Creature.

Waiting for a Guide.

Written Whilst Showering/Cooking.

Soft and ugly
Lost in Wormwood,
Now orange pips,
Speak with chapped lips
Wrinkled fingertips
Point to mid-afternoon apathy.

Coffee Chocolate.

Being in awe of people
Becomes less fun with age.

Being sad and slobbish
Leapfrogged Hollywood on the back of clockwork and mundaneity.

The world on stilts is far less permeable with each project,
With each cavern eyed admiration
With each hungry whistle
And call with pianissimo for talent.
Ignore perspiration as salt solution
While the fun and age
Sit solid in lumps, keyhole the laws.

The Maladroit Previous.

The space between the dirt on
The mirror and its reflection is unassailable space.
The same space leaves me crushed, voice breaking inside collapsed lung,
The air I breathe amateur
The paleness of my eye sewing into this world
The harboured loss of time and
The floundering lack of string.

The inferiority of my trails is colourless and it's raining needles again.

Codshit.

The boy pushes out vomit onto the floor of the bath,
watches it splatter over the white porcelain
mixing with the water running off his doubled body.
The vomit looks like lentils in olive oil.
It comes up easy.
He turns, lets the pokey jets fill his mouth with warm water,
diluting the bile on his tonsils.
The boy spouts it directly at the vomit to make it scatter further.
The music in the clammy, adolescent, springtime air is a kind reminder of the previous night.
As if he is in some kind of music video,
the boy closes his eyes and
lets his neck creak backwards,
so the water wets his aching desert hair and pressurised skull
as the kick drum walks in.
The boy tries to decide whether to eat something or bring up more oily lentil vomit.
A coat of images superimpose over
A happy swarm.
He stays in the shower for another thirty minutes,
only gets out when the cassette stops playing.
Chewing gum and peppermint tea, feel the goo melt warmish.
Feel your brain go soft.

Fingers Crossed.

Pigswill descent from pubescent woodland, Middle England beckons
Faded alarm in translucent morning loses movie grain
Becomes ITV awful.
Not seen through any other eyes, not considered any other mind
In this working week long memory.
Tree sap sticky makes it hard to clap
Gets harder though when you clap for saplings.
Morning light the sweetest and greenest
The graphite guilt sweeps swan feathers under dusty rugs
Wombs are lined with loquacious
And for the meantime I request fully ignored and unrequited
Requests for the turn to end.
The act will not change,
Not yet.

Big Wing No Balls.

I forgot my poppy.
Umbilical lottery winner won a battle of lucky time,
Though lost in a supermarket of proven time -
Underdeveloped and weak
But lucky.
Seventy years and I forgot to fight.

My Enemy.

Ruinous wretch.
Rainbow slipstream.
Never been punished.
And for that matter,
Probably never will be punished.

Ingrained pugnacity, pink slip placement complex
Makes me sick.
Roadblock head, square and alarming,
Take from it the bouncy castle whir reverberating inside the walls
Of pretentiousness.
Take from it the apoplexy that draws no small amount of catalyst into its dire chamber.
Sometimes none at all.
Take from it the hypocrisy and the second set of lines orbiting the clamorous hooves.
And you are left with a robotic nuisance-
Father, Father, if only Mother were more like you,
With an eye for a malleable mass,
And with a minty resolve.

Mother, the bringer of eggs,
And where eggs crack, the basket softens.

Mother did crack,
And the fractures ran doglegged, cracking, spreading, unrelenting, disease.
Living.
Lining with self-impressed toxin the inner insulation of the skull,
Where candles of epiphany burn down to streaks of insignificant wax,
Lyrically impaired,
Lost in a city sea of lights and reflections from that fluorescent arse.
Fake in its glow, artificial air
Musk around the unwitting family of Frankensteins.

Foul electricity.
Great White Shark pupils.
Ears deafened by an envelope of cacophony.

The Hall of Mirrors a Narcissistic smokescreen, these reflections leave me awake and choking,
In the midst of gutless authorisation.
Invaders' footprints take the longest to wash from the carpet,
Especially when sun-bleached in the eyes of the blind.
I am awake and choking, dagger stiller beneath my pillow.

