Some can’t handle
what’s behind
the eye
neither
can i
but i say
to what’s
in front
hey, calm
down
for a while
haven’t you
seen-
the perfect yellow
lemon
trees, the
kind
that stand
all by
themselves
in Tunisia
man, you just gotta
look
at them, when the day
is water
to pull them
out
or place them
back-
-lighting
your steps
like effortless
seeds, North
of Africa
maybe
listen
to how
the insects
and bark
moan
and relocate
around
the apex
of their
form, the
gathering way
they have
collided
laughing at
the coke
atom’s punch
under out
and away
but
not yet

are they not

yellow still.

A very important email, from Fidel Nkrumah
Best regards!
It began with.
I am banker from Ghana.
I need your help
transfer US$7,500,000.00
to you. And
it is that
easy

The intricacy
of the hand
searching
your ****
for beauty

I replied:

Thanks for your earnest
email
illuminating me
of your plight

Mr Nkrumah,

mind if i call you

“Nicky”?

My bank details
are as follows:

Sort code: 76 32 89

Account number: 93761011

Best regards,

N.

Can you make the payment
out in traditional English
shillings
please…

i have a barrow…

have you read:

“I Have No Mouth and I must Scream”?

By Harlan
Ellison?

man that’s a crazy
kick-***
story
one of the best

perhaps
we can
discuss it
and whilst we do
we can fly birds

not aiming them
at the sky

see Nicky,
we were all there
when you were
christened
with glowing
tear
eyes
because there was water being dripped
on a small
skull

it was so moving
it was so
perfect
we went back
and bent down to work
the next
day, nothing
changed, nothing
drew
a tetrahedron
on that head

but there was an organic
chemistry
you see
“N!”
there was not a cross hatch of birth
inside or out
that the organs could not
consume
they could always
see them
there were always
the droplets flying
down

like those birds
we’re gonna
fly

we’ll make it
nicky
don’t worry
but in return
for my bank details
i would like to suggest- that
the rain is only god
spilling his beer
over
you see
like back when we
were being christened
and went out
without shaving
much, and one day
the system was
broken
and the next
it was fine, like a paper
whale
rolling back to the shore
of the desert
he didn’t care much
for christenings,
he kinda thought
hell!
that **** ocean is near!
you think i need some
fat fingers
dribbling
and
playing about
in my head— it can’t

capsize-the-sand

leverage worn out like sandless off colour
murial
but ******* the grains, alloping
and mad
salt sweat
calling out
to it insanely
as the world continues to rest
there’s another inch driven
away by its gut
there’s a permanent bed
of shadow
small
mamal wings
turning over, one after
the other
that no-one else
has to worry
about

the castrations have become
electronic, instead of simple knives
and the gravity of that thing rolling over to the east
back to where its shore lined haven awaits, readily comes
to it
a ready made
meal
dense
and watery
like it knows that you’re pretty much
knackered
but sends shattering dreams across
your back, sends its universe
to you, just another
dive
in the sea
momma
i have no
idea
what time
it is
but luckily
neither
has anyone.

Bones in the ashless fire
bright
from the growth of vitalic hands
from surpassing echo
of careless ground
letting all of the roads just
go
into the charging and dug-out
roads
as we walk in one body  
and the uncared for birds ate
with the cared for birds
lifting their heads up and down
in agreement
of shadow suns - sun’s shadow
the knuckled cocoons open
in the hemisphere’s grace  
that are not held back
by the dams that were fathers
to you
and the mothers eating their jammed crowns
of animalised peace
along with the ****
ha!
even they are cheered also, the hunters
of the field, arrows obliterating through eternity,
your heels creating, it
that song that tempers the cities reflection
returning mine
and season less unions inside,
desert storm, and warmed ice breathes
in toasts across seas
force open the laughing cage-

And the farm machine says:

“We will take more animals-
from you
tonight
we will
make you pay by the long tongue
of submissive crawl
and your livers
and liver brought
hum
by the hand-made knife
by the half-made, gesture

the horizons will laugh with boredom, at you  
pummelling dry, the mountains  
if you do not-

light!
LIGHT!
light...

(...//light.)”
...

throw ****** grunts like burping darts directly at the puddled lipped sky

run by, and through
the days of collapsing flesh
raining

Juggernauting mist!///

be unable to find sound

or sand hold

where the lights incept fog

and give it form,

be the crows in saliva
with no threat
as they fly by
between knife and bread
spewing cello grips
along the graffetied walls
of music
and moss burning teeth
in lines of paint  
into the secret wars
and charities
that nothing can touch
and the face at the end of that
brick’s
mind

is a welcome,
face

we walk by//////
sweeps that cannot
smell, themselves
at 5
a.m
fish shattering
by the entry
of our dive
into synapse blue - gulls bound to moon
the waves and the salt and ourselves
moments of dance
in conversation away from the roar
after the vermin
has roared
it’s last spittle
and has dispersed into low
figments
and the juice of that spittle
drapes over our shoulders
in curtainous glowing rocks

