Cranes accuse the sky
As people swarm like ***** in
A ******* jungle

Drum Gold
Is my tobacco
It has character
And I had a girl once
Who liked Cutters Choice
And I told her it had more additives
And that it burnt hotter
And that Drum Gold had more character
And we spent nights exploring each other's bodies
And smoking Drum Gold
Which she adopted
But that ended
Like all good things
And I've forgotten a lot of those spent nights
And now she smokes Golden Virginia

Half the poems on here
Are oversentimental love poems
Written by sobbing little girls
About boyfriends
Heartbreak
Flowery and and stinking of perfume
While the boys are on pornhub
On the **** section
There is a divergence

You're going to die
But there's a list of the 30 best cat selfies on buzzfeed
Something is going on in Ukraine, or is it Venezuela?
But it's ok...
Sherlock is back on
And you haven't finished Game of Thrones yet
God is a twisted sadist if he exists at all
But you have some notifications on Facebook
Don't think,
Just pick up the phone and play Flappy Bird
Let the feelies get to those thoughts that creep in

The revolution wasn't televised
It was tweeted
And its auto-tune remix went viral the next day

I catch glances
As I walk through town
Daughters
Out with their mums
Who pretend to look off in the arbitrary distance
As I scan them
From top
To toe
And then the glances of their proud mums

Old women who huff
As I have the demeanour
Of a stargazing ******

The odd freak
Who cheers me on with his eyes

Machos, who like to hold the gaze
Which I like to hold right back
Thinking of my father in a coffin
To return a calm, worrying stare

Sometimes a fleeting beauty will appear in a metro window
And both knowing of the ephemerality of our encounter
We **** with our eyes
Before she is whipped off
Down the dark tunnels

I can hold a gaze with almost anyone
People are fascinating

I can hold all these gazes
Until
Some men stare back
And I melt

The skyline was beautiful on fire
All twisted metal reaching upwards
The water wars
The great migrations
The barbarity of a thousand roving clans
The infertility
And the old used as meat
Had made love a distant memory to those remaining
But tumbling over scraps
Navigating through shards
Gnawing at withered roots
Lapping at acrid streams
We went on
All we had done was hope better

Too many people write about love
without being right about love
Full of
yet tight on their love
Spewing
an echo of flowery 19th century poetry
When the real love
is a point of view
It's looking back on that girl you hated 5 years back
with a new eye
It could just be a cat purring in your lap
It could be a warm fireplace
or a ******* you gave in Chiang Mai
It could be the ocean
or it could be that time when you collapsed in a gutter in New Orleans
and you lay in the trash
but looked up at the stars

Outside I have no influence
People are born where they shouldn't be
Objects of consumption end up in gutters
Chemicals that will slowly erode me
Are put in the drinking water
A handshake seals the fate of some low lying town
Which is to be flooded for hydroelectricity
The chaos creates a fjord with a great variety of fish
Until catfish take over and an algae that wasn't meant to leave a laboratory in Italy takes over and makes the water toxic
People wrestle with notions that no one else will understand and that none of the many world dialects can express
Dogs **** where they shouldn't
And it is only a dim reprieve in a cavernous darkness that I know the order of my shampoo bottles
Or that a weeks worth of muesli lies in one of my cupboards
Or that my scarf hangs on that chair by the door
And yet the landlord
Is a vulture
That is trying to take
This last scrap of rotting meat
Away from me

Quesque'il faut pour ce cœur tourmenté
C’est une femme, une ancre à laquelle s’attacher
Cette femme, un fantôme qui trouble mon sommeil
n’est jamais à mon côté quand je me réveil

Je me gaspille tout seul en faisant rein.
Doucement vient la vieillisse, la peur, le chagrin.
La cure se trouve dans la femme parfaite
qui sait trouver l’ancien ordre et le remettre

Une tache de merde aura cette pauvre femme.
Sans grand chose en échange, balayer mon âme
Pour trouver son ancienne splendeur
Obscurci par le temps et la douleur

Chaos is my North Star
My god
Because it is only through chaos
That we can burn down the underbrush and weeds
Of old ideas
Old systems
Bureaucracies and impediments
And plant
Hyacinths of truth
But then again
Ask me about all this
When I am 49

Writing a poem
Is like having a ****

Tim Hecker
And crowds
A match made in heaven
Earphones in
I glide through the crowds
Each glitch becomes
The next person (a glitch in nature)
Each hush
Becomes a waft of permafrost air
And the rhythm blends in with a thousand feet and faces
Elements become
Hustlers
Bourgois ladies and their little dogs
Stern old men
A lost looking child
Or
Those two girls - restrained by mall security