Infinity/2011/Drawbridge/Bill Murray Forever/25 hours.

If today lasted forever
the biro messages you melt into your felt skin
would be pain free tattoos
the day would last forever
and pain would be temporary enough.

Protract! X.

Photogenic Sneezing.

Thunder shall provoke
And longer days evoke
Exciting ice cream exclamation
And I shall sneeze exhaustion everywhere
Because of the strong light
And I shall also photosynthesise and renew
Myself in strength and exchange.

Pleasure in a circle of deciduous forest.

I shall propel myself backwards and infiltrate
my vertebrae and elasticise
myself
I shall tsunami my pupils and their infinite blankness
And make it good
For my brain
Which I shall also infiltrate and elasticise.
I will feel better, haha.
Hello and welcome.
Wow, I feel better,
I’m not bored.

Green and Swollen/Nice.

A hole punched head
Slow motion
Leak free dark juice wet leaves soaked then crisp now
Break like the rest of us and jail break too
Warm wind passes through broken countenance
Crescent moon bright teeth another bright light
Eyes closed as well
Body sways, head swims
Feel the moment wash over you like backwashed pebbles
Clean shave, smooth rock
Air easy, air heavy, air wet and sweaty
Even the water inside dances.
Air the soles of your shoes
Air at last so pertinent
One reason, people united
Temporary but beautiful
Art air, facial grazing
Graze on the moment
Swallow and open eyes
Let in light, charred retinas will preserve
The greenness of the grass.
Howl like a dog.
Heart beats with renewed purpose,
This is life!
Ah, fuck.

Shut Door/Open Windows.

Landscape of steam, submit palette life!
Wispy revolutionaries
Were we (in sweet days, in salty nights)
And
We still are
I’m sure.
90%.

The day bakes outside,
Organic and well versed.
I know not the smell of ink or sweat
Not truly.
10%.

The Penny Jar.

Where did it go?
To the dogs, to the dentists,
In a murmur of halitosis.
It is with the eels, scattered amongst the footprints
Of thieves!
Lost over a thousand horizons –
The notion nauseates, un-complementary and um-imaginative.
It followed the other bitter lemmings.
Sulphuric acid streams beneath downcast eyes,
Washes havoc,
Stinging and dry is the revolving door.
It followed countless excuses
On their way out of that mess
And into dissolution.
Naïve romance burgeoned on frantic and classic
Disappointment
Before abandoning hollow flutes and clipper ships
To sling tear duct ice bomb glance magnet sea drops
To swim with airy, tidy horror.
It abducted, from the night, soap and water.
It left me clammy and useless in a dirty shell
Whose lunacy is the chemical denier of class.
It magically disappeared
Like New Years Resolutions –
So early.
And in a misty swarm of deodorising particles
With their endearing glint,
And charming finger painted room dust,
I continue trying to repel the rueful vignetting
And to keep the gun in its dreary, brick red holster.

Romantically Barbecued.

Pick a route through the valley walls
Earth mauve, skies salmon
Underwater breathing.
A route to happiness,
And through the eyes, optometrist fondness and optometrist kindness .
In times of blossom,
Paint a happy picture, pick a route as such, through the blossom, inside the stars, between the ears.

When the Second Hand Plummeted in the Soft Treacle Air and the Day was Strange.

The strange day was between neutral and chalky alkali,
stale smells but coriander ache swirling with coffee and citrus on the palate
Ska rhythms and glitch music
All made me feel strange.

The strange day had a date somewhere with small numbers and early spring,
Though springing later into the tackle with bigger numbers than I had grown up with
Carrying a heavier crisp crouton bitterness with it too.

On the strange day, I thought about the Sun a lot, as normal.
Hypochondria and television advertisements,
The ineffectiveness of the breath mint,
They all featured.

Maybe it was the lighting that made the strange day so photographically strange
Or the quiet poking out of every doorway
Flowing round the building like bad Karma

Perhaps it was the audacious and wrinkly and odd structure
An arty ziggurat building.
Or else the coffee, alcohol, sugar, weed, cough syrup, tobacco, milk.
Or else the violins in my headphones pulling tug o’war laser beams from my eyeballs
Writhing in the shadows with itchy beauty.

