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There was a fire yesterday,
it spread across the airwaves.
From nation to nation, pain and grief,
for the boy from Brixton left us here.

Heartbreak ravaged the lovers and friends,
for the boys time had come to an end.
An immortal in many of our eyes,
reality burned us as we cried.

Till night fell and the streets flooded,
flames smothered and flowers budded,
under the stars he adored for years,
people sang and danced and cheered.

For the boy from Brixton left his mark,
and then retreated to those stars,
leaving us with his songs and scenes,
his fashion, his love and everything between.

A lad insane with a powerful passion,
in touch with sound and all his visions,
on course for a final collision,
with his home amongst the stars.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Samantha Marie May 2011
Evolution echoes
in the hollows
of the guarding oak tree.
Salvation in it’s roots,
intertwined like fingers in prayer.
Possibilities outline
hillside silhouettes.
Paper-thin illusions
are found in textured walls.
The flicker of the street-lamp
matches the pulse of my heartbeat,
and the shadow on the asphalt
color the hue of my dreams.
Rooftops and light-bulb skies
paint me temporary.
The contradiction of leaving
to staying
throbs.
Down on the South side watching all
the wide boys,
plugging in on Electric Avenue
watching the streets and who
walks by, who stands there waiting and
wondering why.

Brixton,
easy on the eyes,
sifting through the lies they told as
worlds unfold before me,
Starbucks and coffee,
skimming news in the 'Standard',
just because it is free.

Taxman?, relax man
the money's in the post,
this is South West Nine and
there's plenty of time
for all that.
Big Virge Nov 2014
As the BNP has seemingly, been swept aside
by the rise of the EDL & now UKIP, in England

This piece, that I wrote, some years ago,
still holds weight, as the immigrant debate
is now, still being used for political games ...

Same bullchit,
just some different names and faces
and .... NOT JUST IN ... The UK ... !!!

LISTEN ... LiISTEN ... !!!
" Middle Class " ... England ... !!!

Come On Now ... !!!

It's NOT ... immigrants ...
Bringing England ... down ... !!!

It's ...
Your Own ... Government ...
That's Causing ... FROWNS ... !!!

Charles Clarke's ... A Clown ... !!!

He's been ... found out ...

His Home Office Crew ...
Haven't Got ... " A Clue " ... ?!?
where ... Immigrants are ...
from ... " Foreign Grounds " ...
who now ... walk around ...
Right ... next to you ...

So ... Of Course ...
The ... " Working Class " ...
are in an ... " Angry Mood " ... !!!

and now ... are singing
the same ol' tune ...

"Get the immigrants out !
They're stealing our jobs !
and are nothing more,
than slobs who rob !"

Well ... for some ...
That's ... TRUE ... !!!

There is ... NO DOUBT ... !!!

but let's ... talk about ...
Those ... " Wearing Gowns " ...
and those who ... RUN ...
Your ... English Towns ...
whilst ... Robbing People ...
of their ... " Pounds " ... !!! ...

and  ... What about those ... ?
who ... Sit and Smile ...
whilst employing some to teach ...
who they knew were ...." Paedophiles " .... !!!!!

"But, its' the immigrants
who are ****** worthless !"

"Well, I suggest,
you watch ministers, more !
and immigrants less !
Unless of course, they're Americans
like Condoleeza and George !"

Then ....
Instead of fighting wars
on ... foreign shores ...

Helping George to ... " Hoard " ...
for his ... " Monetary Frauds " ...
So His Friends ... can hold ... MORE ... !!!

The Home Office could ... ENSURE ...
that immigrants who are ... KNOWN ...
to break ... SERIOUS LAWS ... !!! ...
are shown ... The Door ...
that's marked ... DEPORT ... !!!!!

The Labour Party ... CLEARLY ...
has got some ... flaws ... !!! ...
from ... Inept MP's ...
in the ... " Commons " ...
to the ..... " Lords " .....

Whose HYPOCRISY ...
SHOULDN'T BE ... ignored ... !!!!!

Like those who say ...

"Crime figures are down !"

with proof that's ... SHODDY ... !!!
and a body like ..... NODDY ...... !!!
and a pair of ... " BIG EARS " ... !!!

Yes i'm back to that ... " Clown " ... !!!
who in effect ... has said ...

He will ...

" Stop terrorism
on our hallowed ground !!! "

Please excuse ...
My ... " Skepticism " ... !!!

But ...
when letting immigrants ...
with ... " SERIOUS CONVICTIONS " ...
walk away from ... " Extradition " ...
and .... " Prison Supervision " .... ?!? ...

Mr. Clarke would seem to be ...
a man of ... CONTRADICTIONS ... !!!

So ...
"COME ON NOW PEOPLE" ...
........... LISTEN ...........

It's really ...
NOT ... My Mission ... !!!
to make you sign petitions ...

But ...
CERTAIN ... " Resignations " ...
would help the population ...
REJECT ... their thoughts of ... HATRED ... !!!!!

So ... " Come On Now !!! " ...
The Government is ... " FOUL " ... !!!!!
and should ... " Throw In " ...
The ... " Proverbial Towel " ... !!! ...

and take up ... New Positions ...
WELL AWAY ......... from public vision .... !!!!!!!!!

because ....
Their Brand of ... government ...
Feeds ... " New Age Separatism " ... !!!!!

which ... CLEARLY NOW ...
is causing rise to ...

... FUNDAMENTALISM ... !!!!!

from those who court ... " Religion " ...
to those who preach ... " Division " ...
and ... Teachings of ... RACISM ... !!!!!!!

From groups just like ...
The ... " BNP " ...

Nick Griffins' Plea ...
is ... VOTE FOR ME ... !!!

" I may just do !!!!!! "

Like those who choose
to ... Walk in Shoes ...

NEW and IMPROVED ... !!!

They now ... Don't Use ...
Those ... STEEL CAPPED BOOTS ...

But still are ... CLEARLY ...
Quite ... " CONFUSED " ... ?!?!?

Until it come to ...
Using ... " TOOLS " ... !!!!!

"You know the drill boys !
We've got new toys,
the first **** in view
you know what to do !"

