And the world was never mad,
it simply forgets where it should place it all,
some crave the stone
where it was carved into the top of blood alters,
and can’t find a chisel good enough;
even though the clothes are piling up and there’s dents in the floor boards;
some like it when its saved until the weekend and blown in through the
mouth
whilst it fights for air with liquids costing five pounds per word;
the pitch squeezing up through all walls no matter where you’re sat,
and what you’ve got.

A face looking at you from across the underground train.
A paragraph says nothing, even the rats look for gods in the rain,
cars plummet by caring nothing of your thoughts,
where they centre in wild spins through the air somersaulting;
colliding snakes made from your favourite director.
The world was never mad – and proves it by the chance to place it all,
and take it all in from a smooth place in the grass, or desert,
or black room lit by giant screen.

The room plays with your will, rolling a 6
and a 6
and a 6
and an angel
1.

And the avalanches roar in cascade worthy of your soul and logic,
and you walk out to the street rolling your own numbers,
in your own cup – it grows by giant star -
but is still not mad. It never was.

The splendour of going home in the peace of neon signs,
and the smoke of the city inhaled, by your lungs, once
or twice,
(depending on your vice)
bringing us back to zero -
passing up your thigh bone with all the messages
the basement
locked away
for a while.

The words are clear, fleeing from flashing screen to cortex,
hastening, and flushing away
whatever was lost in the gambling room.
You reply with a smile.
Death cannot.

And madness is a choice of joining, and doing.
Time shines behind a moon made of marbled skin tonight,
a view from your bed that awakens you without you waking fully,
five roman pillars in front of your window,
a floor sprayed with construction work all around you,
a balcony where you thought there was just a wall,
opening on the same plane as the statuesque building on your lawn;
and to your right, a grassy path leading
to a church, enough to wake-
and see it again
knowing that your room has gone back,
no sun, no darkness, no fireflies in your hand
or mind, no silhouettes,
no choke;
no passers by, no question;
just a question of heat
within your body,
timed to the perfect decibel of your hair
or mine

Singing it out in some room made of nothing but the clarity
of our lost bodies, calling to the ceiling and sky
to mount as much as they wish
because our arms are suited and dressed;
we’ve come a long way,
we’ve been bored in the pit of dinner parties
and holiday tables
drank water in patience of the waiter exploding,
opened a steak and a vegetable
spewing its guts to time;

Call it what’s left in our DNA to know,
call it anything but madness,
it was created the same way bad food was,
chipping paint
without someone
to look out for it,
horses flying through the fields,
wind making water fly from their eyes,
as they run,

no riders
upon their backs.

I this song
dribble down my gut
my *******

my mind
my river

my language you
my stars you.

We shouldn’t fix the moon with our hands
shouldn’t get the young thing all mixed
up, with maths;
but hell, there’s a pile of mist outside
someone said they’d employ me and
the night is a good pulse

it’s the same size as a bull dog swallowing
an organic digital
song

within jaw, distilled to adjust
within words and shades;
they have been launched and no longer ask
to ever-

come back.

left
hard faced
sweeping
open eyed in madness looking up at the sun
and the wind the same way
politely nodding to friends
rage in the wood
like something has been taken
a berserker smashing mirrors
and himself
looking at his own movements
(un)believing
that he has aged

not much left today
just words and a smile
that same glare
that same joke in quietness
still that strange mix
just a few words today:

“i did it all son. for a long time. and my kids are all ****** up now.
don’t do it this way.”
he tells me.

Publishers love jello
cool, gleaming, white hot jello
one morning i imagined that i was
writing in filth
the snow was the earth
the earth was jello.

eaked through a piece of cloth.

‘the mouth’
you were meant be;
calmed
or else led-
to be calmed
once more
and allowed through the gate quietly;

so says the day
that reaches across day
churning the streets
until silenced
by life;
and nursed back to fury

by the peace of words
from human mouth
without the faintness of sense
they are different to yours;

no matter which world
you see hanging around
the mouth of furness
and steps
inside you
welcome you
deeply

there’s no fixing our pulse
there’s only fixing
our expressions
of it, that love our play,
the hedge cutters know it best,
the gambits that pull our actions from sleep
and clip a square heart into bush
and the ministers and bed louse
know it best

and nothing knows it best;
whilst here
as we do

something as small
as dancing through
and from within time
of womb bone and jaw
and knowing your gleaming
mate
is equal,
to your fear
of absolute passion

knows you best.

