landscape,
Together from warm movement.

Be what this cold serenity bids us.
Prove a heartbeat.
Evidence flesh.
Take an awareness of muscle,

Of also bone and sinew,
And something
deeper
beautiful,
A thawing strength of us.

Pastille

2009-12-29T12:23:00.001-08:00

A blackcurrant pastille providing the recommended daily intake of certain vitamins, C, D, E and others. Uniquely, for a blackcurrant pastille, it tasted of fish. A healthy supplement of cod liver oil was, somehow, conceived as an appropriate cherry-on-the-cake ingredient for the perfect multivitamin blackcurrant pastille.

If something tastes vaguely of fish yet vaguely of blackcurrant, well, words like vaguely will no longer do. Strong words enter usage. Words like disgusting, vile and aftertaste. Not only an aftertaste; a during taste, and - on account of producing a physical reaction, not unlike nausea, just at the thought of a blackcurrant fish pastille previously tasted - a before taste.

In fact, just straight bad-tasting shit we're talking about.

Term

2009-12-28T14:08:00.000-08:00

The junior school’s held high in Bank Woods,
Above what the children call Charlie’s Fields, and its palm.
This is a peak that pins down activity. Grips it.
Not forbidding, no, nor darkly dense; it relies on a certain light.
The mill town’s watery drabness that draws energy
From afternoon class, turning grim ideas in a student’s body.
Even the older kids feel it, in November;

A lethargy,
Some initial disorder,
The sapping of ambiguous reserves,
The slow grey analgesia
Brought by a wet winter.

All the uniformed boys and girls in portacabins,
Where weakness is total,
And freshness doesn’t trouble plastic windows,
They say this school, in truth, would teach prayer,
One psalm and nothing else:
‘Bring a brightness. Bring an end.’

And the bell rings, and meets everything.

Coach

2009-12-27T14:21:00.001-08:00

The M6 Toll Services,
Barely an escape. I had to ask
The burger place – You cater wakes?
The only thing squidgier
Than old Ben in his wooden ship,
Your mushed fries and bap.

Joke; I damn will! About the brightness
Of a rest stop. The motorway itself
Is a funeral where stupid company names
And electronic shacks intimidate lanes.
Their flimsy intransigence.
Business park, the bastard phrase,
Is, I’m telling you, about right.

Breathe it.
The Northern light.
Its loss looms, bidding me
Move. Without, I would believe
In creatures. Vampires that strafe.

The M15 Megabus to London Victoria,
From Manchester, Shudehill. Estimated
Arrival time in a world without physics.
Cruise and kill.

But scare me with speed.
I need some of it; though
A word suggesting eyes closed.
Only mind to destination,
Even though it ain’t a vector.

It is dark because we journey,
Wheels unturning, the sun
Is 2D, at the top of a sleepless arc.

If I didn’t print my reference number,
Don’t think I wouldn’t travel alongside you, fool.
If I stay, I die. Or at least
The pen is stymied
And a nervous knuckle smudges.
So ink (*exhale and laugh*)
This is what you do!
Crawl like a busted coach.

Close and Easy

2009-12-26T13:59:00.000-08:00

Paint words, paint green,
Garrulous rainforest of you,
Cut down by her eyes' scythe
So I can walk in.

Pretending stubborn like a monkey
(which she likes),
And I end up swinging from her branches,
One lesson being: less of the shit-talk.

Her Letters.

2009-12-26T10:12:00.000-08:00

Alerted to the messages
I so want her to send,
My heart is only quickened
By her name as a black band.

Whatever she writes is,
As good as anything
She could write,
Under her moniker.

Because, of her, everything
Strikes me, I cannot call
Her face to mind.
And her face is mine.

Gripped in black,
Telling at myself sleep,
Why I must be restless
And relax on the panning-out.

Yes! I play out.
My sums done,
On Earth's only matter.
Lasting, she permits me.

In plain old,
What I am getting at,
Told: I want her so much,
She holds me.

Hesitating, even ideas
Of the well-known.
Allowed, a thing
Called long or longer term.