How many of them ?
Now join ... Police Crews ... !?!

to use ...
Their ... NEW SUIT ...

To ... Institute Abuse ... !?!
  
I guess you ... " Bourgeoise Crews " ...
are now thinking ... " Oooooohhh " ... !?!

Well ....
NOT ... as much ...
as those ... " Immigrant Youth " ...
who've seen policemen ... Act Uncouth ... !!!!!

Vote ... BNP ... !!!!! ...
If you really want to ...
for all the good ...
This will do you ... !!!

The Rich ... will still ...
"Look Down" ... on the poor ... !!!

from the ... " Top of the Hill " ...
whilst storing ... pounds ...
and ... " Dollar Bills " ..

You're ...
" Foolish If " ...
You think ... They Won't ... !!!

whether immigrants ... STAY ...
or ... immigrants .... GO .... !!!!!!!

IT'S NOT ... just blacks ...
who'll face ... Attacks ... !!!

They're ... " Pretty Radical " ...
and that's a .... FACT .... !!! .....

I wonder sometimes ... ??? ...
Are they ... " Government Backed " ... ?!?

because ... if they are ... ???
Will they ... KICK US OUT ... !?!
with a ... " Bag of Cash " ...

because ... Right Now ...
That wouldn't be ... so bad ... !!!

So vote ... BNP ... !!!
That's Now ... MY PLEA ... !!!!!!

They may ... FINALLY ...
Set Immigrants ... FREE ... !!!!!

FREE from ... LIES ...
in ... This Country ...
from those ... You ... VOTE FOR ...
YES .... " MP's " .... !!!!! ....

Men like ... " Clarke " ...
" Prescott " ... and ... " Kennedy " ...

How about those three ... !?!

An ... INCOMPETENT LIAR ...
and ... Confessed ... " Alchy " ... !!!!!

I'll let you ... " Decide " ...
who applies to ... each ...

I'll say it again ... !!!
In Fact ... I'll ... REPEAT ... !!!

My ... " New Found Line " ...
Just ... ONE MORE TIME ...

VOTE BNP ... !!!!!!

As I said ... before ...
I may now do ... !!!!!!!!!

and that's the ... TRUTH ... !!!
cos' i've ... Never liked red ...
and am Black ... NOT Blue ... !!!!!

But ...
What about you ... ?

DON'T BE ABSURD ... !!!

It'll make things ... WORSE ... !!!!!

The only ones who'll ... WIN ...
will be those whose work ...
is ... " Driving A Hearse " ...

I suggest you ... Take That ... " IN " ...
and REMEMBER ... those words ... !!!!!!!!

If it comes to that ...
Whites ... " Joining Klans " ...
who make ... Racist Attacks ...
with tools like an ... AXE ... !!!!!

I suggest you think back ...
to ... " Notting Hill Frictions " ...
Toxteth ... and ... Brixton ...

Remember when the ... RIOTS ...
were the news on ... Television ...

It wasn't ... Much Fun ... !!!

Well ... Nowadays ...
Some ... " Carry Guns " ...

I'd prefer ... NOT TO SEE ...
Riot Violence ... on streets ...

Some of you ... SURELY ...
Agree ..... with me ..... !!!!!

I'd rather find ... SOLUTIONS ... !!!
That ... DECIMATE ... " iLLusiOns " ... !!!!!

because it .....
Wouldn't be ... " Wise " ...
to ... incREASE FIGHTS ... !!!
and face a ... REVOLUTION ... !!!!

We Need to build ...
" More Unions " ... !!!

That Help ...
" Depose " ... " Collusions " ... !!! ...
Employed to spread ... " Confusion " ... ?!?!?

This piece of prose ...
may make some ... FROWN ... !?!

But ...
NOT ... as much ...
As ... Government Clowns ... !!!

Who ... choose to leave ...
The Masses to ... THIEVES ... !!!
and .... POVERTY .... !!!

and a ... Health Service ...
Now on .... It's KNEES .... !!!

When you look around now
Don't you .... Agree .... ??? ...

If your answer is ... NO ... ?

You must ...
LIKE TO BE ... Clowned ... ?!?

which leaves me thinking ...

" COME ON NOW ... !!!!! "
As the BNP has seemingly, been swept aside
by the rise of the EDL & now UKIP, in England

This piece, that I wrote, some years ago,
still holds weight, as the immigrant debate
is now, still being used for political games ...

Same bullchit,
just some different names and faces
and .... NOT JUST IN ... The UK ... !!!
I meet Grace outside Brixton station
Her eyes roll upwards when she speaks of Jesus.
She is pushing the pamphlets of the Lord.
Sword raised and on a mission.
I think I know how this will go.

But does the cleaning up of SE9
The tidy line of once sprawling back street garages,
The neatening of shuttered-down shops
which exhale reggae and ***** and
The popping up of suprisingly good architecture,
Signal a shift in the redemption business?

Grace asks me if I've ever felt envy
I say Yes Grace regularly
She says God will forgive you.
I say I have already forgiven me.

We struggle to win the same ground for a while,
Battle over paths to peace
Go round and round
Up, over and underneath, what she thinks, what I think.
Until with sinking heart and flailing energy.
I move through wild eyed bag ladies
To another piece of street.

She got under my skin did Grace.
Reminds me how stone-carved my faith can be.
Creating certainty, even from mystery.
Perhaps we sin in the same church,
We probably shop in the same covered market.
tamia Feb 2017
here's to the glam rock messiah of outsiders and misfits,
the androgynous man of the stars with the music.

born in brixton,
he traveled the universe by spaceships and soundwaves
with wild hair and one eye dilated.
book-loving and queer,
in love with the thought of turning 50.
the world had never seen a man
living different lives at once,
but here the starman came reinventing himself:
ziggy stardust, thin white duke, aladdin sane, major tom—
all different selves tied together by his heart.

he lived his earthly mission, rightfully so
that even the gravity of the world could not keep him put.
so on and on he strummed his guitar and crawled on stage,
in spaceboots and dresses, in porcelain doll makeup,
reaching out to all the nobody and somebody people

but one day his cosmic vessel
was taken down by a secret sickness
and halted his mission here on earth,
and so the streets and little bars smelling of cigars
were flooded by the ones who mourned,
who looked up to the stars,
wondering where their starman went.
the world had never seen such an electric creature,
but here the star man came in music and dance,
saying it was alright to be weird—
to embrace strangeness
in a world where every earthling wanted to be the same.

and perhaps, he isn't really long gone:
his time here may have ended
but now he is out there, somewhere,
on some distant star,
watching over the Earth as he always has.
i miss you, david bowie.
There's still a hint of menace in the air from the
tapas bars that seem to spring up everywhere and
on
Electric Avenue,
there's few would argue 'bout that.

