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.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Sunday, 12 December 2010
looking for a leader
we're looking for a leader
one who knows the difference
between good mussels
and mediocre mussels,
a man who knows his sophistry
can pen a piece as far away
from the actual experience
as it's possible to be.
he woke up today
and swore he'd complete
his tour-de-force
his masterpiece.
but art can't
and won't grow
where beer is
seventeen euros a go.
i asked him
why he paints
and his response is:
for a house with rotting columns
and a bust of ME in your office.
but the handwriting was too steady.
the turn of phrase too stable.
you gotta scribble faster than you can think
force it out through your fingertips and make
your mal-au-tette your raison d'etre maybe
learn to write like an impressionist might
delivering more beauty more efficiently.
the throb in your noggin:the reason to be.
it's another must-watch, another must-see.
but once you've seen one sculpture, you've seen em all, haven't ya?
yes you have.
one who knows the difference
between good mussels
and mediocre mussels,
a man who knows his sophistry
can pen a piece as far away
from the actual experience
as it's possible to be.
he woke up today
and swore he'd complete
his tour-de-force
his masterpiece.
but art can't
and won't grow
where beer is
seventeen euros a go.
i asked him
why he paints
and his response is:
for a house with rotting columns
and a bust of ME in your office.
but the handwriting was too steady.
the turn of phrase too stable.
you gotta scribble faster than you can think
force it out through your fingertips and make
your mal-au-tette your raison d'etre maybe
learn to write like an impressionist might
delivering more beauty more efficiently.
the throb in your noggin:the reason to be.
it's another must-watch, another must-see.
but once you've seen one sculpture, you've seen em all, haven't ya?
yes you have.
the lynching
i fashioned myself as a rationalist
but even i cannot reason with grief and seasonal flu.
my king always striving to deny me
a day off where i don't feel guilty.
if our sad little grotto had a motto it would be,
"it's not good...it's taking liberties".
i strain to understand the alge-brain
as he mutters "for fucks sake" at my
umpteenth bathroom break.
you can tell a storms-a-brewing
when he cocks his head..and he asks how you doing.
it was spoken like a true rogue
who's stricken with trickledown megalomania.
on my return they said "how are you doing?"
i said "i am the yellow leaf over a storm drain bubbling."
between painted breezeblock walls you either swagger or you can crawl.
a job well done is no longer enough,
you must eliminate yourself and prove your love.
operation nowhere is now a no-go is now a-go-go.
offer your wife and kids to the logo.
he strides into the alcove
and demands a bottle
of the tears of aristotle.
you may not be plato but
you are not playdoh you are men.
you are not playdoh you are men.
but even i cannot reason with grief and seasonal flu.
my king always striving to deny me
a day off where i don't feel guilty.
if our sad little grotto had a motto it would be,
"it's not good...it's taking liberties".
i strain to understand the alge-brain
as he mutters "for fucks sake" at my
umpteenth bathroom break.
you can tell a storms-a-brewing
when he cocks his head..and he asks how you doing.
it was spoken like a true rogue
who's stricken with trickledown megalomania.
on my return they said "how are you doing?"
i said "i am the yellow leaf over a storm drain bubbling."
between painted breezeblock walls you either swagger or you can crawl.
a job well done is no longer enough,
you must eliminate yourself and prove your love.
operation nowhere is now a no-go is now a-go-go.
offer your wife and kids to the logo.
he strides into the alcove
and demands a bottle
of the tears of aristotle.
you may not be plato but
you are not playdoh you are men.
you are not playdoh you are men.
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
j.horrocks
hail to the house of lancaster,
you have always been the masters
of throwing your voice to any
fucker who'll listen.
i creep beneathe the foul food court
you tossed on top of market street.
it hangs above me like a terracotta
sword of damocles.
your pitches were delivered in a
tone so rich and familiar
i was half convinced at once
but now i'm drafting...drafting my response.
you have always been the masters
of throwing your voice to any
fucker who'll listen.
i creep beneathe the foul food court
you tossed on top of market street.
it hangs above me like a terracotta
sword of damocles.
your pitches were delivered in a
tone so rich and familiar
i was half convinced at once
but now i'm drafting...drafting my response.
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.
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