The strange day was a dark day.
Not in a metaphorical sense,
Not truly.
This day could have been a dream to wake up from or a film to exit from
The lights slowly coming on.
The light of the strange day would draw out into the sump of the Heavens before it returned refreshed.

Maybe tomorrow will be a strange day.
Sequels have reasons
Rooted in money usually
And thus I will work through
And my eyes shall drink in my lover’s form at the end of the daily swim
And xylophones will twinkle with the shadow writhing violin laser beams.
And the dust will settle tidy
And the paper will soak up the yellowing peach fruit light
Revealing glorious cracks!
And lips will crack!
And the third strange day shall be the day I die in a myriad-maze-mind of chap'stick happiness.
God bless Planet Earth.

Exoskeletons and Horticulture.

The fridge motor it hums
As I plod along
from Point 'A'.

I avoid Point 'B',
I avert my gaze
as though shielding my eyes from the visceral winter sun.

Indicators on.

Point 'B' is no eruption/A-1.
Point 'B' is a stumble, sometimes a trip or fall,
Sometimes a grazed knee
The knee is sometimes hairless and distorted.

I plod, I am aware Tortoise does not beat Hare.
Tortoise Point 'B' is still plosive, but when life is soft it is sibilant.
Slow and steady hissing life leak.
Nothing harshhhh.

Oh the glow of 'B' is without Hollywood finesse.
It sits and grows the other side of the refrigerator light, humming.
Food calls,
it echoes inside the cold dis-comfort in the hungry dead of
Night time.
The motor hums.
The indicators tick.
The clock ticks.
The joints click.

Air bubbles in the joints and in the brain.
Frozen comfort soothe our skins.
Let us giggle uncontrollably.
Swimming in nausea
and our temporary fridge-lit insanity.
Caress our evil trends.
Just supplant a smile, a
A warm fridge-lit smile
Minus phenylalanine,
And it's not perspex.
It's translucent like crepe paper or Quality Street wrappers and ever more so as time excels
Out of sight, out of space.
It defies either.

Now you cross fingers and crucify yourself.
You want desperately the point.
To get to the point.
Like so many times before.

The Point is Point 'B'.
Now go.

Energy Ends in Diagonal Dreams.

The dream killed itself
Hanging
In my living room.

The hope for the glory snapped in two
And youth vanished in escalating, exacerbating numbers
Crashing down the stairs.

The platform and the privilege
Snatched my prerogative
And slid into a fading oblivion.

The skyscraper dream killed itself
Tumbled
Into my living room.

The Weather Really Shouldn't Affect My Mood This Much/Merry Sweatstains.

Rot awake. A corpse and ripples. A smile grows. Organic.
Listen to music from 2008.
Colour returns and smiles grow in orchards, full bloom,
In the sheen of eighties cameras -
Matchstick simplicity,
Magnificent sunstroke,
Aligned eyes and natural light.

Memory factory, outdoor video, sun shone on a TV screen,
Sun shone on winter dust -
Vehicular romance, haircut towns, grasscut gardens -
Warming, browning, smiling,
Wash the car, throw the clothes, screw up receipts.

Those two hours didn’t mind – they disappeared anyway -
They always do, don’t they.
Now I don’t either, after nutrition and fallacy.
Guitar happiness and plastic trees.
I lie about the latter.
Car lifts and car life and trains back in fashion.
Bike rides, fields find meaning, paths find structure,
Breathing and walking and walking and breathing and closed eyes.
Find me in joy, splashing not swimming, no drowning allowed,
No pips, no squeaks, inflated walking – patchwork images.
Soup <>

Old(er). O[(u)/n']t Spot. A(pt).

You’ve allowed the itch to spread
To turn into the dissolution of your back.
Your vertebrae fuse together like virgin lovers in the night.

Float then in the sauce of your memories
Not dry yet but that’s the view developing on the back of your narrowing eye.

Dry eyes.

Dry lives.

You sat on that schoolbus with the discomfort of a bearded, bespectacled twat
Wearing an ‘I’M A RAGING PAEDOPHILE’ t-shirt.
Out of place.
Loss of mind.