The night not flat but straight line curved, and keep your eyes peeled,hyenas prowl,stiletto heeled,
Coldharbour harbours much.

A touch of music and my eyes slant,
might catch a glimpse of Eddy Grant,
Once,
the new messiah with tunes to set the world on fire.

Mo's the man to go and see
(what you mean the guy with the Masters degree?)
that's the dude,
can chew up words and swallow them and yet the humblest of the humble men,
find him down
the Brixton Soup Kitchen
no whining,*******' ,
just getting on with it,in the thick of it
serving to his brothers,sons and fathers,mothers, sustenance,initiative indeed to live and give and love and feed.

You may think you've seen it all
but
you ain't seen nothing yet
not until
you get down Brixton way
see what the guys there do and say.
pure gold.
Check out the Brixton Soup kitchen,we only build from the ground up in the real world.
David Bremner Dec 2016
Through scent of frankincence
heady as she
I see her move
with Eritrean grace

Ebony skin I feel
moves my senses
Her jebena
shall ever hold my heart.
Wk kortas Oct 2017
We’re the salty dogs of mo-der-ni-ty,
Robot starfish programmed so expertly
(And we’d like to state most em-phat-ic-ly
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)

As we sail the blue waters virtually,
There’s a thigh for you and a femur for me
(Just a wee little joke, as you can plainly see;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)

We sing along to Yanni and John Tesh
Though we’d prefer to have them in the flesh
(It’s their haunting tunes we find quite tasty;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)

We serve the nation and prove our worth,
Map the sewers of Brixton, gnaw on Colin Firth
(He treads the boards in-spi-ray-shun-ly;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)

When our duty’s done and the day is through
We have a most proper naval bar-be-cue
(Though we replace officers most fre-quent-ly
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
Sharon Talbot Jun 2023
She ran a boarding house in Boston,
But they used her size to terrorize men
And lead them to the lock-holes.
Or was she a lady clad in black ruffles,
Presented to the Queen in 1844?
Perhaps she was a racehorse
Foaled in Harlem and won a prize.
She had peddled drugs and run a gang
In the chaos of Civil War,
Black Mariah escaped from the darkness
Of Edison’s studio to roam the world,
But in it found herself re-imagined.
They named police wagons after her
It’s said, but no one knows the truth.
Did she cross the battle lines again,
To tread on civil rights?
Or swing the batons in Chicago
And fire rifles at Kent State?
She seems to take time out to charm
Gruff-voiced men who sing her praise.
She prowled the streets of Brixton,
In 1983, with truncheons at her side.
Through gas clouds, dragging men to jail.
Black Mariah is with us still,
Helping to create tyrants and traitors,
To stop the mouths of those who defy
She’s an accessory to the killing.
A riff taken from the slang name for police vans in certain times and areas, especially featured in The Clash song "Guns of Brixton", and alternate meanings, such as a lady who wore black gowns, a racehorse, a boarding house owner. Really a hodge-podge of meangs with emphasis on civil rights violations. I spelled it "Mariah" so it would not be pronounced "Ma-ree-ah"!
remington carter Oct 2016
dear elise,

in three months rosa's cheeks won't be so rosy anymore and you’ll be standing over an urn watering the ashes in the hopes that your sister will grow back without the thorns.
she’ll leave them buried behind in parts of your heart that you never even thought existed and it’ll sting so much you’ll be screaming at family or rather
the people you’re supposed to call family
to not bring flowers to a flower’s funeral

(i’m digging my fingernails into the dirt and wondering if
god wilted too.)

your sister thought she could hide it behind her petals but she couldn’t and that means you should have watered the roses more, that’s what mum will tell you for years to come, and she’s right because it was her ******* garden you walked right into and tainted with god knows what. because of you, she’s going to cut off her green thumb and bury it somewhere in the corner of the flower beds so it wilts with the rest of her. it still smells like rot these days, why?

why does it feel so different? the kids still drive down to brixton to set their own bodies on fire (**** the witch! **** the witch!) and she still tells you to chew your words twice, maybe three times but be careful not to let the thorns slit your throat on the way down, rosa is too fragile to be wasted on your mouth. you can still change; you’re only fourteen. i’m hoping you will start finding beauty in the spray painted graffiti, the red streaks burrowing roots in your daydreams and cultivating a new garden in the comfort of your head
it’s just much easier that way having a keepsake all to yourself--

please keep her safe in the urn under your bed
this reeks of uncontained emotion bLEH yall r in for a sappy read
Macstoire Mar 2014
It started well, so cleanly
Soaked in Lush stuff she soothed the aches
Whilst wife was meanwhile cooking a treat
Cider soaked pork and apples
The taste was tremendous
Precedent set for the night ahead

Feeling cool as ganstas we bopped and grinded
To hip-hop only Jurassic 5 could please me with
We were few female amongst a crowd of masculinity
And we relished the imbalance
Flirting my way to the front of the bar
I reignited my relationship with the favourite Jaegar-Bomb
And there dust settled upon the cleanliness

Things turned hazy but in a good way
Post gig we flooded onto the streets of Brixton
And drank the finest foreign beers from an overflowing alehouse
The company was our long-missed men-friends
And yet we still meeting more
As we shared the ingredients to ***** our lungs
They asked for 50 shades of grey in return for rizla
So I rose to the challenge in my half-cut state

This time is was always my intention to wash the weekend down wildly
And starting Thursday this premature session could progress to only place
…the Queens Head
Where dust turned to grime as snapshots of evidence
Prove it was on the credit card that those Jaegar-Bombs were paid
Time and time again
We had become team-mates and it was time I fed them
So we muddled back to my place
Trumpeting our voices through the building
As I served slow roasted pork from glasses
Apparently felt good choice
But next day our melted fingerprints disagree
Our heads also disagree with the antics
And it takes two rounds of tablets to numb the pain