Stop lying, me!
I am hinting at forever,
So say it, like that.
Forever.

All we all want,
I have.
Beautiful in every aspect,
Her letters.

Returning, White

2009-12-25T14:46:00.000-08:00

When the snow came,
I understood what was, alone,
Walking crossed white lanes,
Through a model village, home.

I searched for my sister,
And her shifting house of ice,
In falling silence round her,
That bled a Northern Light.

Being melodramatic about M. after only a couple of drinks.

2009-12-23T15:55:00.001-08:00

The Train

On the silver pill of a train:
It acts, straight by the throat,
And in the stomach,
On each gasping villus,

To give a pathos great enough
to be manifest;
That is, physical.

And my city life is drawn together
By this diesel bootlace as we
Go North,

Where my midnight family lies,
And I prepare the offer,
One hour of affection
(quietly, aboard),

As nausea of once empty bones,
Quickly turns, quickly forgotten,
To the warmest yet embrace,

And my soul is swelled with you, M.
Lit by fire and grace.

Headshapes

2009-12-21T14:37:00.000-08:00

Jim's skull looked like the deathstar; completely bald with a small crater to one side of the crown.

Routines

2009-12-21T13:56:00.001-08:00

My room’s quite cold so I wear two or three layers of clothes in it. Entertain wearing my coat inside but find it slightly restricting, and noisy if I have brief moments of dynamism.
Thoroughly palm-brush the soles of my feet, socked or not, before getting in bed to type. Dirty floors carry all sorts of suspect particles, black and about 50% mysterious.
I have an old TV in the corner of my bedroom and never use it – hate to think of it as an ornament because it’s not to my taste, aesthetically. In fact I’ve never seen an attractive television set – surprising given their size and their prominent position. The idea must be not to let the set’s appearance distract from whatever the screen presents.
The drying rack is never collapsed, it sits empty only ever for the one or two days after I have worn everything, taken straight from its spindles, and before I am compelled by drastic shortage of black socks to wash another load.
Definition of a faithful towel: regardless of absorbency, doesn’t seem to hold on to dank sweaty smells. Usually the raspy, remove-a-layer-of-skin type. Doesn’t bother me, the rasping. Smell is paramount.
In this weather only one of my overgarments guarantees warmth – a thick woollen cardigan. Tonight it smells of curry, spilled on the left sleeve. I am generally a clean person but feel one unclean piece of clothing per outfit is an acceptable nod to my laid-back persona.
Alone in the house, two lights on is comfortable. More – a waste. Less – not at all homely.
I am often struggling to keep the number of dirty tumblers and mugs in my room to 3, or preferably 2. If the number of dirty vessels is 1, I usually deal with the problem, because 1 isn’t enough to get on top of me.
Looking at a coat hanger laying on the wooden floor it strikes me - inanimate objects are always ready for action, never unprepared; in a constant state of readiness, regarding intended use.

Queen's Wood

2009-12-21T12:46:00.001-08:00

Sisley, present yourself!
Here, in Queen’s Wood, under snow.
To white Elms, do justice,
In feathered and fresh winter glow.

A man to a woman

2009-12-20T13:59:00.000-08:00

A woman: Okay then. No shit, we cannot keep asking ‘why?’ Especially of the absolute. In love, questions don’t crop up. Why would anybody ask why? I hate the God-fearers bad enough for all their fucking questions, so let’s not get into asking why of love. Good things don’t need an explanation. That means God’s existence (in dim minds) is proof of a fucked up planet. If he was really up in the sky, watching over us, we wouldn’t have a clue, because everything down here would be great, so why ask questions. What’s the only advice I can give you? I guess just to get love out of your fucking mind. If it’s right there, pounding, then you’ll jump the getting-to-know-someone gun and end up idolising before you even know if you’re compatible. Love should slowly and warmly rise from the feet, not be written on a sign and nailed over someone’s head.

