Philosophy

I 

no "an" or "ist" or "im"

just me

or better

we

Binary Function

is there a lesson in the numbness?

ponder the simplest aspect of life

1 you’re on

0 you’re gone

an answer that lies within two numbers

God Is Barista!

through the high muddy hills it did percolate

and now furious in frothing spate

becomes steaming surge like milky coffee

stirred darker, thicker, by spoonless eddy

For The Love of Two Sisters

I left you

though I still loved you

I still crave the  morning jolt

shared with your sister,

who to this day still makes love to me,

the twin kick in the head

every nerve opened to your poisonous

intrusion

breakfast of champions

sweet ‘tine and bean

Shelter

the rain drums his fingers impatiently

along the length of a blue dusting lung busting puckered roof

and licks at the wire veined and splintered glass

of this concrete nest for surly youth

nowhere better than this Park Drive smokeasy

for the bad boys who always do their best,

after words of mockery and a quart of cider

to cop a feel of the big girl’s breasts

Old Boy About Town

so beardy me has left the room
and time is tight to straighten out
tidy up and re-emerge
indulge my every modish urge
button every collar down
yer thinking fella’s yob around town
eight hole Doc’s laced tight and tasty
I’m ready to fight with words that rhyme
…sometimes

Muddle Go Anywhere

in the oubliette of my conscience

good intentions lay forsaken

but every word that I write

I swear is the Goebbels truth

and though they may fall on deaf beards

I will demand that Occam shaves them

Hit Me

this grind breathes a fist

of sublime roast allure

as the Nicaraguan Black Bull

surrenders it’s fat cojones

to the blade and the forced steam

now fixed and dilated

but still only grooving at 70bpm

I feel so very disco

Gummage

the flag wears a spij-speckle
of guaran islands
slab secure and fast
against the April wash
an eternal fossilised chaw
that resists the fiercest chemical blast

New Moon Rising

lost and lonely within England’s mountain green
god bothering needles and blunts
no longer draw the crowds as flat screened
pharmacological rapture, the trinity of
caffeination, medication and confrontation,
lead a once pious nation through a precocious dream
though maybe Allah yet sees here his
Jerusalem and leads his children
upon England’s land of crescent green

An Illusion

the comatose draw fish
from the wet behind their ears

rich pickings then for the magician
with close up chemistry, a catalyzed cipher
washing clean a piscine display of resistance

one day the sleepers may awaken and
wonder who emptied the basins of their silver
but for now  remain content in glassy diversion

Wholly Appropriate

1965
London
Ginsberg extols Albert
and a millenary hebdomad
to fuck him up the asshole
the records are not clear on
whether Albert chose to pass
I was not yet four

Ruined

beggared in a taunted wasteland
eyes long emptied remain steeped in a jaundice

unable to reflect the encirclement of upright steel
and thus cowered beneath this youthful flaunting

she finds herself now wimpled by a creeping green
where her walls bleed a jealous neglect,

a fish flaked façade of dandruff drips and
grumbling brickworks that wear a long moss

like the fibrous stubble of an aged maid's shins
bristled in a polyrhythmic wind

Mess

the gated eye bars your way from a truth

that could find such a homecoming queer so

take what you can, while you still may,

these days of sand cannot long bear

the slovenly precepts of a needful rake

withered away from the heedless suckling,

of this every day badly drawn breath, an oblique

yet fearful contrary cuckolding

Minty Fresh Death

she brought home a friend

as is her furry want

by  the end of her play

it was cold, wet and bent

she can’t see the claw flawed logic

of why she’s wearing a bell

and that such a feather fang mixture

can never end well

so she brought home another

some kind of goodwill token

but within half an hour

that was completely broken

For Cornelia

the escarpments may crumble
while feeding the sea of glass, brick and bone

but they sing their story in 4:4(million) time
a slow lament for man dethroned

though in a blinked hundred year reunion
of stolen, moulded, kiln begat marl

a rolled orbicular boiled and burnished delivery
lies offered for a woman’s resurrective art

The Silent Voices Sing Their Songs

hear them

those chattering squid in this low domed realm
where none, but one voice should reign supreme

amidst the vowel and mutter of the betraying line
a feral somnambulant sub-bourbon din

broken rhymes and half dulled whines
in a two fingered forfeit to a misjudged hint

that must keep this muddied crime equidistant
to the arcing theorem of sequenced chords

and the sleepless stipend of stalled persistence
clawed back from the vault of ill formed thoughts

Untitled (open to suggestions)

but for a dowried wager
would this possession ever have compiled
so sweet a digest of redemption
while yet lost under the carnal veil
of a blood petalled  bowery?

