psychogeographer society
i've got a few bones
to pick with you.
you're diluting your own myth
by using your own ink,
the sound
is click. click. click.
click. click. click.
click. click. click.
and as they shovel the salt into the sores of my eyes
i hear them cackle as they rub the gravel deep into their thighs.
cheeks daubed with double yellow lines,
dancing round concrete prop me ups
like a maypole,
a clumsy ritual to the holy land
of social housing broadband
and tower block romance.
i fell in love with the rubble
the immobile reserve no reverence for.
i did not know that there was so much
poetry below the poverty line,
i heard the sadness
in their accents
and i made it mine,
i left some lipstick on the sliproad.
slipping into moth eaten stockings.
straining to stick to a 1920s philosophy
i am proud to say
you have nothing to offer me.
you have nothing to offer me
except double yellow lies.
the smoother the hands
the less wise a girl or a man
reserve your scowls,
i am anti-cape. anti-cowl.
Showing posts with label cathedral steps. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cathedral steps. Show all posts
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
Sunday, 4 December 2011
bird in lead boots
a fad diet of whiskey and biscuits,
polishing the mask of daftness and distance.
we tracked him down to a twenty four hour
associated dairy on the edge of existence.
he was wearing super-tight clothing
to guard against any potential walk-ins,
warding off alsatian faced spirits with
a permanent cloud of twenty benson and hedges.
he spent his whole summer wondering
if it was dancing that let the devil in.
he could sense he was developing the hunger
of a man many years younger for the crumbs beneath his keys.
the sad sum of his ancestor word processors.
they had all clubbed together
to send him on a riverboat tour of the irwell, up through the sludge - dodging the draft of the war that can never be won, he was transformed from tv through outdoor into an advertising hoarding. the serpents were boarding as he put the finishing touches to a short story about a bird and his boots set in the days of having something to lose...
(you don#t sell a soul in one go but instead it is through thought and deed you see it slowly erode or recede, if you will. and you will).
polishing the mask of daftness and distance.
we tracked him down to a twenty four hour
associated dairy on the edge of existence.
he was wearing super-tight clothing
to guard against any potential walk-ins,
warding off alsatian faced spirits with
a permanent cloud of twenty benson and hedges.
he spent his whole summer wondering
if it was dancing that let the devil in.
he could sense he was developing the hunger
of a man many years younger for the crumbs beneath his keys.
the sad sum of his ancestor word processors.
they had all clubbed together
to send him on a riverboat tour of the irwell, up through the sludge - dodging the draft of the war that can never be won, he was transformed from tv through outdoor into an advertising hoarding. the serpents were boarding as he put the finishing touches to a short story about a bird and his boots set in the days of having something to lose...
(you don#t sell a soul in one go but instead it is through thought and deed you see it slowly erode or recede, if you will. and you will).
e-music
the ancient symbol of
the ancient symbol of
the ancient symbol of
the ancient symbol of
pigeon pecking chicken bones.
eunuch music.
he strides in from the office
and says there is nothing
that can't be accomplished, if you like,
with a combo of this face and a butter knife.
eunuch music.
unique musique.
the ancient symbol of
the ancient symbol of
the ancient symbol of
pigeon pecking chicken bones.
eunuch music.
he strides in from the office
and says there is nothing
that can't be accomplished, if you like,
with a combo of this face and a butter knife.
eunuch music.
unique musique.
roads...
the roads are decaying with no-one to fix em.
i took your facts and i treated em as fiction,
it allowed for a frictionless acceptance of them
when i took your words and i fed them through the pen
onto my pad - they didn't seem so bad anymore.
they didn't seem so bad.
as i rode my my chevalier down the catedral escalier.
i took your facts and i treated em as fiction,
it allowed for a frictionless acceptance of them
when i took your words and i fed them through the pen
onto my pad - they didn't seem so bad anymore.
they didn't seem so bad.
as i rode my my chevalier down the catedral escalier.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
kitchen witch
i was breathing in the fumes
of the morning rags
#
it was the same face of every king
that we've ever had
but the hair was parted
on the wrong side
ssstaring out at me from the page with corrupted hard disk eyes
has there been an unsolicited visitor at my flat?
there's a tcp aroma in the hallway,
the milk went sour before its sell by date.
shaken, i await my instructions in the post..
and wonder when i will start learning
about king william the fourth....
when will i
face the sums,
and start following
the trail of crumbs
that they somehow see fit to include but we seldom turn our attention to.
i myself have had a think
about the shape of the scars i will fill with ink
roll my sleeves shut my mouth and let the pictures do the talking for me.
its the fingertips on my windowsill of the witch who switched my vitamin pills
its the fingerprints from my windowsill of the witch who switched my vitamin pills.
its the witch.
of the morning rags
#
it was the same face of every king
that we've ever had
but the hair was parted
on the wrong side
ssstaring out at me from the page with corrupted hard disk eyes
has there been an unsolicited visitor at my flat?
there's a tcp aroma in the hallway,
the milk went sour before its sell by date.
shaken, i await my instructions in the post..
and wonder when i will start learning
about king william the fourth....
when will i
face the sums,
and start following
the trail of crumbs
that they somehow see fit to include but we seldom turn our attention to.
i myself have had a think
about the shape of the scars i will fill with ink
roll my sleeves shut my mouth and let the pictures do the talking for me.
its the fingertips on my windowsill of the witch who switched my vitamin pills
its the fingerprints from my windowsill of the witch who switched my vitamin pills.
its the witch.
