in this world, you're going to want more than one face
and more than one dress
and more than one tongue
that's where jesus got it all wrong:
he didn't dress for the occasion
and he didn't mask up.
in this world, you're going to want to dabble in contradictions
in science and in magic
in both destruction and creativity
and in this world
i will radiate love
from every cell in my body
out
towards every enemy in uniform
and every villain in a suit
with infinite patience and sympathy
but you'd better fucking watch your step
if i catch you when i'm wearing black.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
sticks and stones
hope is a stone i sometimes find myself squeezing,
and i feel the slightest of tears
in the extensor digitorum of my forearm,
reminding me that what has been lost and damaged
must return stronger still.
this flexion and extension of broken muscle
acting against solid rock
is happening at the edge of the world,
right now,
in an empty forest
without light or trees,
and these arms, with everything else connected,
are naked.
there was a time i might have danced
and expected the world to dance with me,
but now we must squeeze at stones,
because everything is dead
and there is nothing else left to do.
and i feel the slightest of tears
in the extensor digitorum of my forearm,
reminding me that what has been lost and damaged
must return stronger still.
this flexion and extension of broken muscle
acting against solid rock
is happening at the edge of the world,
right now,
in an empty forest
without light or trees,
and these arms, with everything else connected,
are naked.
there was a time i might have danced
and expected the world to dance with me,
but now we must squeeze at stones,
because everything is dead
and there is nothing else left to do.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
recombination
let the chips fall where they may
scatter, and make patterns
to love someone
to be ejaculated into
to blend DNA
to half lose yourself
to shuffle the deck
to gamble your soul in some doubly twisted game
of sex and babies
and dominant alleles
and then you are gone
and there's this completely new person
who is you, but is not you
the sum of its parts
-or perhaps the product-
new, but not new
childish odds weighing up, mortal,
in the inescapable dialectic of meiosis.
scatter, and make patterns
to love someone
to be ejaculated into
to blend DNA
to half lose yourself
to shuffle the deck
to gamble your soul in some doubly twisted game
of sex and babies
and dominant alleles
and then you are gone
and there's this completely new person
who is you, but is not you
the sum of its parts
-or perhaps the product-
new, but not new
childish odds weighing up, mortal,
in the inescapable dialectic of meiosis.
Thursday, December 05, 2013
St. Paul des Métis and its message to the universe
Originally known as St. Paul des Métis, St. Paul is a town in east-central Alberta, Canada. The community was originally founded as a Métis colony in 1896, but the colony later dissolved sometime between 1905 and 1909. Since then the area has been made available to other groups, primarily the French-Catholic. The 2012 municipal census counted a population of 5,844.
St. Paul is home to the world's first UFO landing pad, built as a centennial project in an effort to attract both tourists and Martians to the municipality. The pad consists of a raised platform with a map of Canada embossed on the back stop, consisting of stones provided by each province of Canada.
On June 3, 1967, Paul Hellyer, Minister of National Defence, flew in by helicopter to officially open the Pad. The pad was one of over 100 Centennial Projects organized by the town. The sign beside the pad reads:
"The area under the World's First UFO Landing Pad was designated international by the Town of St. Paul as a symbol of our faith that mankind will maintain the outer universe free from national wars and strife. That future travel in space will be safe for all intergalactic beings, all visitors from earth or otherwise are welcome to this territory and to the Town of St. Paul."
St. Paul is home to the world's first UFO landing pad, built as a centennial project in an effort to attract both tourists and Martians to the municipality. The pad consists of a raised platform with a map of Canada embossed on the back stop, consisting of stones provided by each province of Canada.
On June 3, 1967, Paul Hellyer, Minister of National Defence, flew in by helicopter to officially open the Pad. The pad was one of over 100 Centennial Projects organized by the town. The sign beside the pad reads:
"The area under the World's First UFO Landing Pad was designated international by the Town of St. Paul as a symbol of our faith that mankind will maintain the outer universe free from national wars and strife. That future travel in space will be safe for all intergalactic beings, all visitors from earth or otherwise are welcome to this territory and to the Town of St. Paul."
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Man Nails Testicles to Red Square Cobblestones
Pyotr Pavlensky shocked visitors in Moscow’s Red Square by hammering a nail through his
scrotum into the floor outside Lenin’s Mausoleum, on the day Russia
marked its Police Day national holiday.
