Friday, June 26, 2009

Billie Jean

at his death they came out to praise him
glad that his skin would again turn black
would make him easier to employ
—Noises of the Bad People, Isobel Fluck (1989)

there's no excuse for inobesity
in an age with lipothrust
and easy credit fraud be bop be bop beat it...

only 34 only 34 no not him he look like 70

oh this ain't charlie paharker
the woman whose heart
eventually felt like a gasp
of cold morning only

the man saw himself now as an egg broke open

I looked for my humour
found it black bile unbalanced
I ate blood pudding and oysters
..............for a month I sat there like shit

I was prescribed pornography and tumult

[this part was missing but]

found his own egg in dreams treetops
stifling and terrifying forces closed in
at the moment of waking

beat it beat it
she found now her own enemy
gathered into herself
she was a weapon
that could only be used

everything around waited for a decision
you could feel it hang
drool running out of its barrels
waiting to decide
what would be the best way to dance on this one

given that all that pissing
now had to be unpissed

she thought for a while in her dreams
that watching America do Politics
was like dying of Huntington's Chorea
by proxy

but westward look the land
is shite and Billie Jean
was not/was/was not

fucking was



turb turn

these the oysters comin in thick mothers
cross the loamin ocean-land

Billie Jean..............Billie Jean

Billie Jean..............Billie Jean

Sunday, June 21, 2009


I didn't know if the penis sheath
would work
would be considered acceptable
by the guys
but they took it in good spirit
we moved on

by lunchtime it was hardly noticed
though one old feller clasped my arm
and for a moment things whirred
around us
as if we were antennae
downloading a storm far away
channelling a storm far away

into a map awash with tears
so grey
I must bray

I held him back with my amulets
I clutched at him there
shaking things in his face
don't you know I cried
don't you know
that this is not the time?

It all seemed to smell a little
as though ghosts had walked here
stinking by as they sometimes

neither of us really knew anything

now it was over
I was again a whale or more

how did you ever could you
he said think this would work
like the boys wouldn't notice

now this and not this
is a whale
of a time
a penis sheath aristotle-onassis
pull up a chair and wriggle, bro
here-have a seminal fluid
tailcock at death's door

this is a whale of a time
about to happen

this is the place
where all doors fail


inferno walking with plans

Alfred Stieglitz died on my birthday
no one can blame him for that
but the thing is he went out dancing
carrying a pink umbrella
like he was Nietzsche's ape child
and the night you see was rather flat
not at all wild or stellar
like he might have wished
anyway that was that

if anything should die of this
then let me issue this quick kiss
that rather than be thought remiss
it all falls down in such sweet bliss

who could ask?


really nothing

all of it comes walking
in great swathes across the swamp
all of it come swamp
swathes across across
great swathes
walk and swamp and cross
I reach out
I will kill you
how we
while the currents



I don't live in Lagos
in a place where filth and love


upon the nothingness grey men erupted

we reach towards the light
the light beams down
a fly walks around inside the shade
I'm sure that fly will die
it's got nothing there

the lampshade
like some wild umbrella
lifts into the night



what is that beat
coming in
from the fields?


until again the wheel starts

it was a beat
that moved in and out
I could hear voices far off
in the night
dogs barked out there
it was all maddening
somehow sadly I walked to the window
there was a thing looking in the garden
a stunted thing that ran
as the light spilled from the curtains
I went out
I found it by its beat
there behind
some shrub
it lay still jerking
but now beyond all recovery
I carried it in
it was light as a cat
light as a cat
depicted do I have to spell
I laid it out on the table
started to read slowly
there with the candles like ghosts
you in your yawning the wait and the break
the flood stops here
this barrage
we read together until morning
when the men started singing
in the room by the river
and I had to swallow
such a thing such a thing
my ancestor of night


Friday, June 19, 2009

clocks of daylight love (the cruellest month

of all this thing that overpowers
this feeling this allowing of a thing
to sit so shaped in the head and hands
all of its shimmer its slide its positioning
that follows with this ease and breath
easing itself out into the other thing

it is closed together closing opening

give give this itself is time and time's slow climate

and then only the next moment
but open all of your places
on/off press here this here these are things
that are fishes that dream through us here this

is a soft anvil upon which we loll and wind
here are cats and birds rolling out their things
to be known to be known to me
all of me your flickering back its reptile flick
of catenary sloughs off
[along which my earthing only]

that lift and heave and slump
its sudden shake of electric downs
our own sea creatures now stark

