Beatnik (prison calm).

Everybody dies

Man

I just passed one lying on the street

Writhing on his back over the warm white paving

Stones

People slowing to stare

Maybe to help

Not me

I have places to go

Someone to be

Even being in the death house

The big white building

The stench of cleanliness burning the back of my tongue

Only confirms how little I care about it all

So many of them lining hallways and

Waiting

Waiting for it

I’m sure somewhere deep

Down

Down

There’s a feeling

Something

But for now

I have things to do

Places to be

Time to kill and

Well

Hell

What else I couldn’t even

Say

It is not anger or resentment

Man

But prison calm

Learned

Necessary and engrained

Not just in here but

Out there

For you and him and her and

Them

And I know inside that

I am still here

A little bit curled up maybe

A little weary and hiding

Away

Sure

Everybody dies man

As we are taken over

By the framework

And the structure of all things

The baseline order

Defeating our unique ability to inflame desire

And manifest anarchy

We all speed forward out of control

Even the snail

The tortoise

A straight line

Invisible

Comical

And upon our backs throughout all

This

We have these flies at our picnic

(stolen words to describe the banal presence of all bosses everywhere)

As they push and pull and press and eventually

Break

You

Or not

Whatever

But they will try nevertheless

For reasons unknown even to them

Just because

They are told what to tell you

To do

But

Having to breathe and eat and shit and

Fuck and love and sleep

Takes all of our heartbeat and clenched fist

There is no surplus adrenaline left to heighten our defences

To raise shields against their grey threat

So what to do

What to do

Adopt a smooth hard face trained to indicate nothing –

Neither resistance nor slavishness

Words written a long time ago

Still holding true.

Good morning truth...

The house is silent, save for the dustbin truck

Grinding its way past

Outside the front window

And a small prism that hangs in there

Throws shards of rainbow across the white walls

Across the ceiling and rug

Across the sofa and my hand that holds my

Morning coffee

I open my palm to examine the splinters of colour

Each one long and razor thin

White light, white noise

Split into its component parts

The only real truth I think I will be privy to today

The baby stirs from the back bedroom and

I go to greet him

He smiles and frowns all in one

Happy to see me and resentful at having to move

From under

The mountainous white duvet

We lay watching cartoons for a time

The sun not yet having reached behind the house

We lay at the mid point, at a fork in the road

I lay undecided as to my intentions for the day

To stay where colour reveals itself

Or remain awake and battle the white light.

Anticipation

Not a Loon or Bonzo in sight...

Sorry it's been a really fucking slow week...  Give the drummer some.

Quote of the day

All fixed set patterns are incapable of adaptability or pliability. The truth is outside of all fixed patterns.
Bruce Lee

Settle.

I can tell you there are no birds on your pillow

Talking to you through

Sharp teeth while you sleep

I can tell you there are no monsters under your bed or

Out in the world

I can lay with you until you fall back to sleep and not want to move

From there

Because you allow me to feel that everything I tell you is

True.

because

A: sick photo, and B: because you never need a reason to re-post Gonz shit. From CBI.

The height of exclusivity

I am 2 floors above the street

And a sociopathic monologue runs along

Inside my skull yet underneath and outside of me

Like the ground far below that I yearn to walk on

There is a distance

Like a wall or

No

A bubble between myself and the external

I am not dizzy yet

Somehow removed from it all

Did I die?

I don’t think so

I am being acknowledged if only moment to moment

My physical exclusion now partnered to mental space

Two negative magnets face one another

All I need to complete this would be the green and blue magic of the

Northern

Lights

I am 2 floors above the street

And a sociopathic monologue runs along

Inside my skull yet underneath and outside of me

The sky deep blue and burning my

Skin

Mid June seems to have brought insanity to the city

I wait for night to fall and hope for my aurora.

Just Kids

Sorry, this won’t take a minute...

‘Thank you’ doesn’t cost

‘Goodbye’, doesn’t cost

The weight of those £20’s folded in a wedge in your pocket

Lends itself too heavily to your sense of worth

And by the way

A formal pink shirt with tight jeans and brown shoes

Does not make you

‘Casual’.