A man: You are amazing. I think some people love the attainable; others idolise. Each love feels different. I think that, strangely, those prone to idolatry, those builders of pedestals, well, love to them feels grander, feels most important. It feels removed from any other issue and not part even of real life (but love is the realest thing?). And the irony is that love, to the idolisers, this grand love is most incapable of moving others, it is a construct, it is a sham cloud of emotion, it confuses things, reducing foresight and dream, despite its glitter of language, a sort of gilded condensation of the cleverest things said in the most appropriate places. In short, the idoliser does nothing real to his vessel of love – for that is how he sees her, simply that. Of course, loving, however grandiose, changes one, the act of loving. And so to idolise will change one’s life, but the key is it will never change the loved one’s thoughts, ultimately, in the last instance, the reckoning and divvying-up of affection. And what I write now, alone in my room, looking back on events, brutal fucking events, leads me to a firm belief at last. Love has to be separated from longing. Love is the most human of emotions and demands reciprocation. No! Let me be stronger - without reciprocation, love is not love. It is only the desiccation of a heart.

The difficult days are different

2009-12-18T15:20:00.000-08:00

The difficult days are different.

On the bad ones I punch water in the shower,
And whisper-shout 'cunt motherfucker'
At certain – jab jab hook - names.

On the bathmat my kissy-curls drip,
And this is only a bad day,
Because I somehow notice my body;
Dick-size, face and stomach.

But the difficult days are different;
Dressing I am nauseous.
Awake, sick, violently, physically sick.

On Good days I eat some breakfast.
On Bad days I ask myself when?
Difficult days disbelieving:
Once more? All this? Again?

Why I did what to her.

2009-12-17T04:01:00.001-08:00

She was a mix of cute, sexy and beautiful, so whenever she got close enough I would grab the hem of her dress and perform a confused dance of cuddling, fucking, and just plain holding her face up to the light.

Notorious (He is)

2009-12-15T13:49:00.000-08:00

My position is that I understand bad things are better-off happening to me than anyone else I’m bothered about. You see, my compassion is really the only big thing about me. It hurts bad when I see evil shit happening to friends. So, it really was best the burger fell in my lap at the cafe.

I still have soured cream in the channels of my cords, but it didn’t ruin my day, the falling of the burger, and the splatting of the tomato and the red onion leaving a sticky residue on my sort-of suedette Nike Air Force Twos with the purple swish. They were getting roughed up anyway, and aren’t the sort of shoes a clever man like me should wear. Thinking of some Larry David pumps, and Larry David everything else, come to that. And what is my chequered shirt all about, who the fuck do I think I am? Remember hearing Mr Wallace rap about the red and black lumberjack, and the hat to match. Must have got it from him. Never had the hat though, and certainly never chopped wood. I DON’T WANNA GO TO HEAVEN, WEARING WHITE WITH THE GOODIE-GOODIES; I LIKE BLACK TIMS AND BLACK HOODIES. Perhaps time for a black hoody? Ha! I’m taking the shirt off now; biggie is biggie and I am me.

Pummelled

2009-12-13T16:44:00.001-08:00

The gin was so dry, my lips pulled back from my teeth and my cheeks squelched, trying to bunch with saliva. Drinking is something I am not comfortable with. Alcohol I see as a combatant, I am wary of it, it pummels me and I like it. I thank it as the one bold enough to bid me greet the floor, or the bed.

Footholds

2009-12-12T04:04:00.001-08:00

I was taking her to the police station because for me the building would perform a service, a truth extraction; it being a vessel for the God’s honest. I didn’t give anything for justice, didn’t care for it or even turn my head away. I didn’t believe anything mattered, just wanted the God’s own about things between Laura and her attackers, Laura and possibly J, J and Sharon; my footholds.

