I don’t work for Stella Artois. Wish I did. And then that would be the end of me. I find that the best of times are like reversed prison sentences. In that they’re bloody great, nothing better. Wow. Man. Nothing better. But the link being in that that’s all you get. You enjoy that piece. That time. That’s it. Aint no going back.
And the real good times with others are the opposite of mob mentality. In that in being around the right people you are made individual.
There might be screaming there might be dance. But at no point are you washed over by the howl of assimilation. There is this strange thing called ‘time’. That you have. This strange ‘comfort’, that you have. And there’s a squirell sitting on the fence outside your home in the morning that makes things ok.
The best thing I ever did was switch from working my shop security job to university. At some point when my face was burried in a heroine-addicts arse after rugby tackling him to the floor, I thought… I finished work and I thought… Hmm, not sure where this one’s going for you mate…
And then you’re dressed as a priest. And you’re stood on top of this table spreading the word.
Must of married at least a dozen people that night. People do that when in the right place. I’m not talking about marriage. I mean wake up and move slow for a while and then talk to your buddy and then get an idea find a damn cheap book and then dance all day and then climb up on a damn table and shout about it like the devil has healthy hair type thing.
But then everyone’s happy. What a mess. Everyone is jumping about relaxing like the world is alright and in the times in between you just paint about it all. Ask Stella for commision. Get knocked back. Paint about that.
My friend and I figured out that the main reason for our twenties was to grow a sense of humour. That’s most likely exactly what they’re for.
This wont take long
they won with thick white faces
a star in the eye
not getting enough
wiry chests full of lapel
full of straight gay fear
full of streets
full of people
full of humour
like the smell
the way its rimmed
in white glitter and massacre
of anything trimmed
by the weight of the day
if it isn’t full of the balls bricks
and playful sounds of music
tensing dog faces
paint and sense
beaten out by drum
My life is four minutes long.
No search is needed.
I lay the odd word down.
it lasts for days.
I look at my friends poems.
See what they write.
Live what they write.
has my back
and is no longer
Reminiscing plays that easy game of moon flakes and shadow. The kind that keeps you awake until the long tube comes. And zero can’t take anymore away from zero, at least. Working to not be a dog but lapping it all up until the weekend comes.
And the spirits of memory have no reality anymore in your eyes. Maybe a song that has a harmony as you squash onto a train or a long road of metallic sociopaths- hey ‘FF- you man!2 x n ∞
But I make a point of remembering each and every conversation with a friend. And there can only be sense in what we have said and done. Regardless of whether or not we have agreed. The same goes for lovers. As awkward as it is! It’s all true. Although, I suppose that is the luxury of emotion, in that, we get to chose, at the time, and after, if it was love, or not.
It’ll be alright by the lightening
it helps us walk like itself
walking up through the ceiling window
of my flat
we link flesh and myth
amongst the cherub jokes and sinuous cloud,
hands shaking pulse in concaving light
death dance and phoenix breeze
The prayer and the wet
rolling down the slates
harmony in our butts, rolling the storm back, and watching it all
The night spills its last beer like weighted sweat.
The opera accepts our tickets and slices us down with gallous applause
Where do our limbs stop being the night?
They do not, so it seems, and spread the thunder out
from our one hand
the nails, and skull, of one, open fist, retaken-
and driven up
from the worlds core, remedy in scent
the talent of our blood,
damming the poison, allowed to evolve
and be another – celestial light, that not only drives the herd,
but is at home in the energy of waking
The lightening passing down through gelatenous night clouds,
caring that there is only sense in the warmth of our mind, our synapse grace,
the float of our hands moving away from the globe,
un lapin mouvements de warren
Farmer gathers flock as night moves
chain smoker watching you cook
another reason to storm the bellowing halls, one more toast to the sodden market,
brings the landscape to easy halt, and strokes out its weariness as apes walk
as the amazon peaks, and as the sunrise settles down
and into us; summits!
made of nothing,
but the story of our day, all that makes a man
are always waiting
And are willed by things
that I will never know
completely, but walk like lightening;
when the storm comes.
Letting me know
that it’s all damn false,
And due to such time spent doing such things I arrive home again, and find that many of my friends have grown ‘nationalist feelings’. About how we must defend our country from aparent threats. I say ‘grow feelings’. But I am neither a gang, or much willing to get out of bed to fight for dry humour, so I find things turning towards specific creative skills. And what there is to say about that.
The last thing required by society is for us all to be creative. And the last thing before that is for the seven billion or so of us to create our own religions. And to make sense of that. One odd idea is that the only correct way religion can operate is for each and every one of us to have their own. Each with their own synonymn of the idea.
Each one elaborated like a perfect biting peach. Not the kind that wilts when it is not bitten for too long – more the kind that is enjoyed all around the world at once, when enjoyed for all of its individual taste. I dare say we might see the world enjoying itself at last! If done like this!
And who says, that we are not already doing it
for there is no reminiscence
there is none! As there is not this void without love
So there is not this street, without organic tears
and the joy that builds nothing but these,
by force – shall i lose all of myself, and by
That tolerance of that will above me
am i a better drugged cadaver, a worker from iron
soot water dreg
This wolf from all spectrums lulled
this day of my stomach meagre as a broken light caught
by a cat-fish! I had never seen her whiskers
from where I was! If I had ever washed!
But by lore, and by moxie, and by style, and by her ghost,
and by her scent, and by her memory, and our truth;
and by our skin made quilt laid upon landscape,
opening soil as blood
and as never-fire
As in the wealth of depth, that partnerships do,
each joint marionette made young
with no wooden guilt, and no undanceless smile!
By her grasp! And by our wood the pigeons scawl, the dogs
Into human faces
like cats that wander no more
As we are told which song is right, and so is the daily pulse
Nightly by our retreat
half-made by the drops
of our sweat
But then there is the boom
but then there is the song singing
sweetly by our many pores
gives our bodies element, breath by breathe
limb, by moving limb ourselves
May we build back that which has been charmed away,
by this dozen twist of humanity, that is not who we are;
Shall we all go into the bussomless woods black, where
greens have no time, where the throats of our
life are but one, yes yes yes
But shall we share the same lips for one moment
and share the same lungs for one leg entwined,
as our limbs conjoin further more the sunset
the time, the perplexes that wash away with our
Such wars we knew were smooth, such strikes upon our skin,
the oaks, then green, then children once more.
So much more than the street can pay with its own eclipse
So many more than animals can bound forwards
and be at one with the denizens that name them truly
And in this birth upon the climbing silhouettes there are none.
And with our hands speaking in life-forms against the wall.
I see ourselves.