Saturday, 19 December 2009
cooked & et
from the hard shoulder
to the inside lane.
shrugging off juggernauts
and hondas as that song was
chug-chug-chugging through her brain.
(struggling to remember her own name).
hence,
we christened her
charlotteorsarahjane,
cloned from the spit and snot
of fifties harlots,
personality split.
she spent ten,
long
years on the shelf
and now
she's here.
doing a pretty impressive
impression of herself.
I always knew she'd graduate early
from our underground facility
the september air turns her breath
into sticky clouds of WD-40.
she tosses her wire for hair,
grits her needles for teeth,
rolls her marbles for eyes.
as she vainly struggles,
to remember her next lines.
what a girl.
she infuses some glamour and glitz
into the musings of old men
who smirk as their dirty little prayers
addressed to themselves and their heirs
erupt from her rubb'ry lips.
in the basement
uncanny reserves rehearse the same six songs.
upstairs
they drink and discuss the mortality rates of platinum blondes.
and how most soft drinks never seem to hit the spot.
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 dewey-eyed.
weeping about the witch waiting at the top of her drive.
whom no-one else seems to see.
cliff has her on speed dial number five.
on a chequerboard in reverse order
i read allow the sources of my boredom.
morons on forums worldwide have simultaneously decided
there is no more art or fashion, only
records that whisper 'hooray for satan'
if you spin em arse-backwards.
a fresh assignment lands on his desk,
as he privately expresses regret
at never having seen any eye whites
only broken bodies after the fact.
likens it to seeing war stuttering
through a phone camera lens.
check out the blitzkrieg in ten million pixels.
'oh the humanity' on the digital zoom.
(and when he quits) he returns
to walk our streets with all the style
of benefit cheats and tax exiles.
mumbling,
she doesn't exist if no-one's taking pictures.
if she isn't performing its as though she was never born.
i'm just writing you this quick note to say:
happy happy handlers day.
to the inside lane.
shrugging off juggernauts
and hondas as that song was
chug-chug-chugging through her brain.
(struggling to remember her own name).
hence,
we christened her
charlotteorsarahjane,
cloned from the spit and snot
of fifties harlots,
personality split.
she spent ten,
long
years on the shelf
and now
she's here.
doing a pretty impressive
impression of herself.
I always knew she'd graduate early
from our underground facility
the september air turns her breath
into sticky clouds of WD-40.
she tosses her wire for hair,
grits her needles for teeth,
rolls her marbles for eyes.
as she vainly struggles,
to remember her next lines.
what a girl.
she infuses some glamour and glitz
into the musings of old men
who smirk as their dirty little prayers
addressed to themselves and their heirs
erupt from her rubb'ry lips.
in the basement
uncanny reserves rehearse the same six songs.
upstairs
they drink and discuss the mortality rates of platinum blondes.
and how most soft drinks never seem to hit the spot.
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 dewey-eyed.
weeping about the witch waiting at the top of her drive.
whom no-one else seems to see.
cliff has her on speed dial number five.
on a chequerboard in reverse order
i read allow the sources of my boredom.
morons on forums worldwide have simultaneously decided
there is no more art or fashion, only
records that whisper 'hooray for satan'
if you spin em arse-backwards.
a fresh assignment lands on his desk,
as he privately expresses regret
at never having seen any eye whites
only broken bodies after the fact.
likens it to seeing war stuttering
through a phone camera lens.
check out the blitzkrieg in ten million pixels.
'oh the humanity' on the digital zoom.
(and when he quits) he returns
to walk our streets with all the style
of benefit cheats and tax exiles.
mumbling,
she doesn't exist if no-one's taking pictures.
if she isn't performing its as though she was never born.
i'm just writing you this quick note to say:
happy happy handlers day.