Come now junkerd star, trembling
gloats drooling with Cerberus' tears, through space
encountering unwashed books, and curving onyx lips
down hallow of easy river, of moor walk and gait
hares thump the ground of the fields, exchanging
the wilderness for sustenant flight, across it
up flow the silence as it reacts upon your gut
and sends sleep near lass and lad, back by a thousand hands of stars
into sewer skies of rats and eager swans,
growing from the dust of your gone fear,
the penultimate circles that cascade in the sleeplessness
of cigarette sounds and our waltzing vice
Hear Bound the stimulus! Of new sinewed blood
be the one trembling as the dwarf stars explode
into you, and our grips calm, sends them back
and are normal nights of coffeed jokes
sculpted from the clay of time
cascading outer vehicles driving along, the mocking hands glance,
and the hands of menace
ate artichokes
pealing plumes
and handing
one –
to you
the feet of your veins

pouring growth
of root
near mine
stopping only when

the roof top
is ripped clean//////////////

dry from every car, so that it settles
across naked architecture, giants in our hemoglobin
smile, the silhouettes, the wall, and the agonyless
streets, see our shadows standing to attention
devouring the suns toll-in the departure of our being

in the unwavering strikes of our dark hands upon the earth
that bring light to our iris, soaring,
It is this fortune that the soul gets to spend, only,
returning to the work, of life.

the poems, the letters, the sculptures
the movements, the sleep, the mute
the deaf the blind- and in the end and the beginning
there is all the art you need
a pounding hammer
the work of small anvils
replacing our arms
able to bruise the sky
just by waving
and there is no line - needing us;
in the end, and when the beginning comes
our blood will break the desert
and our flesh will be the architecture of silence
the proximity of our cells becoming each
season that we name,
ourselves
and the stars are shot faceless
by our days, and even the snoring dogs
will create time, as our hands stop the sun
from landing in our laps and gods are returned
to infants by the muscles of our arms, men
and women dragging carcasses near cave doors
will halt, and sigh at the future-
ticks in pelt and intoxicated elbows
of musicians pulling bow across string
will send perfection insane
once again
like a scream and a kiss landing at the same time
and all the wine of every fruit will not equal
the lone smile of a wrong turn
in the night, in fact- the small ball they crawl from
and make you rock into
will pass, and the partitions
of your faith will open,
tombs will shake
jokingly in the floor boards
friends will smile in the nails
ministries of sermons will ****
and burst out in private flight, when nothing can.
be swallowed anymore, lucky there is
the millennia's that feel the same
just a piece of gin
in a waltzing glass
reflecting your face, wondering
if you're going to stay
here
just a glass watching from the table
taking in your company as the night
becomes honest enough
to rain
and end any distance
that would separate our one
simple
organic
song.

And the night has great spirit
so she will be disgusted if you do not
at least prove that your measures of horror
are forgotten like dead poems and unformed cities
where she steps over them with you
and litters their roof tops with her feet
our scents know our shadows
welcoming them, creating them
like drunk shadow puppets guessing names
below a tower bridge,
– light
eating my fathers old teeth, remaining our mother
growing day from slashes in the river tone
calling out, sleeping well when the diving pace
is still, or floating in a crazy tank
that x-rays our hands until they release our fist
asking that no thought should permeate
the vice of our restless birds, the day humble
rolling out like animals from a burrow, I
throw my eyes out. curving them against the wall
all the better for having some dice,
as the street changes them and unites
our mirrored limbs near the southbank
where it chooses a low voice to speak in the thames
and hides 2am in the wind,
and that same voice
throws my eyes back, and lets me see yours,
where finally, the last reaction in the black,
is never human, it’s the breath, that shares it all
letting dominion know
that its welcome too, as long as it rests
whilst we dance
and relays our union
from skin beating drum
to landscapes that join
finding spirit in the meakest time
that sing the same
as cries of war
or laughter
within the fox hours
of our home.

Back down the million mile road
down south again, buildings
familiar love, fashionable stones for throwing
across the Thames, office fields, floating stocks,
driving to the train rythm of city gulls and movement,
eager, bored, and feral, but
you’ve gotta choose your home…

London-queen of
mimetic ceremony
silhouettes cornered in pristine rooms,
finer than the attire of imagined skin, remembered and felt,
classic
projected
films
moving
into one line
of crowded parade,
stepping to
and fro, dressed differently
every time

the city and i- we
head to a shop
that puts a crate of beer
on my shoulder,
and a better drunk than us both
asks me for one

i say:
“sure man, take one”
and i offer him my smoke too,
“take it, just made it”
we add,
“ah! you’re Captain Scarlet!” he tells me
as the man sings the theme song and rewards
me
with a dance.

And sometimes the sickness and poverty of it all
helps
and its ok
tell me that after two breakfasts land down,
for a while, and two tumours laugh
in an empty car park
at the same thing.

