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.