Before later forcing recovery as in Shoreditch we start again
Gathered at Bettys we watched music played
Our rumps rested on armchairs upon the pavement
We continued drinking until the early hours of the day
Then searched for somewhere to take us on the dance floor longer
After only brief grimes of movement and Jaegar
Our night ended abruptly to our dismay
Instead had my first take of kebab
And went north where *** took the night away

Once again woke next morn in bed with man-friend
No memory but surely not in a **** way
Now the skies ******* a mocking mirror of our livers
It seemed a sign to sink further
And the finest ****** Mary led the way
And together sat on sofas we philosophised subjects that we deemed great
Then we ogled sparkly get ups
With prices that we couldn’t afford to pay
So went south to join more friends whose film we met to celebrate

The beginning of the end of madness
Needed cocktails-all we could tolerate
We had formed a tribe of friendship
And we hunted somewhere to prolong the rave
By now all sense of cleanliness long-time washed away
So a downstairs dive provided venue fit for our friendships to extenuate

Then outside met a generous stranger
Who offered tastings that lead our minds astray
Our insides dirtied beyond belief
But sprits high so when we stumbled upon a private party
We were welcome guests to join their birthday

What happened next I needn’t say
For inevitably it had become Sunday
So ***** now we were beyond grey
In wife’s bed I lay
Whilst my insides showed their dismay

This would take some cleaning
June 13-15th 2013
J McDevitt Jul 2013
He enters. A stiff morning jowl
can be heard clicking.
And, in early grievance,
the second man’s clock speeds its ticking.
He lies lulling himself (lamenting)
while lockjaw bends down,
knees cracking.
Behind the fold that blinds the floored man
a “D” engrained from cigarette ads,
After smell of the first’s wafts over.
An emphysemic growl is left ringing
on the ground; tumultuous hacking
kicks in like the cops that reside down in Brixton.  
Wheeze, hack, and cough, and cough. And cough.
(Silence) bearing down from the **** erectus
leads Remington to the Clark of the floored man’s
pounding chest.
Rest, rest; he tries to protest, but the cavalry
can’t hear his signs of duress.
And now slitting wrists, from inside the veins;
the invisible smoker never could be restrained.
brixton bell Apr 2016
the clouds just hung there like traitors. No movement. The numbers won’t add up. We’re divided. No release. Lights ricochet against the water like wounds. Cut my heart out & paste it to the cardboard cutout i’ve been reduced to. No movement. Decorate it with glitter- the expensive kind like you like. i have no eyes. The clouds just hang there but still they seem to manage change. Am i just the same? is that a question or a creative form of denial? Can you deal with this?
Plot your next move. You are the chess player & i’m the queen.
But you’ll never really get me.

There is no real ending. Time has lost her breath. Maybe i don’t know me. Running in place but i’m on empty. No rules to our love. No designated direction. No reasons. i’m the champion of failure, pushing my own face down in the mud. I’m the maker of destruction enjoying every last bit. Wishing lives came equipped with erasers. Happy being sad. (i will not call you. i will not give in.) Wishing on half-broken street lamps. i always knew you could never mend a broken heart so why do i keep trying. That’s not a question. it’s emptiness, everything.

i am my own prisoner. i know i know IKNOW.

*Taken from "I Killed Alice in Wonderland" by Brixton Bell. © All Rights Reserved.
brixtonbell.com
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
most nations are divided by
either the south vs. the north,
or the east vs. the west,
well... some, not all,
there's no clear indication that
there's a true indicator -

in the case of england though?
well... you
have the emergence of
a "demographic" slang,
and apology for a lack of a better
word,
but i already indicated
this to be a misnomer,
meaning?
               third-parties,
i was never into coining a phrase,
so i took the lazy route,
and unquoted ("     "   vs. '        ' -
hence the inverted commas)
what would sediment into a fluid
pretense for rhetoric...
sure, the picts know
that glasgow is poor, while edinburgh
is rich...
   but that's an anomaly
of the rules...
       most of the underground
services are bound to the earth-worms
of north london...
  south london barely touches
on the convenience of underground
services...
               the underground
stretch of influence goes as far
as brixton (victoria line) -
   and morden / mordor (northern line) -
   **** me! on the north end, we're going back
as far as epping! farmland!
croydon? croydon?! talk about
                heathrow for ****'s sake!
   what the **** happens in west ruslip?
so kilburn is not a mini-havana / kingston
a jamie-jammin-chicken-****-fetish?
marble arch through to edgware
not a niqab "cat walk"?
             i knew i'd loose my compass
when strutting in london...
              homerton, hackney whick,
stratford...
           oh **** me, you go beyond
   hainault....
can you believe they still have
a video rental shop (blockbusters) just
outside of woodford station?!
               cities within a city,
like all modern micro-states of
frowned upon nation-states are:
   london? a city-state...
                           it's not a nation-state,
that 19th century: uh-hum...
                       ya ya...
                          i'm living within
an ancient-greek tickle of a city-state...
i'm living on the membrane,
i'm at the gates
  of the barrier between
   a city-state, and a nation-state...

newcastle, liverpool, manchester are
not actually considered to be
city-states...
           they're national-disconcertives...
   birmingham? ha ha!
           is it either? is it not the lahore
of the north-west?

mind you, me drinking an ale from
newcastle, walking in essex,
the "demographic" slang springs to mind...

i'm a southern fairy... drinking a
northern monkey's brew...
         ain't that a cause for rhyme?
i'm ******* sure it it:
what thrill in crafting art,
   within the confines of a mind
that knows no ill,
               for what of art,
if there be no ill of mind -
         to craft the thrills of true art?
is not art the craft that
          encourages control
over a decomposition, into the vigour
of ferment,
  like wine, like cheese,
                    so too...
   a florentine gallery...
    god: by a tarantula's bite, immobilißed
in the uffizi: mouth agape, pretending
to yawn.