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
soup kitchen.
harness the power of the pyramid
in the job interview or the queue
for the soup kitchen.
harness the power of the pyramid
in the job interview or the queue for the soup kitchen.
i always felt slightly sick and nervous
every time i made an aspirational purchase.
you know,
there's nothing funny about an emperor or slaves.
its like singing about how fast your hair is thinning
or writing about the lines on your face.
you said this is surreal.
i said this is as real as it gets.
caffeine, bloated cadavers,
good people under the sledgehammer.
tilt your head and read my welcome mat, mate.
it says there's nothing funny about an emperor or his slaves.
i saw one thousand birthdays, bored.
awaiting delivery of a godless stick from luxor.
the whole experience left me very cross.
meet your new boss - king tutankahmun.
dines exclusively on millionaire's shortbread,
downs a pint of asses milk each night before bed.
he paid for the pavements and now he owns the streets.
this is known as thinking outside the box - delivering beyond the brief.
he never struggles to squeeze in his five a day..
she shuffles on a cane into subterranean spaces,
unto her cache of cattle with sellotape faces.
a remorseful chorus goes up,
'is this all we have to show for it'.
as though aimed at a film that
spits out his credits mid-sentence.
with sticky dreams
of gristle wet grit and brits abroad,
we kick up the dust in place de la concorde.
i pay them the blindest bit of notice,
its more than they deserve,
and set about erasing any traces
of triangles from my work.
we prayed you cease to trade in vagueries
and make your allegiances achingly clear.
still, you leave it in the hands of the overlords of chance.
book bins gutted,
insides scooped out like splintered giblets.
restuffed with
terminus, blinds, blue chairs that recline.
a serpentine of working men
all queue to see the boy who sleeps with one eye open.
i crack another can for
pubs, schools and post offices
as they disappear down the jewel-encrusted orifices.
blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah.
in the job interview or the queue
for the soup kitchen.
harness the power of the pyramid
in the job interview or the queue for the soup kitchen.
i always felt slightly sick and nervous
every time i made an aspirational purchase.
you know,
there's nothing funny about an emperor or slaves.
its like singing about how fast your hair is thinning
or writing about the lines on your face.
you said this is surreal.
i said this is as real as it gets.
caffeine, bloated cadavers,
good people under the sledgehammer.
tilt your head and read my welcome mat, mate.
it says there's nothing funny about an emperor or his slaves.
i saw one thousand birthdays, bored.
awaiting delivery of a godless stick from luxor.
the whole experience left me very cross.
meet your new boss - king tutankahmun.
dines exclusively on millionaire's shortbread,
downs a pint of asses milk each night before bed.
he paid for the pavements and now he owns the streets.
this is known as thinking outside the box - delivering beyond the brief.
he never struggles to squeeze in his five a day..
she shuffles on a cane into subterranean spaces,
unto her cache of cattle with sellotape faces.
a remorseful chorus goes up,
'is this all we have to show for it'.
as though aimed at a film that
spits out his credits mid-sentence.
with sticky dreams
of gristle wet grit and brits abroad,
we kick up the dust in place de la concorde.
i pay them the blindest bit of notice,
its more than they deserve,
and set about erasing any traces
of triangles from my work.
we prayed you cease to trade in vagueries
and make your allegiances achingly clear.
still, you leave it in the hands of the overlords of chance.
book bins gutted,
insides scooped out like splintered giblets.
restuffed with
terminus, blinds, blue chairs that recline.
a serpentine of working men
all queue to see the boy who sleeps with one eye open.
i crack another can for
pubs, schools and post offices
as they disappear down the jewel-encrusted orifices.
blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
flattened.
a demolition crew has moved in next door using
TNT and toothbrushes I said "hey, what you doing?"
but the foreman ignored me, implored his men to
restore the land to it's former glory.
IAN simpson's monolith
bringing paganism back to the people
handing mysticism to the masses.
some buildings round here will never need planning permission.
the plans from above belie the architects cheap lust for the occult;
broken pentagram avenues,
cement mixed with the sweat and shit
of two maidens from stratford-on-avon.
a loose cannon in planning tried to save em.
and now he's off with the stress.
so him in his name lets raise a glass
to that good old-fashioned dumb bravery.
AND STAND before the three graces in a hi-vis jacket
and choose your own incedental music.
and yawn in the face of the dawning of deficit.
from the mud something will continue to rise
I only exist to tell you which things and why.
TNT and toothbrushes I said "hey, what you doing?"
but the foreman ignored me, implored his men to
restore the land to it's former glory.
IAN simpson's monolith
bringing paganism back to the people
handing mysticism to the masses.
some buildings round here will never need planning permission.
the plans from above belie the architects cheap lust for the occult;
broken pentagram avenues,
cement mixed with the sweat and shit
of two maidens from stratford-on-avon.
a loose cannon in planning tried to save em.
and now he's off with the stress.
so him in his name lets raise a glass
to that good old-fashioned dumb bravery.
AND STAND before the three graces in a hi-vis jacket
and choose your own incedental music.
and yawn in the face of the dawning of deficit.
from the mud something will continue to rise
I only exist to tell you which things and why.