Pavlensky said of it:
‘A naked artist, looking at his balls nailed to the Kremlin pavement, is a metaphor for the apathy, political indifference, and fatalism of contemporary Russian society.’
Pavlensky said of it:
‘A naked artist, looking at his balls nailed to the Kremlin pavement, is a metaphor for the apathy, political indifference, and fatalism of contemporary Russian society.’
Thursday, October 31, 2013
in all the wrong places
insanity is in all the wrong parts of the world,
and the crash of a wave,
is not a lone sound,
but a thousand million simultaneous bubbles
going pop.
mental breakdown is rife.
but don't blame madness
- it's the world that's got the jive.
sociopaths run our unelected empires,
gambling labour hours and life insurance
in a rigged virtual market,
and half the world's greatest poets will have died illiterate,
never having had the chance
to set one word of ink against another.
why then shouldn't we cry at the skies?
oh insanity, how could you have been so misunderstood?
it is not always a breakdown,
but often a breakthrough
- a blitz of searing honesty!
not a glitch
to be put down
with sertraline
and a day's (unpaid) leave,
but a moment of clarity.
anything but drip-dry-compliance.
insanity is relative divergence.
it is escape,
it is survival,
it is digestion,
it is novelty,
it is love,
it is imagination,
it is the great quirk in the sky,
it is exploding mould,
the cracking of dirt,
the messy catharsis of desperate expression,
loose, mania,
a force, needing to be spun,
insanity can be an attempt at freedom.
insanity has been lost.
insanity is in all the wrong places.
and the crash of a wave,
is not a lone sound,
but a thousand million simultaneous bubbles
going pop.
mental breakdown is rife.
but don't blame madness
- it's the world that's got the jive.
sociopaths run our unelected empires,
gambling labour hours and life insurance
in a rigged virtual market,
and half the world's greatest poets will have died illiterate,
never having had the chance
to set one word of ink against another.
why then shouldn't we cry at the skies?
oh insanity, how could you have been so misunderstood?
it is not always a breakdown,
but often a breakthrough
- a blitz of searing honesty!
not a glitch
to be put down
with sertraline
and a day's (unpaid) leave,
but a moment of clarity.
anything but drip-dry-compliance.
insanity is relative divergence.
it is escape,
it is survival,
it is digestion,
it is novelty,
it is love,
it is imagination,
it is the great quirk in the sky,
it is exploding mould,
the cracking of dirt,
the messy catharsis of desperate expression,
loose, mania,
a force, needing to be spun,
insanity can be an attempt at freedom.
insanity has been lost.
insanity is in all the wrong places.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
message to my sensitive sardine
i'm typing too loudly.
the tap is running.
i piss at 3am.
how can i react to that?
what is it that you give these sort of people?
what do you say to that?
well, sucks to be you mate;
there's an old people's home across the street;
oh no there isn't, we're on the bethnal green high street.
the tap is running.
i piss at 3am.
how can i react to that?
what is it that you give these sort of people?
what do you say to that?
well, sucks to be you mate;
there's an old people's home across the street;
oh no there isn't, we're on the bethnal green high street.
fuck you,
you fucking fish
Friday, October 11, 2013
untitled pigeon poem
sad little pigeon
sad little deformed pigeon
sad little footless stump
in your little grey overcoat
hobbling aimlessly
pecking at dirt.
sad little wart
that headbutts the ground
forever chased
by giant children
who do not know your stupid pain.
in the rain
the world dribbles on you
from a broken throat
comes a sad, little, melancholy coo.
sad little threadbare wings
thick with soot
and city death.
you common little dreg
hopping on one leg.
sad little deformed pigeon
sad little footless stump
in your little grey overcoat
hobbling aimlessly
pecking at dirt.
sad little wart
that headbutts the ground
forever chased
by giant children
who do not know your stupid pain.
in the rain
the world dribbles on you
from a broken throat
comes a sad, little, melancholy coo.
sad little threadbare wings
thick with soot
and city death.
you common little dreg
hopping on one leg.