ah yes... a reminder:
with a northern ale in the southern lands
of england...
   ******* southern fairies...
      bollocking northern monkeys.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
it was 1994 - the offspring just did their most infectious
drum beat with gotta get away from their album
smash; years later their most infectious
riff off americana with pay the man,
they set up a charity foundation
with the quote: any hacker who downloads
our entire album gets $1 million -
true story, heard it when i heard it -
but this thing about imitating a fox's
mating calls, Keith Lemon would know
via his sketch show - wazza wazza poo p?
listen, when the offspring's smash came
out i was 8... introduced to them via
my uncle... when **** took off for them
the dreadlocks were sheered, Kerrang!
inspected the case and they were playing
arenas rather than the Brixton Academy...
so the laughter... well, you gotta laugh...
a saturday the times magazine flow:
pages 6 - 7 the sheikhs of instagram,
Lamborghinis (bikinis?) gold plated parked
with a £350 fine by Harrods, the cheap
shop for the rich - the £1 store for the rich...
Knightsbridge - call it what you like with
capitalism's Hajj of eager bargain hunters on
boxing day - shtampede! indeed, a stampede...
then on pages 8 - 9 'i knew i needed a chemical
crutch. get back on the antidepressants. be realistic.
feel no shame.' she fell off her love machine
like Catherine the Great in a bed with one
to seize the craving of the appetite - horses,
wheelchair, you get the picture, ask the Übermensch
christopher reeve -
then the crescendo - pages 10 - 11
would you re mortgage your house to save your
fur baby?
- yep, arabs as decadent as the westerners
with the poor wheelchair bound woman in between
them - the vets doing brain surgery, MRI scans,
kidney transplants on dogs, cats...
i've actually never felt happier to be alive
given how the world looks right now,
and let me tell you, if Muhammad came back...
ha ha... he would do the same as all these jihadi
peasants are doing to europeans, he'd slit their (the sheikhs')
throats... at the same time wishing islam was kept
in a tight circle, passing the baton of observation to
Ali - the patron "saint" of Iran -
rather than enshrining it in the caliphates
for widespread scheme of conversion ranging
onto the borders with Catalonia -
how early the schism then! how early the schism!
the genius of the egg: yoke and white -
for years the Vatican the yoke and Canterbury and York
and Cologne (etc.) the white.
Being a UD means nothing to me
an undesirable, whatever please
stop if you want freedom of speech
if freedom you don't truly preach

Let's hear it from the sides Babylon
let's see the truth never Ions wrong
let the truth out jah basket
and give your righteous licks

Make time when you want to
you know you need to, have to
and when you come down
near by Brixton town

You see the poor in the streets
wicked Babylon complete
and the people that live here
are not as white as sheets

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Mixing it up down in Brixton
fixing some lines in my brain
Windrush is busy,
not peaceful,
the
poetry flies all the same.

It's a give and a take it
the day's what we make it
I choose to make it
my own.

mixing it up down in Brixton
home to a few of my friends
giving it large on the pavement,
a candle that burns
from both ends
P Diddy, ha
I remember him as Puff Daddy good or bad he
was the bom, but
P or not to Puff a point and be the Diddy play a joint or two down in Brixton town or up in Crewe,
do you give a krap for rap by any other name but puff the last out blast your brains out, sing and shout, his name, is Puff, no magic dragon drags him down, he burns the stage,  he wears the crown and I am still in London with a clown beside me on the number eight, a bus because I finished late and the underground was shut, but the clown tells me it's all a joke and then I wonder was it him that spoke or was it me, I blame it all on Mister P and puff my chest out anyway.
Finished work at 01.05 got on the N8 bus at 01.12 and some sleepy mumbling drunk had to sit next to me and so I wrote this..which has nothing to do with the bus or the drunk really.
fairyenby Jul 2017
They stand, the two of them, enveloped. Their bodies the segments of an orange before
ripped apart by delicate, hungry fingertips.
It is rush hour in Brixton and as she leans against this
unsteady machine, he holds her as if her limbs might fracture and fall
and land at their feet,
as if they might become neighbours to the newspapers and trodden gum that have
made their home there, *****, discarded, at ease.
Silhouette quietly nestled into his frame, sharing shadows
she, is elsewhere.
Gaze transfixed by a small being in front. A tiny entity that holds all of her undying
attention. Her lips bitten down to their core,
skin replaced by yearning and fear and a tenderness that you could touch.
The child’s tangerine lips waver hesitantly and then burst open, releasing a giggle
that sounds like fallen dust in sunlight, if it had a sound.
The space between them becomes a mirror, so much that the infant’s mother
looks like she has just learnt the definition of the word ‘envy’.
The tube falls into the station, and the passengers are squeezed out:
a frenzy of rushed beings in their most natural, narcissistic state.
From across the platform in rush hour, the train leaner is a mother.
And in her arms, oblivious, her lover.
January 2017
INFINITEabyss Sep 2015
jul
She was tragically sad in a way that I was but couldnt afford to have tattooed on me because im african and no one has time for internal misery when there are kids with flies on the look out for something to unempty their bellies, you know stuff you see on telly  
She had blond curly hair and we had the mutal understanding that bus rides were where we went to check on our selves, see how well we had supressed the demons for that day or week or past ten years
When I was going through my episodes I'd reinvent myself by establishing a new laugh
"Does this make me sound happier"
She would decide she was moving to india but never really left the university or ended up in brixton
Thats heres india if you cant afford the real thing
We would go for months without speaking and she would show up At my door with dark brown tresses dyed to conseal the misfortunes, unrequited loves and abortions
And I would put together the potions to help us through. No bus rides. just camomile teas and rouge lipsticks  
Sit at cafe rouge and pretend to be happy old ladies meeting to exchange photographs of our grandchildren
brixton bell Apr 2016
i am every girl tonight,
lost amongst ***** bed sheets
& the like. we grow
in seasons, hoping
that the world hasn’t left us behind
just yet.

i am every woman tonight.
trembling alone in an empty room,
the sullen lamp
with it’s uneven lamp shade
declaring the secrets of
my empty being. i see us
faraway now, maybe next
to an ocean,
this crippled earth balancing
on her stone axis,
always in motion.
to dream of you here
is better than death.

i am every lover tonight,
the simple confessions of love
not enough anymore.
& always you, your pick in hand,
chipping away more by day
at such an enamel heart
as mine. Even the words
aren’t enough anymore,
& maybe they never will be.

i am every dreamer tonight.
the clock moves us forward
without our say at all.
i might be someone
you knew once before,
hanging bravely from a museum wall,
light years from where we
are now. My skin composed
of the richest oils,
you reached out, fingertips
to thick smudges & precise curves,
a believer in who i was.
an onlooker, just passing by
on his way
some where better.

i am every girl tonight.
calling for you to come back
to my arms, only knowing
i’ll find sleep alone again.
& can you feel me? i say
when i really do wonder sometimes.
such fair skin, ******* exposed
for no one but this ashtray
with too many secrets to tell.
each sentence forever unfinished.
exposed for no one
but my own reflection.

