skinny torso

sitting on toilet

tears drop from my eyes

my hands shake

I feel fallible

I am hung over 

I am a foolish wreck

 

I have honest and

good intentions

 

I want to write

the apocalyptic

beautiful

and

unbounded poem

the one

that blows true

the one

that didn't try

but

just fell on the page

I'm damned headshot tho

and I seem to be

shitting

lucid thoughts

out of my ass

I have the paper

and the pen

but as I shit

my concentration wavers

the thoughts come sweeping in

but are then dispelled

by my internal organs

 

i will write it tomorrow

tomorrow is easy

today is a hardship  

tomorrow

not even a shit

will deter me from writing

I will write in snow storms

I will write standing up on the bus

I will write in the middle of the road

walking down the streets

each step

each stride

with my legs

and my eyes

will be poignant 

I say this with

a hint of hope

hope

is a rotten thing

hopefulness

is pretty hopeless

 

there are

scoundrels

out there

in this grey infected hole

that don't rely on

hope

they are never

fearful

and

lacking in confidence

they have sanitised minds

even their states of confusion

are ordered

but I'm sitting shitting

with all of these fears

dancing with each other

clasping each other

the fear is fucking

the perfectionism

and the perfectionism

is beating down the endeavour

all of which

is causing me to sweat

my skinny torso

is shivering

I'm conning myself

with madness

but it's all alright

I've got my feet

and at least

my blue eyes

want to see

and my hands

want to touch

 

tomorrow I'll just be

I'll be

the be all

and end all

I'll draw blood

and feeling from stones

I'll concoct my own

imposing lines

I'll touch the heart

of every thing living and inanimate

with my tenderness

and perceptiveness

I'll lock arms with the lost

and I'll kick the smug and the vain

in fact

I'm starting to feel good

I'm going to wipe my ass

and write this down

today

now

not tomorrow. 

 

morning mist

 

writing

something

for

production.

 

reflections by others

 

preen

in

the

paper

mirror

here.

 

 

Twelve Stages in a Life

 

1.

 

Original was a forty year old man who lived in a caravan on a small hill made of books by Billy Childish, Rimbaud and Dostoyevsky.

 

2.

 

Original lived with Taboo, a twenty one year old girl who wore tight black jeans everyday. Her legs were thin. She wore her legs well. Taboo had the impression of an angel.

 

3.

 

Original and Taboo liked each other's company. They didn't like to venture away from the caravan too often. Original and Taboo didn't like what went on outside of their caravan.

 

4.

 

They were happy with their view from the hill of the river that ran at the bottom of it, the other hills which were made of second hand shoes and smiling faces and amateur art.

 

5.

 

Original and Taboo had a beautiful tabby cat called Harmony. Harmony suited his name.

 

6.

 

Original and Taboo didn't like the professional world, the polluted city twenty miles from their hill, money which they were constantly chasing after, the music on the tv, the tv programmes on the tv, they didn't like a lot of things.

 

7.

 

Original and Taboo thought they loved each other. They had been told what love was by the hills and the clouds and films, but they decided on what love was by themselves.

 

8.

 

They walked to the river every day even when the sun was hiding and toads and bottles of dark rum fell from the sky. The rum never landed on their heads. They drank the rum as though it was water.

 

9.

 

They smiled fifteen times a day and frowned when the tv turned itself on at seven o'clock in the evening everyday. The tv controlled itself but knew when it wasn't appreciated. It would turn itself off at eight.

 

10.

 

The family of the cat and two humans lived a life of simplicity. The details won't be written about.

 

11.

 

They all died on the same day, at the same time down by the river.

 

12.

 

The day is unimportant.

 

 

café lady

 

bukowski is making me feel unsettled tonight

i like bukowski

just not right now

BECAUSE

OF

A

FINE

CAPTIVATING

LADY

she's got me

strung up tense

with sexual anxiety and false promise

café lady

caught my eye

just the one eye

the other was looking for a job

café lady

caught my eyes

unlikely café queen

thank you

you are beautiful

you seemed shy

i liked that

me eyes were excited and agitated

they flickered with intrusive rudeness

i

the café deviant, sexual voyeur

whilst the others

engrossed themselves in the papers, novels and trivial conversation

pseudo intellectual blether

perhaps they were talking about me

i was trivial

i was also a suckerfish

to the distinguished-looking lady

in her thirties

prime age

bored excited feisty thirties

sweet faced

soft skinned

brunette beaut

pert little tits

in harmony with pixie body

dark brooding sharp experimental experienced eyes

smiles and sex

this lady was glorious

i wanted to celebrate that with her

touch her

hold her

fuck her

i'd do anything for her

would i?

not a worry in the world

or a thought for the world

just the dainty peeress

to her voice

her smooth american quiet voice

i liked the writers

now i loved this woman

i smiled

i was exceptionally happy

she had brought excitement

to an otherwise grey and rotten day.

 

 

k induced strangeness

 

entering the pantheon

of non literate gods

eyes shot on borrowed whiskey

and

k

from bike riding gorilla

 

writing with fury

visions of

acidic bubbles and misty clouds

this is my

bespoke blether

k induced strangeness

i have burnt

the dictionary

i have kicked

the well informed mind

because it ain't mine

and i'm going to straddle

a plastic doll from the gutter

and grab a hopeless

pair of corduroy jeans

get warm

then dangle broken shoes

from my ears

all the while

feeling my straw hair

with oily hands

 

sight on k

loses all sense of space

and perspective

a miniature sculpture

has grown

into a giant leprechaun

sitting on a hill that

is actually a bed

nothing is miniature about

this k induced strangeness

 

enough of this stupidity

 

looking out at the straits

of red bricks

the pub with

overpriced pool tables

pool

the fool's game

the everyman's game

my favourite game

but a game

that is not half as interesting

as a taxi driver

with dark devil eyes

staring up at the window

of my soul and scorched wits

we both lock minds

can he see my brain vibrating?

if I can't feel the vibrations

then his images must be false

and if I am the decider

of all things true

then this here

is a damned fucking sham

so I'm going to sit

and pet the falsities

and decide that nature

be the truth bearer

because the moon looks like

it could save me

it's calm

and it likes my eyes

I'm going to flirt

with the moon for a while

and make the moon

the end of this.