Tuesday, October 08, 2013
coming into focus
i remember
somewhere in between dreaming and awake
somewhere between death and life
half-empty and hung-over
small and swollen
moving with tides of nylon and polyester
groping at important blurs
and bulges that smelled of home sweet home
unable to command my extremities
somewhere between the conscious and the void
there was a kind of emerging colour
...
after that it's all a bit grey.
somewhere in between dreaming and awake
somewhere between death and life
half-empty and hung-over
small and swollen
moving with tides of nylon and polyester
groping at important blurs
and bulges that smelled of home sweet home
unable to command my extremities
somewhere between the conscious and the void
there was a kind of emerging colour
...
after that it's all a bit grey.
places i have slept
under bridges on frozen streams,
in smuggler's caves looking out over the atlantic,
in abandoned lots 2 to a sleeping bag to combat the cold,
in derelict asylums,
in squatted hotels,
naked on hospital roofs,
the countless unfinished houses and construction sites,
in fields under trees with bags hung high to stop the mice from nibbling,
in lay-by motorways ditches,
in train carriage cubicles,
in the rubble of dumpsters,
in leaking sheds next to burning bins to keep warm,
in hangars under cardboard duvets,
in parked cars that had the window down,
in shop doorways that left the shutters up,
under lorries to keep out of the rain,
in circus tents wrapped in curtains,
in abandoned tram depots,
in a tiny igloo that someone had built in the amsterdam frost,
in parks and in bushes,
by hotel vents for warmth,
on the incomparably uncomfortable metal grills of bus depot and train station benches,
broken into lofts,
children's playground structures,
the heads of wooden dragons or the hulls of colourful pirate ships,
the innumerable floors and beds of friends and strangers,
grassy hilltops and sandy beaches,
under suspension bridges,
in hidden basements as quiet as can be - save disturb the family that owns it,
in the mosquito ridden glades,
in trolleys,
in californian weed factories,
in the cockpit of an alexanderplatz crane,
in the room saturated with cat piss,
in the room full of fossilising dog shit,
in the unfathomable pitch black catacombs of derelict friedrichshain,
on the steps of the great post office museum of washington,
in seminars,
in coitus,
in clubs
and in cells.
these are places that i have slept...
in smuggler's caves looking out over the atlantic,
in abandoned lots 2 to a sleeping bag to combat the cold,
in derelict asylums,
in squatted hotels,
naked on hospital roofs,
the countless unfinished houses and construction sites,
in fields under trees with bags hung high to stop the mice from nibbling,
in lay-by motorways ditches,
in train carriage cubicles,
in the rubble of dumpsters,
in leaking sheds next to burning bins to keep warm,
in hangars under cardboard duvets,
in parked cars that had the window down,
in shop doorways that left the shutters up,
under lorries to keep out of the rain,
in circus tents wrapped in curtains,
in abandoned tram depots,
in a tiny igloo that someone had built in the amsterdam frost,
in parks and in bushes,
by hotel vents for warmth,
on the incomparably uncomfortable metal grills of bus depot and train station benches,
broken into lofts,
children's playground structures,
the heads of wooden dragons or the hulls of colourful pirate ships,
the innumerable floors and beds of friends and strangers,
grassy hilltops and sandy beaches,
under suspension bridges,
in hidden basements as quiet as can be - save disturb the family that owns it,
in the mosquito ridden glades,
in trolleys,
in californian weed factories,
in the cockpit of an alexanderplatz crane,
in the room saturated with cat piss,
in the room full of fossilising dog shit,
in the unfathomable pitch black catacombs of derelict friedrichshain,
on the steps of the great post office museum of washington,
in seminars,
in coitus,
in clubs
and in cells.
these are places that i have slept...