*All Rights Reserved © Brixton Bell
brixtonbell.com
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2021
the older i become the more it hinders my output:
volume, quality, whatever you want to call...
perhaps it's censorship (in a way) -
a ****** lenovo keyboard: not wide enough
to properly place my hands to not look down
but ahead at the genius of QWERTY...
since... believe me: the classical order of the alphabet
conjured up by the French (perhaps i'm
remembering incorrectly) is not really important:
what matters is the entire body of the scripted
language... words don't unravel from a prerequisite
of abcdefghijklmnopq...rs...t...u...v...w...x...y...z
is that all the letters?
i actually don't know fingers dart backwards &
forwards... or, not really... when playing this
"piano" anyway: as long as all the required
letters are invoked in the required words:
hey presto! meaning!
                      there ought to be 26... funny...
there are 32 letters in the ****** (western Slavic)
alphabet... the same number as the teeth
in my gob...
but sometimes i "lose" a poem... whether it's censorship
when i make a post: ****! gone...
or whether i'm callous with the ctrl + c / + p / + a
scenario when i drank a little bit too much...
i don't know... perhaps i'm writing for
some elite that doesn't want the public to read
my work... i like to think of it that way...
but losing a poo'em can become so disheartening
that i i sometimes want to forget that i speak:
let alone write... now longer periods when
i can rekindle a makeshift monologue:
but then i have to find something technical in language
to reorient my purpose...
it's becoming less & less easy...
esp. since i'm not writing fiction...
  just... grass is green... butternut squash soup is
more than hearty: but it will never match up
to my better take on the Heinz canned classic... period...
not enough chilly in the Heinz... canned classic...
& never eaten with a slice of bread...
it requires vermicelli... like most soups do...
like a decent ****** chicken broth...
which also requires... well: poaching the carcass
but  base set of vegetable...
a leek... a celeriac root slice...
parsley root... a carrot... garlic... celery stalks...
parsley - the green leaves...
salt, pepper... & vermicelli...
oh... & plenty of time...
i'm disheartened when i lose a piece of script:
it's not Shakespeare (obviously) but so much emotion
can flow into the cascade that:
tabloid newspapers are given bragging rights...
are, ahem... "important"... so... my writing...
whether by censorship or not...
or my clumsy fingers when putting across
a body of text from one canvas to another... goes wrong...
hours become days when i find a new:
desire to write... since... writing is much easier
to thinking...
writing is much easier to thinking...
as thinking is much easier to speaking...
- but all of a sudden my life has changed a little...
writing is so much easier when you're
not "doing" anything...
mein gott... poems flow & flow... snippets
of narrative arrive at your forehead & fingertips like
postcards from your ex-girlfriends missing
you dearly from exotic locations: as if being married
& having children is still not enough because:
they didn't have your children & aren't married to you...
the poo'em i lost was about... two days ago...
travelling to Wembley Park for... an induction...
the role? being a steward...
i figured: enough of youth can be wasted on dreams...
literary dreams...
let's inject some... proper... grass-root ambition
with... RE-AH-LI-TY (****... phonetically that's
REE-AH-LEE-TEA/EE/AE)...
this writing "business" isn't going at the pace
i want... sure... i can brag about...
wow... almost 40 thousand views of one poem...
there are over 6K poems of mine, just here...
Wembley Stadium can host 90,000 spectators...
one poem of mine can muster up... almost half
of the capacity?
not bad... but... not good enough...
lucky for me i can relate for this sort of thirst when
drinking... sometimes i'm content with
a bottle of wine... at other times i need a liter of whiskey...
go figure... but not when so many idiotic pundits...
when there's this media masquerade happening...
i'm in the shadows: i'm listening to what people
are listening to... i never leave traces in the comment
sections: a waste of time...
makes thinking about certain things easier:
when you don't air your opinions...
after all: that's pseudo-rhetorical...
the true art of debate is... withdrawing from:
debating... the dialectical position is:
first mind diacritical marks (sorry... none in English,
& yes... it's still more ugly
when phonetically charged with graffiti "mishaps"...
misnomer: "shortcuts")...
- where was i? oh right... perhaps i "missed" something
in my original lost sample of a narrative:
although (last time i checked)
this website provides automated save as drafts
when you stop typing - after a prolonged period
of typing: my bad...
writing is so much easier when life is uneventful...
i could tease that word: uneventful into
a katakana syllabary: i almost want i almost have
to i therefore (not almost, but) must:
un-eh-vent-ful...
oh look at that: sitting pretty like a toddler
with a drumstick of a chicken (leg)...
**** it: my writing is going nowhere...
i have more ambition to simply let it... sizzle in its own
juices: or whatever better expression is handy...
none come to mind...
i need to look at people: i need to study people...
the internet is an echo-chamber to begin with:
it used to...
a jukebox narrative... such freedoms were
once available... mein gott... what music
i discovered when foraging on youtube...
in two years... gone... the algorithm got ******...
period: bad grammar is an exemplification
of this load of: hot-steaming... mix of **** & *******...
i need a real job... wasting my youth on writing
is not enough: perhaps my writing will catch up:
or my readership will... either way:
i'm not aiming for anything under
the title-weight of a Bukowski:
lucky ******... but i'm also not aiming for
the almost near obscurity of... the Black Mountain poets...
who was their leader... Larry?
Lee-rrr...       eh... it's not like a tarantula didn't
crawl into an English mouth & "somehow"
numbed the tongue for the end result of:
nein zu tremolo! ****'s sake... if i only asked:
why the French Fwench... but they hark so:
never mind...   yes, yes... Larry Eignar...
**** me... that took a while...
but there's another... a "renegade" on the...
ha ha... steppes of "Cambodia"...