I’ll be in my twenties with the deja-vu hamster ball aching aching ache (OLD FUCKING PICTURES)
Of nine weeks.

Nine lives left. CORRUPT ME, I’ll grow down.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Down.

Down.
Down.

LIST.

>>>>>>>uyfdaa.

Such a brief squeeze
Where energy belonged in no equation and air had to penetrate
I was hostage to breathlessness
Stockholm Syndrome was apparent.
Lights of all kinds and energy of sorts in buckets and buckets and
Spilled blood!
AH.

ALIVE>>>>>>ME

Brief belt of nectar
You tease me, when will you cease to be a memory?
When will your taste become firm like my movements and memories and broad, broad smiles.

I was my own hero, inspiration, image for a time.
I will do it again.
Time to promise myself, an image of time, a time to imagine and to act
I fuck…..I FUCKING WILL
DO IT

DEAD>>>>>>WITHOUT
ALIVE>>>>>>ME

please max.

Monday.

Amongst the satin small talk and elbow joints and dried snot,
Amongst the sliced white bread and the facts and the figures and the dry stains on livers
Amongst the inferiority and arrogance and these both in hand
Amongst the fear merchandise and customer satisfaction,
Amongst the tabloid rinse and the shit throwing monkeys
Amongst the monging out and the staying in to watch lurid effervescence dancing the robot in a languid, plastic frame
Amongst the tired eyes searching for the next soft boiled egg
Amongst all the smithereens and the explorers and the microscopes, telescopes and frightening science:
I have found a place to be happy and warm.
Still it excites me.

Scanned Watercolour Painting for Thursday.

(The Rise and Fall of the) Ten Minute Strategy.

For ten minutes last night I crumbled after cracks - formed like the jagged routes of early ice -
appeared with a frosty glance and a unappealing handshake.

Stencilled, cut down to size, made into a less flattering, less fun shape
in a playdough ritual.

In my prism of shock I struggled against a former thought, a thought that everything was o.k.
a thought that everything was flattering and fun.

After this ten minutes, everything was o.k. and flattering and fun and o.k.
which made me realise that quite a lot of the time I must live for the short term.

So I decided I would try and have a good ten minutes. And I did.
Except for former thoughts (from the last ten minutes).

Soothe.

Living with colic, a swathe of swipes and glees
Under capricious breaths and mentalese
Kissing the air around and making it blush contrite
An air whose function is cathartic torture
An air whose screams are human hurricanes;
Is I who ponders this way and that I am part of my surroundings,
And in my origami envelope,
I strut and sigh and slouch my spine
I smile from time to time a genuine smile
Of whitest silk a bone to seek
A smile so bold and yet so meek
Serotonin and saccharine words I spoke.

Softly softly softly soft.
My nerves do jag and split the mauve sphere in which we sit
And grimace
Again our ivory teeth.

Lightning bolts and power cables,
I can lose myself with storms in pastel
Jags and splits and spheres and me
A smile cracks.

This is surely quite possible now
Empty words like so many of mine
But coloured joy is what they're worth
Colouring cartoon diversions on clay brick wall
Boomerang thrown, nerves pink in the midst
Piggy in the middle.
Fingers are crossed,
Teeth are brushed.

Sodden.

Water should be of more comfort
When your ship is on fire.

Flames slap trace paper shapes and frame
The outer edges of your vision.

Pale dry wrinkling, wringing – young – hands
Clutch, lace, wring, wrinkle
Inverse to amber love
Closer to gold but more so to red
In their clutch,
Clutching the magnifying glass of your mind’s sky’s trouble.

Nothing’s ever so bad though.
Not here.

The fire runs out of oxygen -
A mere spark, a microcosmic Sun.
And respiration is a pleasure once more.
Clutch rehydration under the Sun.

A Recycled Thought.

The cold of night
Highlights the proximity of space
And infinite insignificance is restored.

The Right Level of Guilt/Hollow Wallow/Meat too Chewy

Nothing to complain about.
The walls never had nicer things to say.

The hard work fades,
Comes in monthly raids,
Sleeps behind dusty shades.

