Fancy a pint?
I will sit with you
While you sit on your pew
I will listen to you
What do you have to say?
Not what the man told you
But what has filled you
Where’s your muse?
Where’s your heart?
And smoke and drink
We’ll smoke and drink
Laughing at death
Laughing at the next day
Let’s embrace our chimes
And drink the world away!
the beautiful and the damned
dolls whitewashed folk carnival of gamin
canals of Amsterdam
confrontational factory
taxi
photogenic acolytes
brutal messiahs
grope crotch
magic.
gypsy hick punk
they have pot holes on their faces
they have colourful souls
not everyone
I am thinking I am writing
I am dropping my butt
I write for lost men who want to find themselves
I write for you
writers can clean up your dirt
my dirt my treasure
juggling sense and nonsense
I think you should put that pheasant in the back of your car
skin it cook it
cook it up nicely
eat it
read what you will in literature
see what you will in paintings
hear your will in tones
dance on the rainbow of sound
dance on your tomb
make your own films
make your space make your time
snort your stupid fucking gain line
leave me the fuck alone
let me walk down the streets kicking stones
minding my own business
I still throb to your pulse
I move to you
to become is to move air
get your kick get your flick get your fill
easy ride but don’t fuck with a coal miner
he will pollute you with his toughness
what’s your instrument?
it doesn’t matter
fuck your instrument
play it
fuck it
spread your seed
look after your eggs
take a stroll with Joe Pass
take the cheeky girl and turn her in to a foxy lady
make her your woman
support the underdog
they need your support
take each other
hold each other
fuck every harbinger who doesn’t think the rules apply to them
tongue your demand in lunar bazaars
measure twice cut once
don’t measure
don’t cut
contradict
breathe
that slide is your soul’s cry
it’s the tube for your fire
it’s the blood of an aborigine
bring it
bring your fucking shit
shit on me
spit on me
sod your contract
make something
take your laughing gas
I am laughing and I ain’t got any gas
I know I am running on empty
do you know you are empty?
I know I will meet angels in hell
I got the devil in me
he rips me up and throws a confetti soul at the night
this night of all nights
a night of dogs long shots and flies
continental chain smokers and missing identities
serving mugs in carnival kitchens
ordinary people flagged
every fucking person snagged
don’t read me
I am reading you
if you want to play Jesus Christ you better take the cross
sit on your Eiffel Tower
I am beautifully confused with this sitting
calmness and chewing
citrus and sugar cane
my cud is your heart
rain thunder blood venom hatred
you can piss on me
but know I will piss on you
I am a bard I can jig
you can take my come
take your licks
be a subjugated fool if you want to
I am walking to my own tempo
I’ve got weaknesses
I am working on my weaknesses
many fucking weaknesses
I am working on my weaknesses
passion makes me ride my three legged horse
he’s a mad horse
he needs some love
I don’t need a doctor to save me
I need a nurse to cut me
my eyes are shot from the desperation of my puerile piston heart
they bleed for you in this lunatic factory
which takes madness to adapt to
don’t diagnose my devil
I know what to do with him
I know how to kick him
but sorry serpentine sunflower
you know how he kicks me.
Three Poems (June 20, 2009. Issue 6.)
TO
those who walked
in rotten shoes
clenching wild flowers
writing wet dreams
reading in naked flesh
screaming at lost windows
damning tyrants with eyeballs
grabbing peeresses
with which there was only one chance
moments meant to last
seconds or years
timely
abstraction
of
mutineer ideas.
leaf gone flown
standing outside butchers in St Paul’s Bristol
sweet street stench of weed
embodied beauty and mystery walked passed me -
a fine woman
long coat
carved white legs
sculpted breasts
stern pointy face
wise eyes
dark curly hair
I stood watching her
stung hung
as she saw thru me
feeling the late evening breeze on my face
and a pressed finger on my heart
I watched myself not ever seeing this woman again
knowing that only memory would embrace her
I watched her walk in to the distance
leaving a trail of loss in a lover and a victim.
angels and whores make art
when fear is kicked,
when ideas comes a-fluttering,
dynamism and craftsmanship become perfunctory cogs in the engine of I,
the angels become whores and the whores become angels, bedevilling separatism,
forming a splendid blended Taoist sun and moon VISION,
a garden of hallowed thought and tapped lettered venture, splattered paint,
dance and song,
a piece of purity (not an image) to be marvelled and celebrated,
a piece of ART.