          Russell is a likely connotation...
but incorrect... let's see....
     wait... Charles Olson... ol' Ollie...
he? he was a black mountain poet?
you ******* kidding me...
no chance in hell that will pass by me
given.... concerning his Maximus poems...
like: **** no...
i'm a critic i'm a nobody i'm a porveurour...
now i remember the ******'s name:
Robert ******* Kreely...
him! Kreely: Creely... Creeley...
**** it... fling in the vowels...
lets see what sort of a trebuchet **** master
you... ought... might... make.
oh.... wait.... important "news"...
an... apostrophe "missing": plain Jane typo....
where?LET(')S i.e. implying the shortening of:
the inclusivity of the collective... "US"..
      wunderbar!
                 schön!
that's the umlaut O... ergo... shoo... shoon...
great!
                           kaninchen und...
                        rosa ball-ons!  
i know a ******* balloon from a *******
ball-on... it's like telling me...
what's the difference between an omicron
and an omega...
i.e. do you really need to tell me
the difference?
sure... if it was an upsilon: you *******
clueless Greek!
what audacity:
you ******* clueless... Greek...
what... better some Iranian...
arriving from... Belarus?!
oh sure... i really want to live in Kenya...
among the ivory beauties with skins
that hide their bodies...
******* milk on toast... some chocolate:
sprinkled... i see teeth & sclera...
& some mahogany...
  ****? i'd **** anything that moves...
even south Korean girls geared up for a game of....
ping-pong....
my bad... what?
or is that: WAT like... WATT...
the energy unit or the Samuel Beckett novel
that over-competes James Joyce's Ulysses?!

your is the roulette... yours... hmm... your's...
for a while... the latter was underlined...

life used to be so much simpler when...
language could speak for... "itself"...
no one could use it: somehow, "somehow"...

i applied for the role of a Wembley Stadium
steward on a whim...
i thought: **** it... writing is not going toward
a projected: Ginsberg stastus...
i'm not going to compete with the leftoid jargon
of the 1960s... lucky me...

i'm just a terrible "millenial"...
i use an apostrophe like i migh5t secure understand
of the Pythagorean hypotenuse...
some C "squared"...
Wembley Stadium steward...
this... cacophony of hierarchy "suddenly" hits me...

i can understand authority...
tier one, tier two... vampire... zombie...
sure, sorted...

of the supposed 12 rules for life...
one of them reeds... i suppose that's reed: read:
reeds... sorry.. n'est ce pas...
pet a cast on the sreet?
you know, how hard it is... to pet a cat..
on the street?!
if you lived in England...
wolves... what wolves?!
foxes... oh yeah... plenty of those...
but... petting cats?
a bit like explaining...
a jpeg. take up less volume... ha ha: "volume"
than a pdf. file...

why i was mo4e than ready: i'll never known...
perhaps i'm a closeted fan of Ed Sheeran,
perhaps i like children in the role of:
a fathering figure...
perhaps children like to
poke my beard & lips...
perhaps this... perhaps that...
perhaps i'm ******* Santa Claus...
or what's Satan's Claus(e)....
all these freebies... cough up!

or... i just like making people "feel" included:
"feel" is one "thing", REALISED... another...
it might sound like newsspeak...
but... i don't want to ingest another...
Manchester Bomb Arena spectacle...

SAA... a week in Brixton... 7 days...
but they require a cohort of at least 12 applicants...
it elevastes your status as steward to:
someone who can: "juggle"...
be legally obliged to utilised force:
if necessary...
i like... i like... i like...

first ZOOM call in my life... ******* Ludite...
luddite... ugh... that double D kills me...
surd: you don't hear(d) to: begin with...
so... what... spelling "mistake"?

oh sure... the ****** transit & traffic...
train from Romford through to Liverpoool St...
then the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
great... the arch...
a black coffee from McDonald's & two croissants from
Lidl... morning... done...
no more... morning sickness....
come late afternoon Somali girls eyeing me up in a black
tie... o.k. sure... fair game: "gamble"...
hunting what?
i like this understudy of what's man...

i arrived an hour early...
waited the tad bit... of a little... we exchanged formalities... but then i watched as...
two groups formed...
the ****-shock-show of the multi-cultural urban... ahem... "class"... with one rep. & the other... mostly... asian men... with their... asian rep...

12 rules for life... seriously?! do you know how hard it is... to pet a cat? sorry... can i make you reiterate... petting a cat... lucky me... for petting two cats today... "strays"... but... do you know how nearly impossible it is... to pet cats, is?! you don't pet a cat because you can... you pet a cat out of the whims of: the cat willing you to pet it!  just like i like... sitting on my windowsill listening to foxes bemoan their lack of ****** adventures... it's England... foxes... ergo no wolves! d'uh! cull the foxes... you cull the erotica of the nights!

between... sigourney weaver... &...
mmm... winona ryder...
raven 'air...
two winners... how harems work...

Tuba Büyüküstün...

apologies for the phrasing...
if all the supposed gems not donning niqabs
that are western women
are so... *******: NIGGERCOCK mad...
Tuba Büyüküstün... oh... look at me...
you think i want some anemic blonde:
stereotype?!
raven... hair!
sure... the black male specimens are
handsome, attractive: if i were a woman:
i would... ha... "problem"...
why don't i want to...
the ****** antonym... because a white girl
really wants to... do a black guy...
do i... "have" to have the same
compulsions with regards to a black girl?!
Turkic! **** yes!
Mongolian... probably!
Tuba Büyüküstün...
or... swans probably don't have necks...
no... swans probably don't have necks
when you see this:

(although sophie skelton looks
better in the initial photograph...
papa best preached)...
swans don't have necks...
not with her...
around... to... curate... a balett of
nodding  approvals...

