Tuesday, 20 November 2012

n

we roll from our homes
gangsters of the morn
wallets bulging
with receipts and coup
- ons, get our free
soups - ons
in churches soon to
be luxury
coffins
with mail boxes
and satellite tv
.
.
.
pencil cramp
.
(outside i hear a homeless man squeel like a
girl)
.
a fragile palace
made of matches.

Monday, 19 November 2012

n

why, sir! its winter now
and we all tire at the prospect
of mornings once more.
dirty anal choccy cereal isn't enough anymore
you're filthy mind needs wheat
and bran
and soothing words in sweet cardboard red.
the face drops
into the milk
onto the floor
: sweet spastic tumble
a hibernation
til spring.

Tuesday, 13 November 2012

n

whatchoo doin here
crazy hazy sweet smokin sam
carri-bean man
sleepin on your board of
card with the
cold
hard
penis of the world
jabbin up yer backside
feastin on the free ride
crabs on slabs
of con-crete
all up in your hair
the people they just stair-
case the hell outta there
just
you and the rats
and
even they're scared shitless
of your cock
and
your nob; and
this is why you'll never be saved -
you're dirty
and phallic
and your heart beats
on the cheap seats
haven't you herd?
no-one
likes a human.

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

n for us, upon film again

Cabaret voltaire
don't go there
yo ho there
le donk and us
spittin out the big pips
lookin at the blue tits
stealing fruit from bars
and half eaten rum
from rooms
reserved for brides and
grooms.
jizzy top?
yeah don't stop
dancing on the prance floor
Xmas puds for hats
no food in sight
everything all right
everything not all right
anxiety
fear
stodgy dodgy steak pie
the Saturday night fuck parade
heard on the radio
whilst walking home through
dawn.

Sunday, 23 September 2012

c

Sea sea sea
Japanese men in the sea
Noodle tits and rice nips
floating fancy free
They come in pair's out here you know
Jap's eye
Oh my!
Those filthy waves
Ride them high
you slutty Hokusai.

Monday, 30 July 2012

n

tell me sweet mountain goat
what did you see out there in
reformed europe of now?
how went the sun and
did you drink wine?
bundles of euros
flopping to the floor
more
j'adore?
and tell me oh mountain goat,
did they feed you soup
and if soup, what soup?
run your beedy eye
over that landmass again,
view me the finder and
export its glory unto my
top lap
- i'll stick those suckers up
ingest and digest them
and accept your movements
across space and time
you whimsical goat
curry powder and
meat.

n

what a sweet bonanza!
verse!
stanza!
you grammar runt.
licking those rings all over the tv
breakfast news slathered with
slather,
you from almange
i sail from the north
and we sit here on our collective
couch and masterbate
the nation.

Tuesday, 29 May 2012

L

Tubular Bells Relationship Of Command Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea and High Violet
and its not even the afternoon.
and what have I done today?
Ginsberg croissant Bukowski tea
shy sun finally behind its thick white screen
we had a good run / it'll be remembered
carpet sucked clean
floors soon to be mopped
old college demolished for houses

- i'll explain everything to the kids

Monday, 28 May 2012

n

you better run, son
daddy got gun gun
and your face is sweet.

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

n

jeez, louise. what a scorcher.
a real humdinger!
the barbeque sun rains down:
it rains a golden rain
and my hair drinks it
slowly.
time has slowed to an
almost stop. a man, somewhere,
anywhere can be heard
completing moronic tasks;
mowing the grass,
coughing,
and shuffling his feet.
i take the liberty to
send my consciousness up
there, swimming upwards several
metres through the thick, stagnant air.
and there i hover, just looking
at him and wondering why
he matched a checked shirt
with pin-stripped shorts
today.
he scratches his head,
surveys the lawn
and removes an object
from his pocket.
metal shines, a sunny shine
and a small black hole orbits
in my direction.
the man has a gun
and it's aiming for me.
so back down i think,
i sink into my patch of moss
and abandoned fruit smoothie,
book, sunglasses and fm radio.
you can't touch me, fucker,
you don't have the presence of
mind.
i think he knew this, you know,
and rightly so i heard him shoot
himself.
the golden sun and the golden rule:
if a gun appears in a story -
it must be fired.

Thursday, 3 May 2012

L

the dog is licking a spot on the paving slabs.
i tell him to stop but he ignores my command.
They were both just fed and now this one tries to get some mushed in pasta or something from lunch off the ground. i tell him to stop again.

the spot he's licking is pretty wet now. i try to imagine what that feels like on his tongue.
i imagine pushing him away and leaning down and licking it myself.
watching him i begin to wonder how that would make me feel; on my hands and knees, licking.

to reach the bottle of beer i have to lean forward. after taking a sip i put the bottle down and sit back again. after doing this i have decided the dog is a moron.
i start to read the book in my hands but all i can think about is dinner and when my brother and mother will get back here. i stop reading and stare at nothing in particular and all i can hear is the dog's mouth and the birds making bird sounds and the stream doing it's thing.
i try to look at the sun but i can't because its too bright.
it feels like a search light, as if it were trying to get an answer out of me.
i wouldn't tell it even if it burned a hole right through my skull.

the dog has stopped and i
realise haven't spoken to my wife in three days.