The world stopped today.
You were all too busy to notice.

I drew me a watercolour painting of it.
Abstract or something like it.
It looks a little something like...

Close your eyes
For five minutes.

Stairwell grenade becomes bellyache.
As all things do
After long enough.

For Your Daughter, in Time.

I was holding a glass.
I felt like striding outside,
Staring at the sun,
Smashing the glass on the ground,
And shouting,
"where have you been?"

But I didn't.

Death dollars
Weather cents
Money is not the root of all truth.

There is a Loch Ness Monster in my mug,
Your mug has spilled.
Your beast made of sponge.

You refuse to fold.
Too hot to hold.
Too shit to stick.

Wormwood brain on fire.
Nostrils flare, Asbestos breath.

Weather: bigger than Death.

Tumble Dried Clothes.

Put on clothes from the tumble drier
Close your eyes and pretend the warmth is the summer Sun
Don’t pretend breakfast is as important in the summer
Mornings aren’t so important when you have vitamin D
And evenings
And afternoons
Colour and colour and colour
And life!

You soar with soft starkness
Neon pastel, don’t you leave!
Oh soar through oblivion
And warmth
And colour.

The unlikely combination of Icarus and Pegasus.

Golden grace and swagger
I should take this to heart
(And I do):
Months shape and lasso me with
Automatic
Retrospective
Rose tint tenderness.

Think short term now:
Act in appreciation of dizziness.
Try and stay clean.
Rattle the bars in the darkness.

Pincers.

I’m here.
Purse my lips and cross my heart
And coax you from your shell.
Don’t disappear.
You lost your smile, you shred a glance
Let’s get you in the warm.
Another year.
Resolutions, revolutions necessary.
Maybe this will solve itself.
I’m still here.
Not an oracle, but a man who’ll stand still
And watch the waves vacillate and salivate
And wash you in your shell.

Pretentious Ode to Self Indulgence/Negativity.

This morning calls for cavemen
I soullessly respond in grunts and whispers and nods and shrugs
I indulge.
I don’t want…

Taste the overflow -
Brain boiling over.
Pathetic rage floats on top.
Bitter garnish.
Hollow and plastic.
Hollow and plastic.
Hollow, hollow, hollow.

It could be worse.
I should be better.

But the devil dives in inanimate objects
And the devil dances with intense decisions.

But I deal in apathy, hearts in halves
And now:
Silence.

A Thousand Times...

A thousand times I’ve shallow fried my brain.
Let’s give thanks for this water.
A thousand tears espouse the drops of rain,
One fire was drowned ‘pon the altar.
Now they serenade us with cascading thoughts,
Circumlocution and smiles mould, then smother
The weary whispers sabotage has brought
To our lips, and to our mothers.

The party that turned into daily bread,
Came so close, cut our whiskers,
Left cartoon scars at large inside our heads
Left our words, and tongues, with blisters.

I lost belief in rose tinted retrospect,
This was good. My eyes were bleeding.
Silk stomach lining rips, ribs interject.
Our cobweb sleep, interweaving.

Fill me with care and shave off my beard
I’ll ward away sharks and age with my years.

Tunnels are Darkest.

So much raw correspondence.
Weeks of neck ache, a few days of odd tasting mouth
Blood and bleach
A smile so clean
But weak
Is yours.

You are not sure when you entered the world of passive smoking
But that fits.
Like a dentist’s glove.
And it sits uncomfortably
Like latex on your incisors.

The smile returns - but it lacks the victory
Recently earned.

Scowls and stomach aches tidily crammed
Barrels flicking and spitting water, the wrestling interior
Not by design
Exterior soaked, the smell of wet wood
Enjoy the roar
You are the tiger
You are the architect
You are the artist
An Escher, a series of waterfalls.

Fuck Physics
You never enjoyed Physics.
Enjoy this.
Enjoy the uphill struggles and going downhill.
Enjoy hills.
Because you need to build up your leg strength
By no means a mountaineer
Birds nest at the top of naked trees. Views from hills.

Remember this, and remember more
Enjoy this and enjoy more
Take off your neck brace and enjoy your chores.