The name for god always changing,
some days a digital
word,
sometimes
a bird stood upon a lamp post
at 10:16,
the way
someone smiles,
the science behind welcoming,
cancer guns
and the engravings
on the handle,
that you care for more
than all the dry sweat
night dripping,
the kind that paralyses
insomnia
and rises from your bed
outside your mind,
again:

that familiar smile.

We won’t be a salary in the morning,
we’ll be a Magritte, or a Picasso
at the weekend,
we’ll stand in front
of artists dead
and see no difference
between lamb, now roasting-
and the experiment in seasoning,
that you, or I
added

there’ll be a non-charging cash point,
counting sounds
that are lost in chaotic uncares,
and if my lights go out at 4am,
whilst we’re linked,
the vat
will at least
be made of us

the androgyny
of burnt climaxing sky line
will be clear through the polluted hive line
of buildings,
we’ll be wearing hooded macks
in the rain – sliding between still light
and shadow,
crossing the intersecting lines
of humming traffic
and unheard noise
we’ll pass without tickets,
as they fall from the bridge,
and the edge lifts away
from our feet

and the rest goes underground,
behind ageing tunnel wall of aging
graffiti skull -
tracks nulled by snow in winter,
body late, perspiring -
pouring peddle down, response
automatic,
eyelid better for counting
time, than opening eye -
synthetic wait for for any fire
that is kind,
raising corners that blink
in false dream

our seven seeming tied, and untied, bonded,
and unbonded,
gropes untied with hunger,
the sky kicks in the brick walls slaying the hours
with calls from strangers and friends
indifferent-

one.
-
two.
-
three.

seconds
and faces.

(and the city hates slowing down
doesn’t (s)he?)

until its ready that is,
the only joke being to wait and drool over corpses and post mortem like
thought the place being in your heart and the ever-glow being the same
as any love that you feel and the way you need it to take you forward
and just let you ride the and forget that its there because I’ll die
before I stop acting on my instinct for you the ever-gloom and the skull can unwind elsewhere! Oh the poison
that forgets itself if only needing the same formaldehyde
to keep it still-

That’ll do.

…

Perfection is a woman without eyes.

Perfection is a man without limbs.

Perfection is the home that walks you back when the day is yours,
and someone elses.

Perfection blinds the crippled mask.

Beginning.

One that fits your birth.

Your death.

All of the ****
islands.

All
of the ******

****

islands.

Shadow cars and shadow feet hassle home
in the meagre rain advancing ****-
sapien slowly, blending the day through multiple holes
in tall buildings where the lights come on and the key turns in,
and mind comes to life and substance, more visceral,
than a thousand Eden’s that are now franchises and factories
counting themselves in back alley dice games
and the tears of glass buildings bayoneting the sky
with still fluorescent arms painting nothingness
in a morse code flashing red then black,
birthing in repent to open night; the automatic
hands of love firing faster than you can escape, antennas
orbiting the globe spitting from TV screens covered in paw marks
from the dust of hopeful, but forgotten salesmen,

the hallways accept you in, the machine clicks off
and the saints curl round a loop hole and a strippers pole
inching the shower on, sliding lava breathe
of uber spirit down your back exploding
heart-thought and no buzzing coming
from strange messages
or complex dream,

pull your reflection across the mirror and towel down,
fuels of organic loss drag perfection across the skyline
in peach rememberance(es) shouting out in mutual joy of the city,
like a mouthless crow diving across the landscape
into the jaw of itself, un
metronomed, as you take off your coat too,
and the crowds of harvesting fumes are blown out
by your silent smile,

and even from the rotting beauty outside,
we are the within the painted walls of our
home, a conjoined pulse that shatters each
season, with single shots of melody undoing
our forms like fog settling into hands of light,

– ahh,
so!
…
Even the thoughts of tired pages,
are mutilated by the balance of my wine
and your water, the burning smell reads
like an axe for our cheeks, combined with temperance
and taste of meat, spiced between pinch,
as we lay it out,
the style of our eating,
always more,
than the meal,

our race now nameless, the colours of our skin
lost from machine and time,
neither of our hearts can diminish the walls
of solid
liquidic song,
history moulded by a changing of clothes and shoulder
bones, moved down to mattress or road,

again the architecture is moved by our city
again the street lights bulk
fed by our voice,
down from hue, to repeated family chime
we rip open the odours of tar mac, replacing the rain
with burying fur into the one body of our spirited
field, arched mouth of coyote
and playful worker,
one,

our water plant eyes moan in the morning and wonder,
where the night sun has gone, migrating steps from the bed,
hang low in reflection of the past, one of us still sleeps
happily
and begins an hour later,

I take your mask from the white sheets where you lay,
with a glance, and a grin, and place it on, and look at the day
through mercy holes, cut through the holes,
where it fits like my face,

showing me the day as you

with no need to shave

or ever wash.




the image to go with this poem:
http://kerosenechronicle.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/thevalencianplayunit.png