the legs are out again

it's summer and there are legs again - these legs - these kempt and bobbing heads - these beautiful brain bowls with bending lips - slippery slopes equating degrees of sex and hormonal jilt - smooth rejection like limp wrists - deep and violent eye shadows - my doe-eyed dotes and a bondage of brides - like a gaggle of geese - laughs open wide and belts tied to the side - the brass shine of thighs and nylon - my fantasy - like horses in the night - clean bite - blonde hair of pigs, platted - like a fair tail with airs of aesop.

drunken rambling in Mauerpark, Berlin

public transport transition 1

we're pulling off from the platform
with a tug.

off the rails
and into the dark.im dwelling on it;
on the pull of possession.

begin to lose track,
but the webs save the weight.
the spider ties
and elastic nerves;
saving tons.
spring loaded suspension
stringing me along.

the luxury of buffers and shock absorbers.

odd and even anti (everything is marketable)

alternative is

a swallow

tattoo on the back of your neck

and a black
and red colour combination.

and

the ghetto is clean

trainers and braggable jewellery.

different like everyone else

the world isn't upside down

the poles swap

every few hundred thousand years

the world is outside in.

CEOs wear t-shirts splashed with THUG LIFE

elitist cliques of proletarian chic

afford the poverty

of prada tracksuit insurgents

and a middle class flat cap resurgence

flatpack claptrap

covered by a tatty home

insurance jargon pile-on

some people

put on a cockney accent

some put on a pair of pre-ripped jeans

adding insult to injury

they copywrited the graffiti

of true grassroots reaction

for a suit & tie marketing ploy

to sell us back the ghetto.

some people spend money on making themselves

(out to be) poor.

engaged

i kill 3 beetles while i wait for my wired asshole to relax. one of the 3 is BIG and lies squashed between my legs, looking up at me while im trying to get in the mood, its creepy legs, contorted in a neat splat, twitching occasionally. it's a real turn off. theyre coming up through the dried out drains of rickety campsite troff and bucket plumbing. there's no graffiti in the cell. what shame. shame on the scrub of a cleaner's brush, censoring these public message boards. these open forums of slander and frustration. no memo of the best night you never remembered, or the happy hour register of 2006: jez bartley? here. sarah miller? here. sexy-marvin? here. stan-the-man? was ere '06. we were all there. no scribbled midnight confession, no scrawled biro-political slogans, no carved tribal allegiance to the team, no obnoxious outbursts of hate in tipex. not even a pencil cock & balls. the shame of those blank surfaces. this cold come down. lock jaw, nausea, flashback. dizzy: but then i see a light at the end of the tunnel. a motion! a motion! stay with it. holding that frequency of concentration so tight - it's damn near meditation. desperate, summoning my pineal gland to astral project cosmic rays to uranus. i dream of uncorking a bottle of champaign - of squeezing the last toothpaste from the tube - of unscrewing the lid of a sealed new jar - of babies' heads popping out of vaginas - of the sun being eclipsed by the moon - when - like one of god's reluctant rewards - a miraculous tremor in the bowels. i brace myself and then comes the quake. report - trajectory impact: minimal. debris: easily managed with sparing sheets. thank xenu. there's only 5 leaves left. i pull out my black bic chisel tip and give the toilet bowl my signature. art. it's a joke. toilet humour. my territory.

when you're taking a shit, your asshole is the star of the show.

gorge

the trickle down trees

smell like green

daylight thunder

in schizophrenic forest acoustics

the electric backchat

of backhanded echoes

talking to yourself

under rough and tumble tons of lime

the rain harping on

like a tip-tap

tip tap