Friday, 17 July 2009
secret shopper.
i
was
chewing on the script.
flavourless and fatty words.
I'm JUST trying to bring some joy into a joyless world.
he's content to sing to himself in the dark,
the musical equivalent of a subsistence farmer.
(what will they think of next?)
i recall,
it was back in 2003
when i first invented the slur
and the scream.
i'd seen desperate stanza-pop
before a queen victoria backdrop.
their words were so rich i knew i wouldn't sleep a wink that night.
all my hooks and barbs seem to signal
that i am forever doomed to be the lead single.
i can't decide if i need to be
deciduous or evergreen.
was
chewing on the script.
flavourless and fatty words.
I'm JUST trying to bring some joy into a joyless world.
he's content to sing to himself in the dark,
the musical equivalent of a subsistence farmer.
(what will they think of next?)
i recall,
it was back in 2003
when i first invented the slur
and the scream.
i'd seen desperate stanza-pop
before a queen victoria backdrop.
their words were so rich i knew i wouldn't sleep a wink that night.
all my hooks and barbs seem to signal
that i am forever doomed to be the lead single.
i can't decide if i need to be
deciduous or evergreen.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
pilot whales.
listen, please listen,
i dressed my message in the most appropriate rhythm.
a new wave of fisherman, name dawkins & hitchens,
winter and whiskeys will make for a swifter existence.
but don't lose yourself in prudence,
blubber has a million and one uses
and mammals move so gracelessly.
tonight, on the specials, i think...i think i saw you and me.
bring me my readers, i need to see the order of service.
blake's verse reversed, dickie dawkins' work rendered worthless.
whale, badger, fallow deer,
the magnetic pull of the cull.
population control became the black hole in my conversations,
i determine as i cut the beast across the throat.
and our hunter begins to wonder
if that cough he can't shift is stress or tuberculosis.
he'll pay for the things he says, like how
when he dies he wants to return to the earth as a plague.
I'M GONNA BUILD ME A HORSE three times the height of the angel of the north
and when the people look up at the galvanised steel skin they will feel exactly what i want them to feel.
i dressed my message in the most appropriate rhythm.
a new wave of fisherman, name dawkins & hitchens,
winter and whiskeys will make for a swifter existence.
but don't lose yourself in prudence,
blubber has a million and one uses
and mammals move so gracelessly.
tonight, on the specials, i think...i think i saw you and me.
bring me my readers, i need to see the order of service.
blake's verse reversed, dickie dawkins' work rendered worthless.
whale, badger, fallow deer,
the magnetic pull of the cull.
population control became the black hole in my conversations,
i determine as i cut the beast across the throat.
and our hunter begins to wonder
if that cough he can't shift is stress or tuberculosis.
he'll pay for the things he says, like how
when he dies he wants to return to the earth as a plague.
I'M GONNA BUILD ME A HORSE three times the height of the angel of the north
and when the people look up at the galvanised steel skin they will feel exactly what i want them to feel.
bulldozer
put the boy out to stud.
he was born to draw blood from the ground.
in samelsbury i've seen a snowplough with no teeth
aching for a ding or a chip or a scratch or a dent or anything.
in the shadow of eurofighter/hawkteam,
tremendous weapons =.
but.
we don't make em, we just sell em.
and i'll turn the mortar into mist as cranes and diggers do the twist.
over in a corner health and safety man having kittens.
see me limp in first - walking with a common purpose.
i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware.
i may be bored but i can breathe easy.
as normally service is restored
i learn that peace is the only thing that can please me.
i've had some work done,
bumper stickers and racing stripes,
new stereo system.
my own mum only recognises me by the eyes.
but i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware
that i am aware that i am aware
that i am aware
that i am aware
that i am aware.
that i am AWARE that i am AWARE that i am AWARE
that i am aware, that i am aware. that i am aware.
that i am aware,
that i am aware.
he was born to draw blood from the ground.
in samelsbury i've seen a snowplough with no teeth
aching for a ding or a chip or a scratch or a dent or anything.
in the shadow of eurofighter/hawkteam,
tremendous weapons =.
but.
we don't make em, we just sell em.
and i'll turn the mortar into mist as cranes and diggers do the twist.
over in a corner health and safety man having kittens.
see me limp in first - walking with a common purpose.
i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware.
i may be bored but i can breathe easy.
as normally service is restored
i learn that peace is the only thing that can please me.
i've had some work done,
bumper stickers and racing stripes,
new stereo system.
my own mum only recognises me by the eyes.
but i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware
that i am aware that i am aware
that i am aware
that i am aware
that i am aware.
that i am AWARE that i am AWARE that i am AWARE
that i am aware, that i am aware. that i am aware.
that i am aware,
that i am aware.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
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'.
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'.
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