Men

2009-12-11T18:26:00.001-08:00

‘You see, I am 21..and it is easy, Easy, for people, for men...for men to think I can be treated like a woman who needs to learn a few things about the arseholes that walk this planet. Fucking a 21 year old around is, by men, macho men, doing a 21 year old a favour, telling her, showing her, graphically, how shitty life can go.’
‘Fuck. Laura, have you seen someone about how that happened?’ I nodded at her colourful face, feeling the nod more paternal than the point or hand wave.
‘And, have you talked to the police, the university, anyone’. I could tell by the way she was drinking her second gin that this could be the first time she had allowed herself to think about anything.
‘When did this happen? Laura?’
‘...’
‘...’
‘Two days ago.’
‘Right. Let’s go and I’ll take you and we’ll do everything that needs doing.’ I placed a paternal hand on her gin and three of her fingers, prising away the drink, selfishly, needing a tot myself, despite my own healthy face. The gin was disgusting, and in that weak way, when a cheap spirit’s taste is not disguised in a high enough proof.

Coke?

2009-12-10T12:47:00.000-08:00

I found it sad now, talking to Laura. She was talking so fast I could almost touch the denial of all the bad things that gave her the bruised face. Or maybe she used coke. Before, after and during whatever happened to her face. I doubted it, because her hair was so natural and her beauty also. With that plump unawareness that screams sobriety. Perhaps ice-cream here and there, explaining her puppy fat, was the only treat allowed. And maybe the little treat of J’s cock once-in-a-while. I winced when I thought this; this is the kind of thing men, maybe women too, can never turn off, except when a real loved one is out of sorts.

Specular, tonight.

2009-12-09T15:11:00.001-08:00

Not between the slats of luminescence,
The street-cracked suburb,
These houses in their sky-aspect,
Will any sight explain vlumb...whum...vhlum.

The drug-white throb comes alternating,
From who knows, to here, to Highgate,
Which is here. Hills, rising for peace,
Wriggle in a carpet of city sparks.

Roof and gloam, cheek to cheek;
Victorian houses enunciate fairytales,
Untold with the morning milk

And the sun that demaps
The myth of the woods,
The warmth of the still night,
And the glimmer of a darkness, rich.

Just one of several reasons I couldn't get close to her:

2009-12-08T15:56:00.003-08:00

She smelled like the Bakerloo line.

The Interview

2009-12-07T10:15:00.001-08:00

It's not that I talk,
Rather she's speechless
And I stuff loam in a worm's mouth of silence.
Probably no concern for taste.

Once she bid me luck in tomorrow's interview,
With a cee ee oh plainly flush
in cerebral bunk.
And my bag of mashed potatoes (a head)
that through ambiguous lips
is piped into a whirl of oversalted surplus goo.

All goo is surplus.

I lied and told him mathematics
Was inherently elegant,
So on the circle line I added up
Breasts and legs and needed to masturbate.
Nerves always do (that to me).

But solid and saving white page,
Let's talk about her fashion of beauty,
Unseen in blue magazines.

Smelling her is where the real pleasure
gets real. Closer - a magnet to a fridge,
Sucked in ultimately and quick by
Ice-cream skin. Her back tells me
To forget about the bespoke design
Of sports cars.

Air intake is not from buckets atop
my head, but in whispered toothy
Ribbons of suck, drawn on bottom
Lip a la Mr. H. Lecter.

And I would eat her fucking organs
and she too is the nice thrice vice
Wine aside ferrous and gristle-borne love.

the new party slogan

2009-12-06T16:29:00.000-08:00

for good ideas, now.

schnappy schnappy schnapp

2009-12-06T16:25:00.000-08:00

She loved schnapps. I mean fucking loved it, graphically, pursing her lips to the cold glass - ready for one full-self experience of pleasure so inevitable her shuddering started with even just her saying the word 'schnapps'.

Day wood feelings

2009-12-04T16:56:00.001-08:00

And then in daylight – the black velvet blanket lifted, and each tree appearing waif-like, a quick-falling drip of light. All density, all heavy dark, lost to the ether. The silver birch suddenly snappable, devoured by the eye. Day and night, in their own respect, rumble and present a vision of God. Quiver beneath this trunk and realise that the forest has nothing to do with the people who encroach, the muggers, the rapists, the sickos.

A mantra you would have to pay £150 for if I wasn't so generous to give it you gratis.

2009-12-01T14:50:00.000-08:00

'I BELONG IN THIS HOUSE' ad infinitum

Things to look out for once rich.