Fe2O3.nH2O

bulla pocked and vagabond
smoke away what few vagrant days remain
though your shallow cut still cleaves the hardest waves
this herniated lunge of stiff progress cannot belay
that fetid call of aged ptomaine
beneath  the brine toothed bouillon

Here

how much attention does this whore seek?
fracked and sluiced to release
every kind of juice that spills
from pores palm greased
with the patina of slovenly verse
paupered by the diminished returns
of a creased core
what is the call?

The Rain Will Cleanse

come downpour
unleash your jotting scribe to
to cast the showery runes of fables untried,
forge scripts along our droughty lanes
and songs for all that yet remain
or wash away those pages brown,
whelm witness to our temporal sway

Dry

how eagerly the earth swallows
each drop of these April showers,

such a thrilling treacled tickle
through the hardy efflorescence,

for she has such a winter thirst

Let Loose Those Hibernal Shackles

this spring morning,
summer’s aperitif,
was today served on the rocks,
shaken and stirred

Will You Face Down That Final Moment?

the world's machinations were
never geared to the correct ratio,
(a) certain or otherwise, for
tin tacked onto the piggy-backed
dialectic that will follow you to the grave
is one final lost argument after the rage
from your tear basted heart burst
of fearful regret and convictions reneged

A Good Read

I love to own books

but so much more than that
I adore it when those
indexed tables of content
are turned

and books possess me

When They Die In Their Sleep It Scares You Half To Death

deep in dominion of the dying, between
the second and third heart congesting hours,
look into the darkest glass
naked , dishevelled and dare to ask
for answers you think you deserve
expect no reply but know
that bub black beast sees you now
and for you alone will reserve and release
through execrable years of fearful, fitful non-sleep
its furious horror

For All Man’s Glory He Is Nothing But Dust

dropped

behind the golden masked
rocked star, 60,000 000 ton ego of
trumpet blowing soul diggers

remains a parchment skinned
carapace
no more no less

in four months time I will be fifty
a full half century
if I remain that lucky

Gene, I, Us?

what is the alchemy that urges one (wo)man’s words
to sail and rise while another's barely crawl?
that lightning bottled virtuosity where one can
converse directly with the gods while us others,
with abstruse art but happy to play tongues,
say little at all

Shotgun

was it ever for love
or a marriage of biology?
her country daddy played
a Smith and Wesson serenade
that kinda focused the mind
in somewhat of a hurry

Beware of Trains

it lies separate
that canvas, that shock of skin,
with pained frozen grimace
worn as eternal etched surprise
from an instant of agony
the kinetic consequence
of unsurrendered steel against
brittle hegemony

it flaps apart
a hundred yards hence
from spine and viscera
that bound it as one
with fibrous tendons splayed
in vain like stretching fingers
desperate to reclaim
foolishly shed raiments

Gunther

his capillary butterflies,
freed from the cocooned tomb
of morbid flesh, render
filigreed plastics
exposing, deeper than naked,
more than you may wish

To Your Health

no everyday magic visible
in these last days of the weak
every veining tied off pulse
beset by the beast
with only the viable offered
purchased grace
a cold calculus of collusion
to fell this fabulous folly
so what hope for a mongrel nation
that chooses never to wake
from the amaurotic thrall of capital

So Much More For That Much Less

between my ribs quiver
darting fishes of doubt
fed upon calloused liver
through this malty drought
where an urgent voice demands
death to the little comfort in which I reside
and leaves no choice but
that I contemplate domesticide

The Hum Inside

challenger deep
finger plugged ears beg
be still
yet hear the comfort of engines turning
every echoed sibilating pump
and sinewy creak
despite my ought for silent running

Vitrum

in a world of higher function
what becomes of this single channel recipient
body blue mustard leaf and semen bled
wild in uprising and slow to fall?

but that they must when days of calling
demand the youngest blood
and in fields of madder slaughter
weld upon them earthly hood

Fire-Ships

be silent

listen

in that quiet moment

reflect

am I a friendship?

or a fire-ship
slipping unnoticed
into your quiet mooring
a glowing rage rendering gaseous
the coals of your knowing
no dream forging tapestries of smoke rise
from this incandescence
just a searing grip around your throat
scorched bacon blue

Singular Sound

there is no silence
hated constant companion
this whistling devil