Saturday 22 December 2012

shaking hands

i walked into the traffic blind so that i could get to work on time for once.
with coffee rings around my eyes, I stumbled in at sixty seconds past nine.

and they said,
"stephen, don't make any plans for the evening".
they said, "stephen, don't make any plans for the evening.."

staring at my shaking hands, i made a further series of insane demands of myself.
now i must find a route from work that avoids any mirrors or reflective surfaces.

in a bit that was typically cryptic, slickly inefficient, and glistening with eccentricity,
i left my glasses at home that day, combed my hair, and binned all my sexy underwear,
for if i was to dress more sensible, i just might start to comprehend the incomprehensible.

ether wip+

ten cups in and i started to shift, my blue eyes bulged and blinked at a thousand bpm.
as i fingered the scales on my skin, i twisted like stifled and stymied victorian women.

now i dine with dave on dead flies and crickets.
harvesting souls is, i suppose, an honest living.

they saw me assemble from the ether and said i could double my luck,
if only i was to man up and murder my identical twin brother.

the treadmills kept me too tired to mither you,
so you best suggest which ghetto that i ought to go to.

what will you do for our wounded heroes?
what will you do for our wounded heroes?

the counties were cut into bite size chunks for ease of top down management.

what will you do for our wounded heroes?
what will you do for our wounded heroes?

zoom, zoom, zoom

clifford frigs himself as pigeons slide into listed buildings,
as he fingers the life support machine of a chav queen,
chav christ, ritual sacrifice. rosy-cheeked and dewy eyed,
weeping about the witch at the bottom of her drive.

on a checkerboard in reverse order i read out loud
the sources of my boredom - morons on forums have
simultaneously decided there is no more art or fashion,
only records that whisper "HOO-ray for satan" if you
spin em arse backwards.

like perry, like gaga, like callahan, like pink.

a fresh assignment lands on his desk as he exposes himself as a poet in progress
as he parts his lips and expresses regret at having never seen the whites of their eyes
only broken bodies after the fact. it's like seeing war rage through a phone camera lens,
blitzkrieg in ten million pixels - "oh the humanity" on the digital zoom.

zoom, zoom, zoom,
zoom, zoom, zoom.