THE TEMPLE

This is supposed to be a tranquil place

There are a lot of bald people here

And most of them haven’t needed

To shave their heads

I overhear a man

‘the suit just fell off me and here I am’

I like that, the curtain falling

The mask slipping

But it is not calm here

I look at the statue of the fat man

He’s all lotus flower;

Smiling benignly

And the reason he looks so calm

Is because he’s asleep.

If we could all just sleep

If I could just get some sleep

I’d be all hues of white pink

Rather than heavy murk

And coffee stained

Grey ash in my mouth.

I look above to escape the ground

And those clouds race over like,

Like white flies born from something rotten

I claimed sanctuary here,

Still they come.

ALL MY FAVOURITE LOVE STORIES, I’VE NEVER BEEN A PART OF

I cry at my television

Cry and feel stupid

And sometimes clever

At the little dots

That makes up her face

Crying more dots

I’ve been following the story

For four years

She’s just found out

John-o has been

Fucking Sarah

For those long,

Four years

This is moving Pop Art

This is the best novel

I don’t have to read

This is Neanderthal man

Sitting round

Roasting stories

On the open fire

Only I’m alone

With an empty Heineken can

& I’m not crying

I’ve got soap in my eyes.

ELECTRICAL STORM

All day I sit

Dead eyed

Staring at the electronic clock

Not like the ticking clock

You don’t know how time passes

It jumps

It thinks

In its computer way

‘I’m going to be 11:37

NONONO

11:20

NONO NO

Let’s go back to that 9:00 bullshit’

I call bullshit,

Why can’t you ever move

To where I get to move

From this ergonomic

Torture chair

The nails are facing down but

They prick me nonetheless.

I pray for an electrical storm

To gather and arc its white fists

Down on London’s power grids

But like praying,

I know no one’s getting this.

Not even you.

DINNER PARTIES

We were at a dinner party

And dinner parties

Are not really parties

Parties where Andy’s

Drinking piss

Out of a beer bong

Marcus is in the toilet

With someone

And he’s definitely

Not shitting

Because my drink

Is vibrating &

The whole ceiling

Is snowing down.

No, no party.

You were drunk

And wrapping your words

Around stones

Trying to be clever

Coming across

Drunk.

Some people

Manage to hold it in.

I took a gurgle of red wine

And brought

The glass down

Hard

And the stem

Got stuck

In the table

Like a rock pick

Or ghost of a tree.

The three

Anecdoting guests

And you

Had red wine

All over your faces

Too stunned

To move

My white shirt

Was polka dot;

The Thai green curry

Was very good that night.

SUN GODS

She is on the cover

Of a magazine

And he looks like the cover

Of a fashion magazine

They’re flicking through

The A4 pages

Tearing out what they see

Green gold

Red blue

Cheeks

Pretty pretty

As can be

He’s as pale

As paper or bone

And it could be said

That’s just his skin tone

She’s been sunbathing

Now she’s the shrivelled one

Crying out to the sky

WHAT THE FUCK

HAVE YOU DONE

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE

Yeah, what have I done?

He’s blowing

Smoke rings

All around me

And she’s buying

Pretty things

So she’s all

I see.

Skinny dinners

This temple is lean

Sleeping in the bath

Pulp is glowing clean

She’s on the cover

Of a magazine

He’s on the cover

Of a magazine

Sun gods hit hot streets

Necks craning, heads high

Walk through

Walkthrough

But know sun gods,

It’s only mine

And the eyes of the sun

Who are watching you

I think you know

What I mean

Stuck on the cover

Of magazines.

HOLIDAY

I’ve got my bags

Packed

I got nowhere to go

She said

‘I’m leaving you’

I said

‘Well, I’m leaving too’

On holiday

Oooooooo

Holiday

Me by my lonesome

But yep

That’s O.K.