live in the arrival of summer frets
here on the spread of day spread
under arches of heather low
as breaking this is the sea's weave
it is the clam's clutch deep and high

and high and mid-high rearing purple
flowers up from the storm these lows
grasp fossil forces night forces up
.......up from the loam and intake

as kestrels in the moment break off
then see again and re-engage
.........................seeing harder
hissing and whirring no more stop stop

then only then only
................the stoop


Wednesday, June 17, 2009

really the technic stigma

as if the whole world could be shoved
into greater or lesser meaning he advances
with a club in each hand dripping from the throttle
now I and YOU is angry he states
there by the canal

as if a starry sacrifice had been made
he jumps
the world the world

reels out in his wake

as if as if nothing
don't you get it
a giraffe walked on the highway
nothing changed
everything in its infancy
looked back
said NO
all over hives

in earnest proportions



I have carefully read over this Little Volume for Children and have found nothing whatever in it contrary to the doctrines of Holy Faith; but, on the contrary, a great deal to charm, instruct, and edify our youthful classes, for whose benefit it has been written
—William Meagher, Vicar General, Dublin, December 14, 1855

The fourth dungeon is the boiling kettle

listen there is a sound
like that of a kettle boiling the blood
the blood is boiling in the scalded brains of that boy
the brain is bubbling in his head
the marrow is bubbling in his bones
the fifth dungeon is the red-hot oven
in which is a little child
hear how it screams to come out
see how it turns and twists itself about
in the fire it beats its head
against the roof of the oven
it stamps its feet upon the floor
of the oven

(outflarfed from the Roman Catholic Book for Children by Reverend J. Furniss, may he live in righteousness)


tennis shoes alert ish

I wish it was different there
I wish I could sit all night
stroking your hair
in some dim light

that you would wake and smile
pull me down
into your defile
your place behind the town

I wish
like licorice



Sunday, June 14, 2009

rough guide

ugg a catastrophic scarab
a dung beetle
my cigarettes just crashed
rattling upon the floor
the world flew all into pieces
the chair legs
the windows
sent us rolling
in the surf and the roar
the skegs did doze
like fleeces
prolapsed under the tolling
if I was an Arab
I'd say the street'll
get you hashed
battling for more
there were weasels
there were weasels
in the verve and uproar
in old dark CaIRO
IN old durk cairO
the fucking divvil I am
he says breathing hard contorts
these late night sorts
old style flicknife in my chin
buy my heroin
give me your cheques
I have no fear
this year
from the polis
mister three trees
mister three
for one
my sister
young boy fuckhash gong
yours taxi moment kung fu blowjob
dark spread spread burger mango juice

you wait


Prime Time

I'm applying in advance
for that slot
wondering if you can fit me in

next Thursday
in that hour
between Celebrity Wife Swap
& Big Brother

of course it won't take an hour
but I thought we might chat


Saturday, June 13, 2009


I don't know why
I like to eat
what makes me cry
and stamp my feet


Friday, June 12, 2009

politic submarine vision during knee surgery

she wakes
they look down at her
the indignant horror of boys
caught in their mother's purse
it's okay she mutters I was out walking in the fields
feeling that curious hole in herself
till the gas starts again
in her mask


Monday, June 08, 2009

fields of owl glass

I have elegised that owl out there
I hear him wail his strix as we speak
sometime last night I knew
he was not a lullaby
he is a warbling madman drained of blood
his beak thick with dried flies
tied to the wheel coming fast across the field
his eyes fixed on soft parts

a shriek out there
he has got the cat
next it's me I know
if I don't make it
to the window
to issue my glow


Sunday, June 07, 2009

voice of violet war

put here your illegal ear
to the crystal set

his wartime voice of the hollows calls
Danzig—the Finland Station—Archangel
from tractors in rubble London cat-calling
Enigma coding nickel from The Finns/oil from Ploesti
......... morsing out Ultra