2009-12-01T14:47:00.000-08:00

If your house has more personality than you do this will become humiliating. It will eat at you as you sit in a little snug or cubby hole of the house where you go to forget you are in a wonderful house that makes you seem boring as fuck.

What is the right career trajectory, or how quickly should you get to the top?

2009-12-01T14:45:00.001-08:00

Gradually become rich, to gradually lose having-lots-of-money guilt before you become a cunt millionaire living in a big house that in no way intimidates you.

Expression in pubs and words

2009-11-29T15:01:00.001-08:00

A clever man on her lips.
Sound of his initial,
Red educated kiss.

Like twins, the image.
Rough joke for relatives,
But, really, they lust?

Lord, I hate in white,
A colour of end.
The want that I draw

Too long, and poured out
Comfortably, through empty
Expression in pubs and words.

Never she sees me undressing,
Unable to remove this cloak,
This heavy honesty,
Like dried blood, unbound.

Fucking interesting revelation just too late

2009-11-25T15:41:00.000-08:00

words - they never really mattered.

Fucking interesting things about being nice

2009-11-24T16:13:00.000-08:00

'Is he nice?!' she asked herself. 'Yeah.... I suppose, to the people he loves'.

Fucking interesting things that seem not to correlate.

2009-11-21T16:53:00.000-08:00

She started recapping from way left-of-field (I guess it was only the angle of her head-tilt that told me she was in life-story preamble). She was a potent talker.

Fucking interesting things about the community of noddder-offers on a tube train.

2009-11-21T16:39:00.000-08:00

I really don’t board an underground train looking for emotional attachment, but this once, I awoke after Highgate to see seven of us sleeping. Of course there was an atmosphere; of course we felt like family. How many do we sleep in front of? How many times do eight of us bed down and agree to sleep, and share vulnerabilities? Our heads nodded, casting dreams broadly, inter-the-eight-of-us. I felt we were in the come-down phase of a disaster movie – the part where the explosions and mild terror have subsided and world-weary ordinary citizens are finally afforded some shut-eye on the back of a pick-up truck destined for peacefully remaining cities.

The girl opposite was fucking amazing looks-wise.

Fucking interesting things about woods.

2009-11-20T16:47:00.000-08:00

There was a tube station by a wood, never a wood by a tube station. We cannot let the city win, cannot refer to it as fixed. Incidentally, the city has won; the tube station is older than this verdant young wood. So the city has won. The city wins, that is the city’s default setting, winning – factory settings would be funnier, but there are no more factories around here. So this wood is not old – fifty years perhaps, and it is dotted with silver birch. The silver birch lends a new wood an older wood menace. It’s the way they take more light from the streets, and they glaze your eyes, within the still gloomy throat of the wood, those hallucinatory pathways that lead to a higher tog of darkness. Tog seems the right word. And lending this extra glare, the silver birch, much like the moon, adds that sort of hope within an otherwise foreboding night. And so the scary thing about this wood near the tube station is that the silver birch attract you in, offer prizes you know intangible, unthinkable. The whole thing, I suppose, is a trap. And the idea of a wood in the middle of a city seems like an absurdly obvious trap in the first place, before threat is disguised as folly in a shimmering of silver trees.

crafted at last

2009-11-18T16:47:00.000-08:00

Sharon, yes, but fuck, this thing, this idol, THE idol, it’s nothing, is it? It isn’t meant to be mapped, or thrown by fate, rolling tidily to our feet. The whole process of beatification starts and it starts with no one in mind, with no a priori subject. A mental chain of silly thoughts and dreams-dared, triggered by exact events and perhaps one piece of music - this chain is like some fucking alien, from the film alien; all it does is look for a host, and a chest cavity. Never will any fuck with a pen lay down why this alien (more rampant than anything at pinewood) chooses who it chooses – check – mauls who it mauls, kills and fucking dismembers whoever it kills and dismembers. In any words, yes, how love manifests, even how it feels bursting through the ribcage, can be nicely told, but never told, this, why we fall in love with who we do.