Wednesday, October 02, 2013
mug shot screen shot
first day at university
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
dirty love
dirt attracts dirt
and so finds itself
hobbling, and collapsing in on itself
tiny puffs of grime caught in orbit
the inevitable dance of dust and lint
like little space spindles
one rolling hair
under the invisible guidance of some inter-fibrous static cling
knitting flakes of epidermis
into a necklace of gunk and grit
lonely knots of pollen
blown broad across a llano of laminate lino
intrepid little tumble weeds
the woven wonders of mud mites and microbes
skirting the borders of barren contours
with a shiver here
and a quiver there
a storm of detritus
in the corners and canyons
until it clots and congeals
like a scab
like a conclusion
dirt is humble
dirt is patient
and so finds itself
hobbling, and collapsing in on itself
tiny puffs of grime caught in orbit
the inevitable dance of dust and lint
like little space spindles
one rolling hair
under the invisible guidance of some inter-fibrous static cling
knitting flakes of epidermis
into a necklace of gunk and grit
lonely knots of pollen
blown broad across a llano of laminate lino
intrepid little tumble weeds
the woven wonders of mud mites and microbes
skirting the borders of barren contours
with a shiver here
and a quiver there
a storm of detritus
in the corners and canyons
until it clots and congeals
like a scab
like a conclusion
dirt is humble
dirt is patient
Friday, September 20, 2013
this is the NEWS
today, there were incidents.
violent people were violent
and accidents happened.
in other parts of the world,
stupid people did stupid things.
innocents were hurt.
angry young men
directed by sociopaths
continue to be the main perpetrators.
cars crashed,
celebrities died.
freak incidents occurred
and chaos remains a factor
in day-to-day life.
violent people were violent
and accidents happened.
in other parts of the world,
stupid people did stupid things.
innocents were hurt.
angry young men
directed by sociopaths
continue to be the main perpetrators.
cars crashed,
celebrities died.
freak incidents occurred
and chaos remains a factor
in day-to-day life.
underground stop
3 girls,
after a century and a half of waiting,
prop up against tiles,
suckin teeth and fake leather,
yeh like w'ever.
immortal gum chewers,
nattering vintage plastic studs.
denim, double. bandanna. comb.
hunched shoulders and exposed bones
exploding in a tube
of high pressure air.
scalp pulled back
by the fierce atmosphere of the underworld.
the wind in the tunnel,
the wind in the pipes,
the wind in the vents,
making us feel so accompanied,
so alone.
we go into hiding,
in mirrors and make up.
laying it thick,
and sometimes thin.
the media, TV,
the powers that be.
a follicle deep zeitgeist
- no guts -
it's just dirt that won't wash off.
after a century and a half of waiting,
prop up against tiles,
suckin teeth and fake leather,
yeh like w'ever.
immortal gum chewers,
nattering vintage plastic studs.
denim, double. bandanna. comb.
hunched shoulders and exposed bones
exploding in a tube
of high pressure air.
scalp pulled back
by the fierce atmosphere of the underworld.
the wind in the tunnel,
the wind in the pipes,
the wind in the vents,
making us feel so accompanied,
so alone.
we go into hiding,
in mirrors and make up.
laying it thick,
and sometimes thin.
the media, TV,
the powers that be.
a follicle deep zeitgeist
- no guts -
it's just dirt that won't wash off.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
wet lettuces
wet lettuces, all around me! i must be trapped in a salad.
...and there's no dressing!
...and there's no dressing!
i am amused/disturbed (a classic combo) by an observation that the phrase "i like to have a drink" has changed its meaning from "i love the drink" to become "i sometimes have A drink": an afterthought added to the end of an introduction or character profile so as to add some virility to the manifestation of an otherwise timid and isolated generation. it is added as a plea to be considered something other than a total partypooper.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Nitrogen Bases
Adenine Thymine
Adenine Thymine
Guanine Cytosine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Cytosine Guanine
Thymine Adenine
Adenine Thymine
Adenine Thymine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Guanine Cytosine
Cytosine Guanine
Thymine Adenine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Adenine Thymine
Adenine Thymine
Adenine Thymine
Guanine Cytosine
Cytosine Guanine
Guanine Cytosine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Guanine Cytosine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Cytosine Guanine
Thymine Adenine
Adenine Thymine
Adenine Thymine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Guanine Cytosine
Cytosine Guanine
Thymine Adenine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Adenine Thymine
Adenine Thymine
Adenine Thymine
Guanine Cytosine
Cytosine Guanine
Guanine Cytosine
Cytosine Guanine
Adenine Thymine
Cytosine Guanine
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
black as a rejection of representation
order is the mother of anarchy
black eagle
black standard
or maybe golden
brown shirt
colour of shit
the deficient power of pink and yellow peoples
unread on white
the bleachy sheets
the jewish literature
the burnt orange peels of mary's martyrs
law & order
with ties to the klan
the red white and blue
the black and the tans
armies of infidels who might read the words
in good books
and green books
and little red books
black eagle
black standard
or maybe golden
brown shirt
colour of shit
the deficient power of pink and yellow peoples
unread on white
the bleachy sheets
the jewish literature
the burnt orange peels of mary's martyrs
law & order
with ties to the klan
the red white and blue
the black and the tans
armies of infidels who might read the words
in good books
and green books
and little red books
Poem for Arnold Schoenberg
monochrome string fingers
thumb a latch
opening Pandora's box
for want of new sounds.
