Sunday, 14 December 2014

Games

Dense ropes from the ceiling are evil.
Are we small? There are teacher monsters
in thick alien cotton. Pervert hair curls.
Mouth in a beard. Our thin flammable shirts.
English mud sticks fast. Hidden hollow
of the goals where my boy heart echoes.
Give nothing. Let Caesar's tight old bladder
past the post. Sisyphean medicine ball.
Shin kicks and bastard jabs. Walls
are chromatic ills are rock. Porno slits.
All the dick glitter tucked in. Be delicate.
Breathe badly. Empty face. Be ever the last
in the line to be called.  Fit for nothing.

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

The Arts Centre Yesterday

Baby girl pushes the chair
across the floor till daddy
sits his old fed weight there

He lifts her up and she says,
Put me down. She has her saw
-tooth squealy demand and
he has big fuck off hands

The air's all of a class here:
it wafts.
Man on news says,
I can't breathe.

I will leave skin flakes on
the table top. Squash crumbs
to nothingness.

Coffee cheerless like cheap fags.

My face is on fire never being
one of them really.

And another face falls.
This fallen face.

Say hello to some bad past rep
and pretend I haven't
forgotten her name.

Monday, 1 December 2014

Well Groomed

The positive psychologist
talked about happiness
his hands very small

Outside trees slept thin fog drifted

Over the road Witton Cemetery:
two men washed a gravestone
to a white fixed point

He told us that we shouldn't
think too much



Monday, 24 November 2014

Three movements


Old paper shade with round mouth two human slits
is a person says
sod all

Split wood heart creaks
The phone is a body part

Scratching the head as if I could get in

Rain hammers windows

No regard:
to be of each
other hurts



The wheel an urge caked with real decay paste
You came off at the curb

No trumps no loose limbed truths only
the leaf rot that downs you



University clock chimes a xerox chime

Cold as instructive

Will I always be a human snail?
Yes says the bland walls dayglo flowchart mouth you will


Monday, 17 November 2014

Further notes from the Lamp Tavern


Lungs slapped as they turn metallic

Sounds like sucked teeth or like punctures

Genial industry underplay

Furrowed techno

Fine hog brush on nerves

How at the phrase's close a softer beat fractures

Glass dust flowering

Are echo effects faux mystery?    

Clouded fragility

Sounds like a way in or something said

Train hollers

Secret melody                               

A dipping thumbish beat

Shimmy down




Bugle intervals

Sounds like hurting from cartoon vices

(remembrance day)

There could be dancing with short sweat strings




Verdant funk insists about here with glimmer fists

Arch Sun licks ears

Hum pulse with ungiven sex

Whistle angelic mouth show

Skin’s singed patter hungry and stroked

Felt up a cymbal

Snare like a robot boy treble

There are no lambs there are no lambs

Bass top end lunges and pushes air

Down the stairwell, tremolo

Burst Sun plates

Battered prayer thing

Scuttling along the guts

Sun furnaces

Swoll galaxyette of static kissed hair

Chord shoves out a head and pulls back again

Hand eats frets and up ends

Slowed up pitch crystals eat  machinery

Wallish

Mnemonic

The Sun full at the hollow

Dermal friezes

Cleaved taps

Brass cup kiltering makes some wires

And OH the tiny strings are troubled subtly

Ghosts with meat veils sweltering

Fuck your blithe ears




A two loses one gets lonely teaches

Muslin bruiser clouds spinning

Shale cuticles

(The Eucharist)

Legs are twitching music

(Remember boy with corroded ear bone)

The Sun’s fraying prairie

Fermented barrel organ

The Sun’s a billion clitorides

Fingers are all over the scene

A melted crown

Monday, 10 November 2014

Alma Mater

From
the salt bath: residue
on drying skin
     a tasty pain      reminders buzzing

Sick with familial myth
     oneiric lulling tattoo

Stumbling here/ there
drunk         stuffing
                  my face

That face all over: a jumpered boy
a dole fed schmuck a married man

Fixatives reek

Dark room steadily closing
in to bleak
      insider uterine density

What to make of this
now creased monkey mask

in the mirror with
curious (read frightened) eyes

Would you let everything go
for a song?         Sing
(you're forever
getting the words wrong)

Saturday, 1 November 2014

Line Manager

He tells you about his sense of humour
and how often he is crazy when at home
               (amaretto sours)

   then he turns to the procedure
   coming to the necessary page
without effort
as if it were
waiting for him

and the lights flicker and still

    That there must pass
    for a smile