I rode the circle line

Underground

Round and around

Round and around

I saw some girl

In some shoes

Some new shoes

I thought

‘My god, what shoes’

Her feet we’re little palaces

Laced up castles

Crystal blues

On holiday

Mamamama

Your son’s

Jet-setting

Free drink getting

Sun Setting

No longer

Bed wetting

Holiday maker

Papapapapapa

Your son’s

Heart breaking

Earth quaking

Heart breaking

Holiday maker

Nut cracker

Crowd tracker

Job sacker

Pool slacker

I got my ray bans

Got an even sun tan

I’m beyond all reprimand

Got a beer to hand

Is this heaven

Or have I met my end

The barman here

He’s my best friend

Yes,

The very best.

THINGS ARE CUT UP

Things are cut up

Around here

With scissors

Snip snip

At new found photos

Of long lost loves

And churches

From the heavens above

The priest opens a bible

Like a gardener with his shears

Things are cut up round here

Doctors stealing babies

From mother’s love-sack

Doctors dealing with the weight

From father’s stomach

He’s been empty eyed

And hollow skulled

Since doctors

Made his semen

Seagulls

He raises his glass

For another beer said

'things, well

Things are cut up round here'

Young thieves

They twist the knife

Into a vodka veined

Pregnant wife

She howls like a cat

Unto the moon

But those kids sing

A different tune

HAWOOOOOOO

NONONONONO

SLEEPING

It’s early morning

And the terrible beats

Are still pounding my head

And I’m all out of pounds

Wishing I had some left

Had some of that morning sky

That looked like cheetos and bubblegum

I stayed out

All night

On what I could get my hands on

And it’s all so much better than sleeping

So much better than sleeping

And the night keeps on creeping

Death’s cousin keeps on creeping

It’s mid-afternoon

I’m riding Pegasus to the shops

For a pint of milk

Two cans of beer

And pork chops

Well I’m not really hungry

But you know how it crops up

Red-eyed

This world is

A different world

My mind stops.

It’s night

I lasted the whole day

Trying to keep those eyelids at bay

And I shake and shiver

As those pork chops

Go on the baking tray

I’ve just got to keep awake.

No, I’m sleeping.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

He gave her a card

For her birthday

Inside it said:

‘I know no other way’

He gave her a kiss on the lips

For her birthday

Inside she said:

‘Whggg elshh wuu yuu schtay’

Happy birthday

They’re running out

Happy birthday

They’re running out

She had a cake with her name on it

She cut the cake and gave me a bit

It said HA and we laughed some

She kiss my face, my feet went numb

En route out I got a party bag

Her mum glared at me as her tits sagged

We sweated sugar on the patio

A kid stole my party hat

oh no.

Everyone sang a stupid song

So I ran out

I love parties

This one did not pan out

The candles melted her fathers face

Her brother threw up on himself

Too much cake

Fuck growing old

Old woman

THIS WORLD WILL EAT ITSELF

There are fewer

Things in life

Finer when your wallets

Empty

Than the burn

Of a bottle of red

Left on windowsill

In the full roar

Of the lion sun

Or that cigarette butt

With at least four

Inhalations left.

Or eating

Children

Women & men

The elderly

Frail

Trees, stolen

Fruit emerald green

Harsh blackened

Bricks,

Gherkins, entire

Films and inky symbols

The mind makes

Plastocine figures from

I catch sight of myself

In a shop window

Eyes as big as beachballs

And I try to swallow

Myself.

'I'M GOING TO GO THE WAY THE FIRE DOES'

'I'm going to go

the way the fire does'

she said with conviction

'what does that mean?'

'I'm going to burn'

She again said with conviction

'What does that mean?'

'They're going to bake me

and I'll smolder and cook'

'Are you talking about cremation?'

'Yes'

Spoken poetry is often too much

It makes people

Sound like Lewis Carroll

Day to day to day

Cannot function

If everyone sounded

Like Lewis Carroll.

DRINKING IN THE DAY

Great while

The sun is up

A sedative

When it’s down.

I sat and watched

The floating heads

Move past the high restaurant windows

I lookedat the menu,

Brakspear battered haddock with spindly maris piper chips, grover clot mushy peas and tartar sauce to taste

I order another

Golden crown beer

And watch

The floating heads

Blur

VOYEURS

I watched from the window

That night

He stuffed the leg

Into the boot of his car

That was dark red by day

And black when it was not.