People try to untangle my expression
I am euphoric
I am exalted
By my music video
Playing just for me
Here
Now

I'm beggining to like these people
I hope the music doesn't wear off

I was happy on the train last night
On my own in the clinic white light
With earphones in and eyes closed
I smiled

Stewing in my loneliness, warm
With the country unraveling, free form
I couldn’t explain why and that was why
I smiled

I counted my problems and found four
Realized they didn’t matter anymore
Because time was on my side
I smiled

Zipping past personal dramas
Speeding past sleeping farmers
Coming back home to my bed
I smiled

I took the long way home that night
Stepping under multicolor street light
Got home and gazed and the ceiling
I smiled

Night bus
And the pug nosed guy in the suit over there
Staring me down
Is a thousand broken dreams
And the young girl down there
Who looks weird
But my kind of weird
Is a thousand unexplored
And the ***** with the cap trying to finish off his crossword
Is Gil Scott-Heron
And no one sits next to me as I spill my poison through the keypad into a cracked screen

I'm doing good now
Settled down
With wifi
A phone
A house
A good amount of food
I've stopped smoking
And taken up jogging again
And there is no one on my horizon

But I can't ******* write

There is genuinely a poem on here
Called "My love for you is Like Violin Dubstep"
And it's fine that people don't read my ****
If it's the people behind such artless crap

Shot nerves
I need a girl
But you disgust me
Why can I not
connect?

This gap
I’m right in front of you
But it’s so wide

I have charm
I can make you smile
I can make you growl
for more
But I don’t want to

Glad to be unhappy?
Fasting subconsciously?
Maybe i'm happy with a missing piece
What future pleasure is there to be had
from a finished jigsaw?

O, mother
I can feel
The soil
Falling over my head

Genius
I follow the canyons you have dug
Following the bottom path
Looking up at the high water mark
knowing that i will never reach
Trudging on and on in your shadow
The goal is visible
Although an invisible spec that i will never reach in the time i have

So
At some point
I stop
Clamber over the edge
And stare at the wrinkled surface of my life
Which is riddled with the long
Short
Deep
And shallow paths of other men
Which path will i choose next?

Lacklove and manless in Moloch
Vile ******* in Moloch
Moloch
In whom I set disinherited
Dispirited
Listing to Arvo Pärt
As civilisations wax and wane around me
As towers are raised to the sky
Left to rot
Then lived in
As the furnaces of the world whirr on incandescently
And as I try to use long words to make it all seem better
And as words finally fail

At the cross roads
Down on my knees
If you love me Jesus
Wire me some money

Dank to think I can sort out my woes
Cause? : the bitter scratch of time
Stronger than the thoughts of man
A healing flow, sublime.

I’m more right than Maggie
The masters bigwig voice
They just drool to make me a tool
But I have a choice

Really on my own here
All made of stars
The commute and infinity
The universe and cars

Four walls follow wherever I go
Maybe I created these four walls?
Could the collective of humanity
dream past the halls of fools

Mighty moloch man eater
You furnace of society
Guzzling skeletal men
Chained by bureaucracy

The poetry
It has spilled
Like the blood of a great massacre
And it has diluted
To a near transparent film
Over the 21st century
Over Miley Cyrus' ***
Over grotesquely distorted salaries
It lingers in the grey concrete behemoths of utilitarian cities
It's on your cat
It's in your parents hair
It's in Angela Merkells teeth
And this omnipresent film
That only few can see
Is evaporating into a backdrop incandescent beauty
It's vaporising into an intoxicating nectar
It's what slavery was to the blues
Or the reconstructions of war to bauhaus
Or what the crusades were to the renaissance
So twerk on Miley
Your artlessness
Makes art stronger by the day

Glassy eyed and
Lost in utilitarian cities
With a low-yielding love
And a useless imagination
With the bad art
And the public transport seat pattern blues

As the black girl in front of me leans into the window
I wish I had a camera
Her reflection is forming a double exposure
Of her sad eyes
On a background of fleeting metro lights
Next to me some girl gets slapped
And is then restrained by an old man as she claws after her attacker
There are two Japanese tourists
They seem disappointed
Some guy is staring at me
And tries to nod a bit when I look back
There is also this kid with pale white hands
Half asleep and hiccuping into his lap
Looks like he might throw up at any moment
And in the midst of all the arbitrary existence
I'm sat looking at the sad black girls reflection
And a kind of perfection forms

