29 Jun 2011

Beatnik (prison calm).

Everybody dies
I just passed one lying on the street
Writhing on his back over the warm white paving
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 for it

I’m sure somewhere deep
There’s a feeling
But for now
I have things to do
Places to be
Time to kill and
What else I couldn’t even

It is not anger or resentment
But prison calm
Necessary and engrained
Not just in here but
Out there
For you and him and her and
And I know inside that
I am still here
A little bit curled up maybe
A little weary and hiding

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

And upon our backs throughout all
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
Or not
But they will try nevertheless
For reasons unknown even to them
Just because
They are told what to tell you
To do

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.

24 Jun 2011

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.

22 Jun 2011

Not a Loon or Bonzo in sight...

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

21 Jun 2011

Quote of the day

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

15 Jun 2011


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


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

3 Jun 2011

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
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
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
Mid June seems to have brought insanity to the city
I wait for night to fall and hope for my aurora.

Just Kids

1 Jun 2011

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