The car was already full

Of cardboard crisp boxes

Plastic tubs of stuff

And the other

Bits and pieces

That make up a life.

I watched and trembled

As one piece of the ceramic leg

Cracked

Against the boot’s door

He roared

He pulled the whole pink leg out,

The lampshade attached

To the top of the leg

Was frayed and torn.

His face was the same colour

As his car in the day

And it was the night.

He stood the leg up,

And walked off down the road

The wind took to the leg

And blew the pink pillar over.

It smashed into many pieces.

The owner did not notice

Though he seemed no longer concerned,

Now shouting at the orange street lights

And I think I understood;

No-thing looks good in the dark

Especially not a lamp or leg.

RUINED HOOD

See me Brothers, I hath sank down low

And I quiver with these tremens

My lips are pursed as with

The yellow bitterness of lemons;

I’ve many knots to my bow

I still keep my hood up

To hide my hairline

And I walk alone

With crooked back and mind

From the many green moons of lying

With ugly women and on casks of wine

I can tell you the change of tune:

The middle classes,

They got no silver spoons

They’ve accountancy firms

Short back and sides, dyed perms,

Sweaty holidays and pricey sunglasses

Sure, there is still the poor, but no rich

And all the women think my tights are kitsch

So let me enounce my creed:

Where my last bolt lands, plant a seed

If the seed grows or no, I can’t guarantee

If it does, let it become a tree

And when it sheds its first brown leaf,

Dig me up brothers and bury my teeth

DEATH IS A HOOVER SUCKING AT YOUR FACE

I know it’s hard to believe

But it’s true

I didn’t believe it myself

Until I lay on the carpet

And watched her roll the urn

Across the pile

And saw the disappearing

Of dust

Into the raucous void.

The skin from

Goebbels’s right arm

Is shook together

With ash from the chimneys

(The stuff

You keep away from in life

You’ll meet again someday)

It’s all in there

Baudelaire, Mark Speight, John Frank:

My hippy swimming teacher when I was 7

Who fell from his motorbike seat,

Tanned brown from sweat

And exploded into dust

People are exploding all the time

And it’s up to the hoovers of the world

To clean them up.

I know

I sound like one

Of John Frank's

Hippy creeds

when I say this

But I have no doubt,

We'll see each other soon

See you soon.

THE ANTS MOVE ACROSS HER LIKE TINY PERVERTS

THE ANTS MOVE ACROSS HER LIKE TINY PERVERTS

AND THERE IS NO WAY I CAN KILL THEM ALL

I GUESS I WILL HAVE TO GIVE UP

BEING A JEALOUS MAN

GRABBING LIFE BY THE BULLHORNS

I held on tight
sweaty on
the bullhorns
dear life, not
that great
but good when you
are going fast;
blue bolt on a cold
night. Ourobouric wheels

They do not stop

For anything.
Greasy spoon of
a man leers at my mechanical
charm, forget it.

Grey cloud, smothers

the sun, forget it.

Bills, taxes, troubles,

old loves, new loves,

forget it.
Too fast.
Going great.

MY AURA IS THE COLOUR GRAPE

BLACK DOG FEAR

sitting to write;
trying to concoct the WORLD
and
THE GREATEST POEM
is like the hiccups
that black dog fear
that it is never going to end
'HUCK' and another line is
HUCKadded and an-HUCK-other
and so on
the difference between these
two compared instances
is one of them tends
to end and so there is relief
from the other
HUCK
there is no relief.

what must be

what must be
one of the greatest
incentives for holidays
in countries whose words
you cannot follow
is all the conversational drivel
and wordy detrite
run like rivers of golden pears:
the neon adverts are just people
having a great time
the red signs telling you NO
may as well be notices for sex-shops.
people shout good tidings for standing
and drinking beer
naked on streetcorners .
and when i have to open the gates
to my rubbish tip,
i can keep it short
keep it sweet
and only a few dirty cans fall out
Now if you'll excuse me
I have a streetcorner to get back to.