the day light was wrong
so it stayed there until the night dance came,
and everything flew apart from our hands that were
to used to tools that had old roads, later
we’ll go on up
and see what the hell we were talking about.
we’ll live normally, and will see every intricate part
of the carcass
(s)he will have a familiar grace
and behaviour behind our eyes;
bleeding out.
signalled by our sleeping embrace.
to do the same;
falling in windows
painted in silence
since we’re both off today
and our new place needs work;
paint streaming from our hands and nails
that makes no sound.

people accept
animals change

below street lamp
bleaching wet
changing back
as beggar becomes saint
cold rain
a wine
nailed by hammer
a twist
a tongue
a cursing
a symphony
a belch;
a chance.

The Thames rides high in the city's red wheel!
the indigenous birds of one country are moored no longer
the night is worth its ride, and castrates each reason
to not sell: the freshest cut mind: its only state: its only guest  

Babes milked by dunes, growing giants from their anima palm
low nebulae of sea anklets, by the cooling of patience
by the stored morning of vittalic kin, usherette grasps
shatter spite, at the risk of all peaceful vibrations in humour
where the roads connect to all amor fati, amor fati, Amor fati!
la chimère d’amour; where rhythms are shared by all animals,
unflexed in the skull by denizen skull: the populace melts

So passed the point of brinking-worlds, there are only elements
so no rapier can slice through dream like the scent of day,
and we scream in melodious waves of diving accident;
which brings notions back of extending fire sighs so opaquely,
happiness cherishes the chaotic mirror of booming children
the figureless dance of the last disgrace, which has no pity
and is the travelling word for success against liberty

We are no longer life, or its blushing ripped condescension
only my shadow and yours are the freeing muscle
where man has shattered space into the thousandless voice
of solitudinal stars in the androgyny of light-
hemisphere of binary pleasure; jealous boys and girls drink smoke
we the haphazard twin of darkness and light forget, wilfully
as if destiny is a circular pleasure, of both stomach and sky

By the watering mortars of the watchmen from Soho dancing again
and to this city the agile mouth of a field is awake
where the sad winds entwine with the yeasts of the hare
the smallness of light balancing on your cheek, gargantuan
to everything through the hymns of a car choking, to spirit
two moments transmit all there is, by the third, death emigrates
or it does when we dress each other by the charm of time

I have no idea where this music begins, and perhaps our DNA laughs
as do my fathers, your mothers, in the emergence of reversing gods
the birthing of make-up, the evening day mobbed by innocence
where purity is less magnetic than a sliver of fish, dead in a dog's heart
even that now, même que maintenant, even this now
même ce maintenant, is a better howling blood of choice
where a little fatter and choicer- rage is the sonata of calmness

And much dusk where the glimmer is, the ****** drool of half
heartedness is your soft wolf walking in, the silk of your bating voice
my only vice, and the point of all tantric scent
the murals of our past are now the sculptures of changing grip
like early and significant horses enduring the guilt of eating
all tribes in all ice and fire, the fastest cars cannot beat the tram
the tram and old bust marriages of constant grace

Fundament, infallible, mercurial, wholesome in lie
there being no flea with enough backs to carry us all
no poem in hell can survive without being saliva
too much **** and not enough road makes a dull car of us all
but, there is only one liver waiting on the ground
what is the perfect song to let it breathe? Tonight
you are my attire, and I am yours

We soak the ribbons with massacred blood, we say
to the absolute: no, I choose my partners carefully
I am yours, you are mine, our habitual skin
blowing leviathans training the wind
and chokes as we stroll releasing our hands upon its neck
but let ours fly together and apart, nothing holding the world
in the divinity of wood, your translucent perfume, our body

The dogs have blown into darkness
The moors create hybrids from themselves
Wild garlic ferments in fields of skin
Texas leans into Vertigo’s kiss
An ape is born smelling of you
My sweat is your blue June
Armed only by light.

I watch a news programme with the lady
that has brought me up
a woman in her 80’s that keeps a tree log
inside her room
just beside the door frame
ready, one she can use
on a burglar

I know that
if anyone tried it on, my instincts
hear the whole house;
and then, good bye thief.
I tap out the articles, make us a tea,
and discuss the strange world with her
just now they were talking about vinyl sales, ebola, and children.