Wednesday, 2 May 2012

L

com' on Big See
where is your pen?

wanna read sumin' 
that'll entertain mee

Monday, 30 April 2012

L

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Wednesday, 28 March 2012

L

don't care
about the useless
information

its not hard to find,
in fact,
it finds you

have to be
selective
with everything,
even your
breaths

gonna say
goodbye tomorrow,
possibly Friday

hit the trails
get off road
branches in my face

don't know how
far I can go
without cash,
you can't pay the rent
with happiness

Saturday, 24 March 2012

n

oh misty morn
coffee stained eyes
the daily news
blowing on by:

a gang of men
a home on far
off zagreb did
beat man death
claw hammer and
skull (didn't comply
failed to comply
should have complied)
body bloodied on
floor, skinned and
boned and fed
to meat grinder.
a hearty stew
lunch was had /

the bus arrives,
I depart and
lose some change.

Friday, 16 March 2012

n

I stand here slicing
cheese coloured slices
of coloured cheese slices.
the tomatos have mould
upon them and
at this I howl,
open the dishwasher,
climb in
and prepare
to bite
dust.

Thursday, 8 March 2012

L

anther go
at forgery. another
persona to create for a slab
of questions.
irrelevant opinions -
just buying habits and
analysis
of how to manipulate.

are you a happy consumer?
just obey
obey
obey
and you'll receive
your £20 voucher,
via dreadnought
in the night

Thursday, 23 February 2012

n

cup-a-soup fuck!
humanity diluted
in lunch time boiling
water beside a cooler
that REALLY couldn't give
a fuck! sandwich board dreams
sliding down the faces
of all of these would be painters
and talk show hosts,
pay-check masterbators
deluded by the interest
separating self from self
(the observer must observe that
he is the observed)
and it is thus
we conduct ourselves: thousands
of years -
tearing at the tear-glands
bending all the mind-strands
from water doing hand-stands
- to now sit here,
vegetated and cello-phaned
mundane fucking lame-game
let's all play the blame-game
- evolved from it all,
polystyrene cup in
hand,
keys in pocket,
paper on bus,
always holding
that

fucking

cup.

n

all the juicy fruits
hanging from the juicy tree
(tits cock pussy)
free free free!

Saturday, 18 February 2012

n

We wake up
in the hotel room
where the windows
are hot and
the water is cold.
Last night flower
wilts in cold glory
a poetic pathetic
slice of it all
(what flowers must fall,
in spite of it all)

Thursday, 9 February 2012

n

a couple of bowties walk in,
real starched gentlemen
of the finest liquor.
i open door, good
afternoon them and
politely smile.
"INTERESTING, YES!?"
the more portly of
the two quips
from a mouth silver -
spooned / dirty croissant /
fellatio wrung /
"yeeeeessssss sir!" retort's i,
bend over and assume
my place in this horrendous
society.

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Progress (a work in) N

I'm lying here on this
whisky morn, the houseplants
accusing me of terrible
things.
I have poisoned mother N,
sullied her with a real
concoction - filthy red
alarm clock booze.
outside her birds twitter
and tweet, thousands of
tiny missiles bombarding
my curtained window, soul etc.

Thursday, 2 February 2012

L

Simon says post hardcore is the best
Simon says Pols make the best
tattoo
artist
Simon says he can't stand
milk in his
tea
Simon's feet smell fucking
disgusting. but
I am happy to help,
Karma and all that shit.

oh yeah there was this guy,
from my high school, he was in
some [shitty] metal band too.
bit of a prick he was. reminds me of
another
dickhead from that time. Was an
English fucker who laughed at all his own
bad jokes, big glasses and a
big gap
in his teeth.

I hope he's dead. hope he
choked as
someone
shit in his mouth.
hope it was slow and painful.

Simon is still talking,
he's alright really,
for a
Polak.

Monday, 30 January 2012

n

I'll bet they all group wank down there,
in parliament - spurting on the face
of one another. A mouth full of junk,
dirty marks on the desk
- really creaming upon one
another.

Come on chaps, you can do it!


Tuesday, 24 January 2012

n

jesus christ supermarket
chicken in the cheese fridge
dirty grey sky following me inside
chasing me down the aisle (trying
to marry my ass - marry it with the
great phallus of the mundane)
i have to get out of here.
i have to go.
these people are crazy, tomato soup eyes,
candy floss thighs
- this,
is what it's come to
and so i run
screaming "CUNT!" at anyone
who'll listen.

Friday, 20 January 2012

n

A sweet sweet insatiable appetite for life
on sunny morns such as these
(nature is a pretty flower and phallus both penetrating and receiving - making the morning radiate with joy).
and i ride the happy bus, little old ladies propped up in their seats,
dirty memories of a fuck in a field.

Friday, 6 January 2012

Where Hath Thine Mustache Gone?

where hath thy mustache gone?
a brittle affirmation of masculinity twas it,
keeper of warmth above thine lips and
defender of all whom bask in it's
glorious bushy-ness.

but,
a commandment from thine wife,
fairest of all womanly kind,
was sent forth and had
thine mustache smote
from thine countenance!

Oh mustache,
twas thine most trusted of furry protrudings,
loyal friend?
companion when none could be found?
Nae!
Brother he was and shall ever be!

yet no quarter was given.
felled by a deadly coalition of soft foam
white as the snow from the highest of peaks of the North,
the sharpest of five blades
heated under waters so hot as to slice with ease
and a mirror.
A mirror of darkest horrors.
small yet magnified so as to let the victim
watch every terrible detail of its own
downfall.

thus, thine mustache was returned to
The Great Lands
where he could be free;
The Land of The Lost Hairs of The Face.

Oh great shall the rejoicing be
whensts I have drawn mine last breath,
be it in battle or on thine death bed,
and thine mustache is returned to thine
everlasting countenance.