this is curiosity beyond reasonable doubt,
because music must be more
than 12 discreet tones.
cords, reeds, threads and rope
clash like dice,
like a wreck
thumb a latch
opening Pandora's box
for want of new sounds.
this is curiosity beyond reasonable doubt,
because music must be more
than 12 discreet tones.
cords, reeds, threads and rope
clash like dice,
like a wreck
in Vienna, the laboratory of world destruction
the wind of other planets
whistles in rusty vents;
the broken backed arpeggios
and colourful strokes
scrambling for lost keys to open draws.
the emancipation of dissonance
has ushered knives into the playground
the wind of other planets
whistles in rusty vents;
the broken backed arpeggios
and colourful strokes
scrambling for lost keys to open draws.
the emancipation of dissonance
has ushered knives into the playground
long nights drawing in
the redness of your hands,
your wife's lover's hanging head,
the 13 dreams that haunt from
Expressionist shadows.
a dodecaphonic legacy of flinches
the redness of your hands,
your wife's lover's hanging head,
the 13 dreams that haunt from
Expressionist shadows.
a dodecaphonic legacy of flinches
you pass to new generations.
Strauss said you would have been better off shovelling snow
(an arctic slap to your self styled blue)
but your clattering extra ribs have made Cages.
wasn't it you who sang,
if we must commit artistic suicide; we must live by it
Strauss said you would have been better off shovelling snow
(an arctic slap to your self styled blue)
but your clattering extra ribs have made Cages.
wasn't it you who sang,
if we must commit artistic suicide; we must live by it
?
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
faux
marriages and mortgages,
and other domestic storms of false insurance,
are rigged to crash and burn.
there are more words spoken
that lie than tell truth.
the moment we start to utter
we are bound to abstract and distort.
never trust no one.
and if you have to gamble on the future,
be prepared to hedge your bets.
and other domestic storms of false insurance,
are rigged to crash and burn.
there are more words spoken
that lie than tell truth.
the moment we start to utter
we are bound to abstract and distort.
never trust no one.
and if you have to gamble on the future,
be prepared to hedge your bets.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
public transport transition 2
moisture in the atmosphere:
clouds will wet themselves.
cars makes waves in the air
as they roll at speeds.
scarred bus-stop perspex
rattles in its loose fittings.
streets are endless walls
without exits.
dirt thick drafts career through
mazes of terraced tunnels.
wind swept characters:
italic populations.
clouds will wet themselves.
cars makes waves in the air
as they roll at speeds.
scarred bus-stop perspex
rattles in its loose fittings.
streets are endless walls
without exits.
dirt thick drafts career through
mazes of terraced tunnels.
wind swept characters:
italic populations.