A hero
Who talked people out of suicide
At The Gap
A Cliff known for multiple suicide attempts
He served In the navy
And particularly a battle that ended the war
His family claim that he saved over 500 lives
They called him "the Angel of the Gap"

I just found out that the ******* was a life insurance salesman
Check your silver linings for clouds

“My mama used to say that America's the big melting ***. You bring it to a boil and all the **** rises to the top”

The Berlin wall is rubble
The invisible hand plays our symphony
CEOs are 4 times more likely to be psychopaths than the general population
And I can't see any humanity
Please cut uni fees.

It's a shame my head exploded
The day I met you
In front of those dinner guests
On that tinder date
My mind was blown
It's a shame that you were disfigured
By the shrapnel from my skull
It was going well for once
It's just a shame that my head exploded

Most mornings
Are met by a deep sigh
But at least
I don't have to whip off my covers
And find that I don't have any legs
Or no *****
Every morning

Nina Simone might be happy about having her smile
But I'm just pleased about having my legs
And my *****

I saw the germ seed of civilisation
In the metro today
Between Châtelet and St. Michel
It was stuffy
And the ones already in
Made it hard for others to get in
We formed a barricade
Made it look more stuffy
Than it was
Then tutted
Or rolled eyes when others tried to get in
There was a brotherhood
Even though all we had shared
Was the journey
Between Châtelet and St. Michel

There are drugs
And the shadow of divinity is scattered
By an unwelcome daybreak creeping into the room
Revealing lechery in our eyes
Everyone's voicing their ultimate truth
And yards if soul unfurl
As we distance ourselves from god
And words fail
All watched over
By the retreating darkness
And the wrinkled reality revealed

Let's transcend this sad world baby
Just you and me
Past the sidewalks
And shrinking patches of green
And ministry of sound compilations
And the weight of infinity on our backs
As we circle one of the 300 billions stars in our galaxy
In a universe of 170 billion galaxies
Just you me and a mattress baby
That's all we need

I leave Victoria
And 'Green Fields' by The Brothers Four comes on shuffle
And buildings crumble
London deconstructs
A primal forest laps at the southern service
As it flees to a coast populated by leviathans and krakens
The concrete suburbs fade to green fields
Kissed by the sun
And in that
I thought I saw you
Until the clinking train tracks reminded me of our slavery
And of the ticket collector
Tapping on my shoulder

Every morning
I shoot through miles of tunnel
In a rattling tram
And people have forgotten how to look out of the window
At the fleeting lights
Which highlight
The graffiti
Which highlight
The primordial urge to create
Which has morphed
From the cave paintings of bison
To territorial pissings
Of equal splendour

People try to avoid eye contact
Look at their shoes
And everyone wears a shade of blue or brown
Blandly coupled with something black
But I stare at the tortured faces
Dominated by Moloch
Who is slowly branching his tendrils around my ankles
And I try to guess their stories

Everywhere I go
People try to be my bro
but ive been toughened
by abandon
by solitude
and where some see a neighbour
i see an anchor
and its sad
but i dont have the energy for everyone
and i have to be selective
but then it happens to me
and i howl at the wind

There is a time for speed stream of consciousness jack Kerouac **** and there is a time where you are so close to realizing there is no meaning of life you need K to turn your life into a symbolist poem. On k you feel like le bateau Ivre, on k all your thoughts are symbols blurted out at a volume which makes you loose your voice the next day. All the stupidity and everything you hate about anything is celebrated in a New Orleans funeral style dance on your tomb way. Your life becomes open source to a whole new creation in front of your very eyes. Spasticus autisticus.

If you leave me
I will send you poetry
And if we marry
And you leave me
I will send you poetry
And alimony
And if your new guy beats me
I will still send you poetry
Your bones could leave this sad world baby
And I'd just switch to elegies

No sleep and I take my dark eyes to the streets
and the membrane separating the subconscious is weak
People become angels and demons
Screeching metro wheels are symphony orchestras
and emotions bump, collide and vibrate like particles in boiling water
No sleep but it's going to be a good day

I remember through the haze of Hong Thong and Thai stick
Our sterile love
In that shabby hotel
Our stubble
Like Velcro

And I don't remember much else
Wasting away on my own here in Paris

Moi: blanc, pur, droit.
Toi: noir, impur, a plat.
Une guerre, une embrasse, une rencontre
Une éternité, sévère, sans importance