THINKING CUN BE DIFFUCILT

Eliah sat down on a coffee
Warming his ever-growing belly
He were this morning
Of an intellectual kind
But when tried to think of something
Well, nothing came to mind
Yeah, his head were shot
Stomach - tied tight in knots.

A lilted wind blows
& lifts the skirt on
A fresh pair of pink-pale legs
Longer than they ought – wah
Now there’s a thought!
Interjected Eliah cutting his mind
Mid-flow
Deah-oh
You can’t force it see, just
Got to let it come
Thought Eliah, biting his thumb
A rat, gnawing at its cage
Gosh, the best, hard thought
Eliah had had in an age.

ELIAH GOT A BONE TO PICK

And pick and scratch
he does, crick crack
he open his book
of matches and
close it quick
he read that book
from begin to end
so has reality bends
today he don't
he stand all holey
OH but waiting to get holey
to the coffin or the bar
he don't really care

BULL IN THE NIGHT

Eliah, he just sit there
'It don't do nothing' he think
'It just sit there'
coldhard, not saying nothing
just waiting, all patient
For the bold bright flare to
send it sailing into the bare
flesh, skin, vein, muscle
you know; he jostles
'it be as lead-black as the night
aaa-and sometime after, it go white'

DOING NOTHING

i'm watching
the SMALL ORANGE CAT
on the flat tiled roof
that's watching intently
the FAT GREY PIGEON
on the television aerial
that isn't watching anything
just staring intently into nothing
interfering with my neighbour's
reception
someone makes a
HCKKKKKKKH
of a cough
and they both
go
their separate ways

WORLD: YOU SCRAGGLY OLD BOOT

i kick you off
and still you cling
with rotten smells
of animals - long since passed
of time - every step
you ever walked
be it over sand
grit, flowers
shit
the indifference of your soul
(ahaha, sorry Emerson
i couldn't resist)
that hardened the
calouses of my own skin
old shoe, old shoe
today has been work
work and walk
so today you can
stick around
so bad feet
i'll sleep in you

YOU WOULD HAVE TO DO THAT

Yeah, you would have to do that.

Both of us, sitting up on the sand roof

Of your over-priced apartment

Feeling the grains warm

As the Eastern sun

Cracks like a blonde egg

“This is all there is”

You say, quoting crane

And I can’t stand Crane’s dictatorial

Bridge-building jabber.

My eyes are falling out my head from the view

Or from fatigue of the night and day before

Or both, I can’t say

Yeah, ‘this is all there is’

You would have to do that

Seal yourself into my memory

With well-placed, disliked words

I can’t think of summer

Without being back on that roof

You standing behind

Eating cherry red ice-cream

That had never seen a cherry

And your benign grin

Thanks but no thanks

But yes, thanks.

GO GET THE GOAT

Nothing gets the goat

Like being told you are wrong

And you are, you all are

I say,

At least twice a day

A statistic just made up

To demonstrate that

Though you may toil all night

Crossout and blacken page after page

Feverishly spit dust from grinded teeth

You cannot write

What you’d like to write

When you focus on ass

O nance.

BAD MAGIC

I have trouble with feeling

When mixed with fiction.

It’s a dangerous and bad-tasting

Cocktail.

Films, adverts

Music, novels

Poetry.

The notion that

I am being told what to feel

And so what to think.

The rising Elfman score

At epic moments

The new backs

Of cigarette packets

Words of fiction

Postured as truth

And sadness? Emotion

That a nine year old’s

Drama play could conjure.

And I feel I am that nine year old

Watching the world

Of so many cheap magicians

Pulling the same balding rabbit

From the same old hat

For time immemorial

WATCHING JUDITH

Judith sits

In a wicker

Chair,

Watches the

Blue day until

There’s no blue left.

Turning on

The porch light

The decking is gold

For five

Until the bulb

Is carpeted in moth

To her left,

Is the window,

Inside was her reflection

That the dark severed

She kisses the pane

In the open night

The whole world

Is as close

And as clear

As the inside of her mind

The bulb becomes

Hot and the moths

Bounce on the glass

They let the light spill

Over the two Judiths

The dust insects

Butt and burn

Till the sun rises

And they either

Sleep

Or fly

Into the sun.