Sunday, May 05, 2013
collidescope
a pink flaming optical illusion
a gushing motorway trauma
a bending spectacle
a roll of tissue
paper tearing colours
past closed window panes
past pools of mercury
and the furious patterns
turning red
in jupiter's mad eye
all the ways a thing can break
beginning with chips and cracks
then the falling shards of glass
and subatomic dominoes
the numbers collapsing
the breeze-blocks pirouetting
the bricks and the cells
caught in chandelier tornadoes
this is broken light
this is refraction
a gushing motorway trauma
a bending spectacle
a roll of tissue
paper tearing colours
past closed window panes
past pools of mercury
and the furious patterns
turning red
in jupiter's mad eye
all the ways a thing can break
beginning with chips and cracks
then the falling shards of glass
and subatomic dominoes
the numbers collapsing
the breeze-blocks pirouetting
the bricks and the cells
caught in chandelier tornadoes
this is broken light
this is refraction
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
blow your fucking brains out
3 short 2nd person pwims about the crack, the grind, and central business district routines
the crack
crawl out of bed
smack in the temples
shattered
6 rashers of bloody blankets
a splash of flesh confetti
chew it
stumble
trot about the place rubbing your little squints
try not to look in the mirror
scrape out the crud
find ur keys
forget your daily chores
lock n load
keep telling yourself
william, william
we'll soon be flying
a coffee and another
catch the news
try to forget yesterday's nightmares
the pigs, the pigs
the motherfucking pigs
bringing heat to my porch
stay out of trouble
invest in an expensive fire alarm
don't even look outside
the box like a shrine
blink and you'll miss it
just try not to blink
the grind
sign in
pump your guns
spill your guts
wring out the mop
1.5 centimeters for your head
2.5 centiliters for a shot
record all waste
count money
listen to the way it sounds
listen as it passes through your hands
listen to the radio
familiar songs drowned in yeast and mildew
it can all be found behind bars
short sentences
make the talk small
make it puny
do not make eye contact
that's how they steal your soul
try not to touch
zero-hour contract diseases
personal hygiene is company policy
look forward to taking a shit
the stench of management never scrubs off
serve the people
smile
you're supposed to enjoy getting screwed
consider hitting the fire alarm
consider arson
steal stock
down booze to avoid delay
get the fuck out
walking home
a carpet of splintering chicken bones
a carnival of broken hen nights
testosterone saturated muscle and tendons
snapping wild in desperate whirlwinds
aimless people banished by rotten clubs
swaying siren dribble glitter
against smoke-stack panorama
wonder why no one else sees it
that the sky is red
shuffle on forward
crawl if you have to
merging with this grim english weather
the red white and blue again
like cold city ghosts
drifting after the carnage
a splutter, a cry
this bleary sob
this weekend dirge
a kebab shop scuffle
flashes of falling skin
puddles of red and lumpy orange
a collapse in society
try to regain consciousness
break into your own house
lock everything behind you
the crack
crawl out of bed
smack in the temples
shattered
6 rashers of bloody blankets
a splash of flesh confetti
chew it
stumble
trot about the place rubbing your little squints
try not to look in the mirror
scrape out the crud
find ur keys
forget your daily chores
lock n load
keep telling yourself
william, william
we'll soon be flying
a coffee and another
catch the news
try to forget yesterday's nightmares
the pigs, the pigs
the motherfucking pigs
bringing heat to my porch
stay out of trouble
invest in an expensive fire alarm
don't even look outside
the box like a shrine
blink and you'll miss it
just try not to blink
the grind
sign in
pump your guns
spill your guts
wring out the mop
1.5 centimeters for your head
2.5 centiliters for a shot
record all waste
count money
listen to the way it sounds
listen as it passes through your hands
listen to the radio
familiar songs drowned in yeast and mildew
it can all be found behind bars
short sentences
make the talk small
make it puny
do not make eye contact
that's how they steal your soul
try not to touch
zero-hour contract diseases
personal hygiene is company policy
look forward to taking a shit
the stench of management never scrubs off
serve the people
smile
you're supposed to enjoy getting screwed
consider hitting the fire alarm
consider arson
steal stock
down booze to avoid delay
get the fuck out
walking home
a carpet of splintering chicken bones
a carnival of broken hen nights
testosterone saturated muscle and tendons
snapping wild in desperate whirlwinds
aimless people banished by rotten clubs
swaying siren dribble glitter
against smoke-stack panorama
wonder why no one else sees it
that the sky is red
shuffle on forward
crawl if you have to
merging with this grim english weather
the red white and blue again
like cold city ghosts
drifting after the carnage
a splutter, a cry
this bleary sob
this weekend dirge
a kebab shop scuffle
flashes of falling skin
puddles of red and lumpy orange
a collapse in society
try to regain consciousness
break into your own house
lock everything behind you
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
loft
We don't have an active rat population without human activity.
