push the bullet in

converted his words into zeroes and ones
hunched over, they were his gift to the beyond.
he was still giddy at being let in the circle,
becoming privy to words so wise and witty.

but of late he couldn't help but notice
he received fewer glances from colleagues in hallways.
a sudden drought of pleasantries usually spelt out
demotion from peer to peasantry.

now the drought had hit his studio home,
his letters and calls all seemed to dry up at once.
he wrote his friends to ask them why and was
hit with an avalanche of out of office replies.

the very next day in a blind panic he burnt
all of his years of degenerate work.
it was too late. the word was out.
round up all moaners and misfits.

he must have missed this.
between mither about free shit
and that mess in the kitchen.

on the afternoon when they finally caught up to him,
held his skinny wrists and pushed every bullet in,
his thoughts remained fixed on a mysterious list
of a various faux-pas and their respective dire consequences.

estate#4

without chains i felt so naked and nervous.
having thoroughly failed at putting being a man first.
i was unconfirmed and unbaptised
when i sailed to the land where sabres tickle the sky.

reject yourself and bet your entire hand
on a metre square of reclaimed land.
build your own palace out of mud and scrap iron
and name it 'abraham', or something.

this is a perfect backdrop for the rapture
gold, silver, hanging all coming back in fashion.

say seeya to the gatekeepers and repeaters forever
as we learn how to plough side by side together.
tax free, zombie chic, a plughole pulling me inwards.
something to talk about before, during, but never afterwards.

it's such a lovely day for a crusade.
and my office suggestion box overflows with
requests for another great war of the cross.
i won't be reading any of these.

but my friends all say i have william the conquerors gut
and my mum says i have richard the lionheart's cheek-bones.

will the cardboard condos belch forth a new breed of hero?
and will these buildings unlisted see the birth of a new kind of history?
his final thoughts were about sand in his lager and sex on the beach.
his last words were about bingo, booze and sex on the beach.

i think i know why they wrap us in scaffolding.
drip-fed us on panic, plots 'n' scandals left us
as potent as a mummified king (in a potted history).
the memos that you left for me said 'don't forget your guillotine'.

sunflowers...

and from cotton clouds he descended waved his wand and mended and restitched these regions as legions of men all gathered and clamoured for a touch of his leathery hands.

the ghost of ghandi continues to bounce to an fro about this valley from the leisure centre through superdrug and the circus onto the con club and up to the academy.

he always seems to end up in tears these days.
whether he's reading from the births and deaths,
or the yellow pages.

enter stage left and enter stage right as every night somewhere unknown sunflowers pulling their way up through astroturf as the serfs and the royalty all look skywards lost in the quality of the build and still the world and his wife want a man not a god who can repeal iron laws and seal them in vaults.

its been weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks
since they put pennies on the eyes of their dying dioceses.
stricken with wasting disease.

I was sure that there would be a sting in this tale I grope blindly through each line in the hope that it will reveal itself the ceiling is so low already and still he continues to grow and grow I said "sir may I wash myself in your river" though I know that you built it out of cabbages and conifers.

the invisible millstone around his neck.
he sees a perfect border slice from east to west.
the bulk of the villagers curse their fate
that their days should be stripped clean of symbols and themes.

doped up on cash.
fattened and bored.
I zip myself up and
I ping myself home.

where every second lunar eclipse
I bring two chapped lips against her broken hips.
alright.

hothouse

those nosey redheads.
ive seen your cash.
but wheres the class.?
in the room where I sleep she keeps horses she keeps
talking talking talking talking talking talking about wine and horses.

the walls are wet with easy earnings,
there's a sad corner stack of uneasy learnings.
she pauses, she says "fuck" for effect.
her hahahahangover is gonna need another namecheck.

is this a bull or a bear town?
the girls all wear their hair in bobs around here.
and it is worse than we feared,
they have come for our hats, they have come for our beards.

but I spent my life savings of filter coffee.
this is something they can never take off me.
this is something they can never take off me.
never.
never.

I've got this burial plot in canada square where the sexed-up mob sweeps from here to there.
She looks at the sky and says, "it's a little too blue today, isn't it?".
we're past the push now, where we shut up about the who and how,
bullshit and bullion bronze bullion.
relentless, dry-mouthed and friendless in the hothouse.
hothouse.
hothouse.
hothouse.
hothouse.