They say
Have common sense
Be perceptive and analytical
Be careful
Be reasonable
Be moderate
But a deficiency of all those
Is love

Last night you saw past my front
And we connected
Eye to eye
Arms around torsos
Tongue in cheek
(My tongue in your cheek)
Right there
Revelling in the stupid jeers
And cartoon smirks
Unified
As one
Just like they sell it it the **** movies and flowery poetry

Except this didn't really happen
Because I am here on my own
Thinking that death isn't that bad after all
It's the approach
That's terrifying

I don’t know about those pastoral scenes
Those bucolic and primordial endless greens
Unspoilt trees and murmuring streams
I know the concrete and the pavement
Uneven cobblestones with cracks in them
With dandelions growing through
Only sometimes

I love the later more
I’m in love with the concrete behemoths
The back alleys of life
The gnarled bouncers (unreciprocally)
The curious glimpses at weathered flyers on the floor
I love the sterile street lights and the worn faces ILLUMINATED by them
The ushers and hustlers and cautious taxis
The drunk geniuses
The night-swimmers
The nudists
The opinionated
Etc

Yet life whittles down these loves for that of the
Calculable
The
Regimented
And
Controllable
Etc

The cause
You stand for
Breathe for
Live for
Fight for
**** for
Isn’t there
You’re just using it to get others on your side
Be it
God
Freedom
Equality
The ideal isn’t achievable
We have yet to meet god
We have yet to be free from ourselves
We have yet to live without greed
So you are just allowed
To keep on going
In power
With no clear finish line

I wish we could cut past the platitudes
And speak la langue franche
You and me
Cut past the trivialities
And get to the core
Great men have been there
Mapping 9 levels to the inferno
Or drawing solitude
But we put on pedestals
All those who divert our attention
From the core
And elevate to the rank of gods
The salesmen of longevity and eternal youth
But you and me
I think that tonight
We could chip at the terrifying core

Torn in half and cut in two
Searching or lost
Depends on point of view

Needing to be complete
We search on
Fight and compete

No wonder so many combinations don’t fit
For lovers and perfectionists
Too much choice to claim that that one is 'it'

I feel no kinship with gay culture
Yet I am a *******
I feel no kinship with the heterosexuals either
Yet I lust after unhinged limbs in the dead of night
And I look for a concrete self
In unobtainable categories
That allure and allude me
And 300 people have been sentenced to death in Egypt
But I'm thinking about where my **** goes
And writing poetry about it

Somewhere in the path of my life
That noise in my head got tuned down
I started getting good nights sleep
I started to be able to concentrate
And control moods better
Started being on time for things
And I started eating couscous salads
And other things middle aged Guardian readers eat
The epitome of adjusted

Then you came along
And the noise in my head came back
And I lost all those things
But it's ok
It turns out the noise in my head
Was music

I am tired of the Americans chasing their opaque neon dream
I am tired of well tailored speeches justifying wars
I am tired of the dusty remnants of a roman lie striking fear into the hearts of many
and an absent god forcing his framework on an apathetic world
and I am tired
I am tired of constipated museums
and the few dictating the sonic landscape of the many
I am tired of horse meat scandals and frenzies over crashed planes
and I am tired
I am tired of globalisation being an auction for the lowest human rights
rather than being
wasabi peas at Tescos
And sleep is the cowardly death
of the feelies and TVs of the world

Its been years now
That she hides the bruises on her cheeks
With cheap concealer
To hide the violence of which her marriage reeks

It's been years now
That he wakes up every morning
And looks down at her skin
And feels nothing

His affection comes in spells
Ten minutes generally
Hers is well long gone
A speck you cannot see

They don't have love for each other
So why don't they just leave?
I guess this world's kind of lonely
For something to be worth this much grief

Discarded and disheartened
Torn, stamped and pushed away
I sit and think, bruised and broken
But what is there to say?

I should of known it wouldn’t work
I could have seen the signs
But I can’t decipher your silence
And I still can’t read your mind

But you haven’t broke my heart
Merely left a splinter
So thanks for having been here
My warmth through the cold winter

Oh god
If you are up there
You better have a good explanation
As to why I need to *******
To get to sleep every night
And why
You put those things in my dreams
And why
Good people die and **** get rich
And why
You created beautiful people
To laugh at subnormals
It all seems quite unfair

Send me a blonde
And we'll call it quits ey