We tempt them into our homes and workplaces with the shameful amount of
food we throw away. if people throw food litter around, or don't store
their refuse correctly, don't be surprised if you get rats. The ways in which rats
behave are usually a reflection of the way we behave.
scrub like an ancestor
on all fours again
breathing airborne rat flakes
decomposed rodent ash
i have marigolds for their grave
in the attic
heat rises
the build up of perspiration
inside latex gloves
sweat and dust congeal like a clam
like spit and flour
it binds like a film over my face
and rubs off like paste
like crud
like sin
like a second skin
i blow the hair up out of my eyes
rattling a million families of mites
it is a futile exercise
i've tried telling my mother
this war on dust
this fight against decay
this spring clean against high entropy
is too late
everything is already contaminated
scrub like an ancestor
on all fours again
breathing airborne rat flakes
decomposed rodent ash
i have marigolds for their grave
in the attic
heat rises
the build up of perspiration
inside latex gloves
sweat and dust congeal like a clam
like spit and flour
it binds like a film over my face
and rubs off like paste
like crud
like sin
like a second skin
i blow the hair up out of my eyes
rattling a million families of mites
it is a futile exercise
i've tried telling my mother
this war on dust
this fight against decay
this spring clean against high entropy
is too late
everything is already contaminated
Sunday, January 13, 2013
full fridge
my father comes home with more unnecessary food and opens the fridge and sighs. sighs because it is full. sighs because now there is no space for his new food. no more space for the 5th block of cheese* and the pack of the supermarket's "best" pork pies. except they're not the best. they just want you to think that. in fact it's exactly the same old eye-balls and asshole junk, but you feel better about it coz you are under the spell of their semantic lies. my father sighs genuinely and irritably because he doesn't know what to do. he sighs at the world for making it difficult for him. he sighs because someone has gone ahead, of their own accord, and FILLED the space that he now needs for his superfluous comfort shopping. oh sweet baby jesus - the tragedy of these first world problems. urch, and there's that noise again. that fretting, deleterious pant, huff and sniff that says he'll die of heart failure. he should see himself. not only is the fridge merely full, but it is so glutonously full that no one can even see to the back - to where the forgotten foods rot. this is insane. this is chokingly mad.
*this is not an exaggeration. i have before (if one were to include cream and spreadable varieties), counted over 10 types of cheese.
*this is not an exaggeration. i have before (if one were to include cream and spreadable varieties), counted over 10 types of cheese.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
patients
in waiting rooms people fall silent
for fear of being a nuisance.
the silence could be comfortable,
as in churches and libraries,
but this is a waiting room,
where everyone is waiting
for something.
and it's usually bad news.
and everyone wants it to happen as soon as possible,
which is the complete opposite of what's going to happen.
instead the silence is tense;
purposeful and strained.
a quiet standard has been set.
one that is communally maintained.
and for it, we repress all our personal tones
that might otherwise have blended
into the ambient sounds and phones
of chatter and clatter,
of rumbling syllables and burbling prosody.
silence is a mute and un-worded language
that screams social conformity,
and aids only in drawing attention to those things that pierce it,
such as the sound of an elastic band snapping,
a cough, a copy-cat, a snotty snort
a smothered sneeze, a child's cry,
a frustrated sigh,
or the awkward scuffle of chairs.
in these venues of taciturn delay,
as we endeavour to entertain ourselves with out-of-date gloss,
we notice
that when someone coughs
it is everyone's cue
to cough too,
quickly, within the constricting window of a second or so,
so as to get back to the holy hush
and the expanding span of polite indifference.
couldn't we all agree to murmur instead?
murmur and relax in the cushions and fog of ambiguous vibration,
giving our jerking anxiety soft corners.
bodily functions will not yield for the sake of a few decibels,
the lady across from me can testify,
as i pray for a cloud to rain lucky dribbles,
so that we may bask in the irregular giggles
of a spluttering tin roof.
i had an appointment for twenty to four
to discuss the joint dysfunction of my clicking jaw.