London crawling into its own rats unreal the voice of paper night
sirens overarching stalking Goering's drub...
violet descent gratified
all stations all stations
descent will be gratified

towers of rats escape the thin megaphone
flow down into an underworld
that wafts out a stench of its new organs
at Saint Pancras at the King's Cross
all-atlantic emergency
from Hut 9 Hut 10 unknown
maybe it's because I'm

so many children now laugh in new rubber faces
not hearing these glass these fog signals fly in
from the North Sea pinned across fuel oil fires
on vast maps lights that burn and disappear
as the pieces are swept from the table

weather report from location X12T set fair homeward

into the cold alive moment
frozen in the warm moment
all stopped held tight the thin voice
the moment
that says let us go then you
Queen Mary ship of dreams coming
over rooftops at night
at night at black midday
solve et coagula Saint Paul's in the smoke
report fire here light and not light and light there look
every light in its own water not yet the nigredo or the yellowing

so many of us just quietly borne away
little fires at sea
gone out

Modernism under the sirens paralysed

he says a mother's love is guaranteed
is instinctual but mine is not

a father's love must be earned
it is not innate is not certain
he looks down at his young son

as he says this thing
his son who will not grasp this moment
and though he feels its wind through him
will arrive at its meaning only gradually

when it has done its work
too late to unpick
will know only then
how a strand of his life
was pulled out
a story was flung struggling into the fire

a script was written
in a dark tongue
sending him down slowly some dark culvert
under dim gaslight to learn brutally
that such denied love

was never a cause for such regret
that its denial was the only gift given
by the one who couldn't give


shemale porn cinquain

money burning
borne up in a warm wind
around the cemetery spirits


Friday, June 05, 2009

mad caskets

that sniff of orgone
when you drop it
lemurs tiptoe
all of us had to smile
at the pirates
wading in
over the mussel beds
cutting up their feet
singing as they came on
sitting picking shell
from their toes
not even stopping
to catch
the shining shellfish
that floated like jokes
at their feet

we cried these guy
are murder drum slo-weep for my soft pig



god of the white people

it's not just the cigarettes
the alcohol
it's more that your head
has just floated away
that you have turned into
some sort of owl cartoon

even here at these temperatures
on these submerged stones
things cling

of course
it amazes all of us
we all comment upon it during the walk

across the seabed
to meet your many-armed mother
at it again
with the gardener
in her basalt caverns


owl car toon

sidewalk they mill themselves
to a hiphop waft low-hung buttock sun
in the sudden sun suddenly
a fatass convertible slowly sudding with sunlight
drifts by driven by the drooling owls
alla them hooting out drear derision
to the sidewalking crab crew
oh my sheer godman it's another
driveby hooting incident


upjets of the scoot plitic

there in the market
he burns himself
whittles down
with his own teeth
his heft
I have come to be honest
I am not arrogant
see me before you unarmoured
I smile like a facebook on drugs
my girl-smile my garden unfolded
I am all such pink in a heavy suit
there in the market watched
he burns he whittles he is not
a Buddhist monk this is not
that burning
only a death of a thousand tics
a string accompaniment
of mass public bukkake

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

melas zomos episode 1 (to William Fairbrother)

there's no love out there in politics
this ashtray is a startling affair
the ash-rabbit who watches at dawn
is not the same rabbit who you once knew
my parents were old when they first ate beans

by firelight
Elvis and Bing both slid
we are all of us stuffed with the unrecognisable
events coming down from hills
unacceptable though it seems{Hue][Hue][reas][on]
unwields all
secondary sexual parts existing in part

because people like to look at them
the man is furniture and not furniture
he waits all day for a phone to alert him
to the basic event
of his own sad clothing

on fire
you would not run into that building
I might do it if someone loved me enough
I am a hero bringing out prostrate children-women

beaks full of writhing fry
O in my heart I wear such aurora
of the elliptic fuck that everyway
firepeople have entered myth eek sith what now what now?
they are now endowed with the power of flight is it flite

you have a metal detector
people say bad things about you for this reason
others jumped from the sky
rather than burn all day
none of us will guarantee everlasting love
that's just an intoxicated lie
none of us will hold the hands

of people with burning hands
all of us are hands
burning to be held
these trees were not here
before the burn
yesterday when you jumped
burning into words

Monday, June 01, 2009

undead words whispered at grope lane

but in the mouth of a lover
what better word
in your ear
in your moment
this word unspeakable
this soft exciting word
this way into all our things shared

not an insult
only an invitation and a cry
fuck let it ring
its tender magical description
its aperture its opening
over the night
let it glow down
its pink light
the only word of power
we have left


mother of the raingod

the sickness is a gravel rain
in the throat
bursting alive/dead
shoving tears from any
conduit such perseverance

backing itself into secondary
sickness stand here now and look
someone after all will like you
this new Spring is a bright rain
over the garden you are not choking
this is rain that you can feel
even from deep in there this rain

is coloured is warm
but over the rising smoke
the banging bell butts at such jokes
the fell falls on your emptying
chambers their empty wells
your throat dry from such hard laughing