Wednesday, 27 July 2011


fat man in red
Red shirt,
Another in sky blue.
Many miles away
a woman realises,
Everything only gets
Another tells a child
to shush. A seagull laughs.
Somewhere else,
Questions are being asked.

Buildings stand proud, like
Books lined up in a
firing squad -
on a giant
A shelf where insects

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

knee log

i've read one of scott fitzgerald's books
- and now i want to move to france: i've
always been a weak man (moved to throw
possesions out onto the street after seeing into
the wild) and so now my mind travels south.
It crosses dreary channel+england, and on
through to paris & nice nice. but the rotten glamour
is gone in an absence of absinthe - it's all toxic beaches
and the stink of revolution wafting from afrika,
and so my body resides, on the couch, playing my xboxx.


out there in L.A the people
grow weed in their gardens
- huge bushes burning biblically,
forest firely, and the people
- of this they think highly.