...at 5 o'clock i was told that i should be speaking to a dentist.
shhhhhhhh...
for fear of being a nuisance.
the silence could be comfortable,
as in churches and libraries,
but this is a waiting room,
where everyone is waiting
for something.
and it's usually bad news.
and everyone wants it to happen as soon as possible,
which is the complete opposite of what's going to happen.
instead the silence is tense;
purposeful and strained.
a quiet standard has been set.
one that is communally maintained.
and for it, we repress all our personal tones
that might otherwise have blended
into the ambient sounds and phones
of chatter and clatter,
of rumbling syllables and burbling prosody.
silence is a mute and un-worded language
that screams social conformity,
and aids only in drawing attention to those things that pierce it,
such as the sound of an elastic band snapping,
a cough, a copy-cat, a snotty snort
a smothered sneeze, a child's cry,
a frustrated sigh,
or the awkward scuffle of chairs.
in these venues of taciturn delay,
as we endeavour to entertain ourselves with out-of-date gloss,
we notice
that when someone coughs
it is everyone's cue
to cough too,
quickly, within the constricting window of a second or so,
so as to get back to the holy hush
and the expanding span of polite indifference.
couldn't we all agree to murmur instead?
murmur and relax in the cushions and fog of ambiguous vibration,
giving our jerking anxiety soft corners.
bodily functions will not yield for the sake of a few decibels,
the lady across from me can testify,
as i pray for a cloud to rain lucky dribbles,
so that we may bask in the irregular giggles
of a spluttering tin roof.
i had an appointment for twenty to four
to discuss the joint dysfunction of my clicking jaw.
...at 5 o'clock i was told that i should be speaking to a dentist.
shhhhhhhh...
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
scent of a woman
seeing is not believing coz looking at a picture or seeing someone from
across a room is still distant and heart-wrenching. but to sense
someone's natural scent, you have to be so beautifully, beautifully
close.
Women! What can you say? Who made 'em? God must have been a fuckin' genius. The hair... They say the hair is everything, you know. Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls... just wanted to go to sleep forever? Or lips... and when they touched, yours were like... that first swallow of wine... after you just crossed the desert. Tits. Hoo-ah! Big ones, little ones, nipples staring right out at ya, like secret searchlights. Mmm. Legs. I don't care if they're Greek columns... or secondhand Steinways. What's between 'em is a passport to heaven. ...I need a drink.
Women! What can you say? Who made 'em? God must have been a fuckin' genius. The hair... They say the hair is everything, you know. Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls... just wanted to go to sleep forever? Or lips... and when they touched, yours were like... that first swallow of wine... after you just crossed the desert. Tits. Hoo-ah! Big ones, little ones, nipples staring right out at ya, like secret searchlights. Mmm. Legs. I don't care if they're Greek columns... or secondhand Steinways. What's between 'em is a passport to heaven. ...I need a drink.
Wednesday, January 02, 2013
Christmas: the drinking game (festive diary entry)
overshadowed by the slap
a feeling of loss like someone stole your kidneys
but hasn't bothered to tell you yet
n you're feeling around your mid-riff
like "something aint right..."
so hungover i almost puked on the roast duck
why did they get the near vegetarian to do the carving?
shivering and clenching
after a tiny portion i nursed a beer for 5 hours
and bitched with our tiny extended family about what was on TV
every time i suck i get the taste of iron filings
leaking something dark and rotten
rich with mould and purple decay
i will never forgive myself for letting my teeth turn
from pebbles of young enamel into jagged chips
so much MXE on NYE i thought i had got to the end of the universe
where life repeats itself in a constant loop of inevitability.
after what seemed like years my mother woke me and i was struck
with an insane belief that i had finally been released from the asylum
but after a while everything went back to normal
carols and sirens merge in wet winds
chapped lips and brittle bones
riding the waves of fever
glad of a central heating system
and glad not to be flooded
a feeling of loss like someone stole your kidneys
but hasn't bothered to tell you yet
n you're feeling around your mid-riff
like "something aint right..."
so hungover i almost puked on the roast duck
why did they get the near vegetarian to do the carving?
shivering and clenching
after a tiny portion i nursed a beer for 5 hours
and bitched with our tiny extended family about what was on TV
every time i suck i get the taste of iron filings
leaking something dark and rotten
rich with mould and purple decay
i will never forgive myself for letting my teeth turn
from pebbles of young enamel into jagged chips
so much MXE on NYE i thought i had got to the end of the universe
where life repeats itself in a constant loop of inevitability.
after what seemed like years my mother woke me and i was struck
with an insane belief that i had finally been released from the asylum
but after a while everything went back to normal
carols and sirens merge in wet winds
chapped lips and brittle bones
riding the waves of fever
glad of a central heating system
and glad not to be flooded
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)