Caitríona Mary Balfe... i'm so loved up...
in that i once remarked in private:
bemoaned: that the Scots have forgotten
their native tongue...
swans have no necks...
swans don't need necks...

the neck of Caitríona Mary Balfe
eyes... too...
or the short-styled hair... & eyes
of Tuba Büyüküstün...
don't get me started on the hands...
those petite Antoinetes of joy...
the most ****** aspect of a woman is bound
to her hands... i'm missing a knuckle! or at least
*******!

woo-man!                         woe-is-me!
woe-is-man!             woo-man!
i'll bark i'll gargle... not for the sold-cold "soul & eternity"
of the d.n.a.:
but rather for that Muhammad never achieved when
competing with King Solomon!
then again... King David had the better tale...
the love of music, the writing of the psalms
&... defeating Goliath...
king Solomon was... compensating with
the excessing in the exploitation of women...
eh... Solomon &... proverbs can be tested...
true... or untrue...
but psalms... unconditionally...
sung... or... lost...
no antonym-synonym dynamic...
you either remember or you forget...
you don't merely remember & pseudo-remember
via changing the narrative a little: or a lot...

what a neck... on this Irish beauty...

two frotiers formed.... one side...
the cosmopolitan, readied to talk to women
in possible women in authority, etc.
whatever are the preferenfes....
i really adore the ROYAL: third person:
ONE might...
or the plural WE....
"genger plural pronouns":
not since the existence of the "crown":
i am subject to ol' Lizzies stipends!

i am her mouthpiece wherever she's:
not m'ah ******* grandma!
on zoom calll i was sked....   (scared, for sked)
what were British values....
i was asked....
i replied... universal?!
i passed some mythological...
Kennsington Test...
ooh p'ah! ******* hurah
join the Union Jack brigade!
who's kidding who?

              the red coats are coming!
last time i 'eard?
not enough of 'em are "coming"...
come to "think" of it: beside staring at goats...
"going": where?
do "we" need to "go" to Afghanistan
when... Afghanistan is coming to us?!

sorry... what?

two groups of people at Wembley...
mostly Asian men... an Asian rep...
& a group led by a Jewish girl...
talk of tortoises...
Sikh... Tamil... Sanskrit... men...
& women... ******...
Stalowa Wola: Iron Will... which is
an actual town...
Harry... the guy with tattoed hands...
Ewelina: Evaline...
**** me... another single mother...
how many more single mothers will i have to pass?!
i don't mind it:
ancient Rome replies with:
the surrogate father...
chances are...
i could be a bad genetic partner...
i wouldn't mind... raising children that weren't my own...
i swear to the only god available on such
matters...
he'd just nod approving me as
surrogate father...
to hell with it...
CORALINE - DREAMING...
ancient Rome sends you a postcard...
you'll reply?
        no? fair enough...
i could i wish i could...
a little: BAMBINO of my own...
bit then again...
investing in so much of my own...
what if... they are killed...
hell! ****** is one "thing"...
but what if by some stupid circumstance of
a traffic incident?!
ergo?
i very much like the idea of raising children that
biologically "belong"... ahem...
"elsewhere"...
not their souls, their minds.. though...
n'est ce pas?! VOU... that's not how
ALTHOUGH is assembled?
AUL: ALL.... VOU? it's not VOW...
ate the G... no, kiddy?

i love children... esp. those that are not my own...
i could love them & love them like
an Abraham... nein... i could love them like...
a god... i could love children in a way that...
mirrors.. the moment they arrive at...
exploring the game of:
hide & seek...
there was never any playground invoked
to summon: the game of bulldog...

i'm glad i have no children of my own...
more of my seeing and less of the eyes of my "choosing"...
petty tender heart-felts: demands...
i'd rather father the children of "unavaliable" fathers
than father my own...
ancient Rome is messaging you...
dearest...
   look how much easier it all becomes!
you raise someone else's child... but...
should said child die... become murdered...
erm... what of it?
a statistic... i feel no inclination to give a ****...
i invested in the mind... the soul...
the body can ***** itself to death...
as it does... but it's not my own...
i can be as much detached from its fate as is most purposively
ridden: to riddle me...
i'm glad to not raise my own!
it dies... it's murdered... do i care?
no... life replaces life... here we go: the grand
carousel... it's not like i have name like:
McKenzie or... McDougal...
so... no... no lineage... i'm a baron of the most
atomised of times... the individualistic
sanctity: real or supposed...

ancient Rome replies:
the negativity of single mother households....
compensated with... the freedoms of...
paternal surrogacy... give me a break!
ha! it's Eden! i come with not leverage of....
ownership! i owe nothing due to
the Darwinistic impetus!
i'd be freed from whatever is expected of me...
there are no investments...
in pronouns... might we:
the royal one?

ha!

it's no much easier to have children
that turn out to be girl...
ha!

i'd rather be a surrogate father to a "daughter"...
come to think of it...
i'd only want...
to be a father... to a son... biologically....
a daughter can...
Mayflower herself... or ***** herself all she wants...
from a father: unto a son...
like that "******": Matthew & Son (cat stevens)
or... "dreaming": Coraline...

the inquisitive cat... the teenage girl...
the "felix"... the Urdu... somewhat...
the inquisitive cat... kommen die nacht....
alles ist nacht...

if there's no democracy in poetry:
then there's no democracy at all!
maxim: non-la-rochefoucauld
Tyler King Jun 2016
Elegy for a life of war,
21 guns of Brixton firing an all night salute, the bitter irony not lost on anybody, as the very last gang in town tucks switchblades back into leather jacket pockets and decides that violence just can't pay the bills anymore, our brothers and our sisters and our fathers and our mothers will be expecting us home and we will carry our scars back to them with pride, we will talk about this fight for the rest of our lives, where we went wrong and where we really made the ******* feel it, and maybe one day we can win, but we have lost so much blood we owe ourselves a night of sleep at least, in the morning we will be powerful, we will be crass, we will be unstoppable, we will light cigarettes as the flames engulf London and creep across the Atlantic to tickle American nightmares, we will watch all the young punks in their new boots line up itching for the damage and the energy, we will kiss them each and every one as we send them off to die for the cause
I heard your rallying cry coming through the radio when I was a kid, and I want you to know that I will be ready any time you call, and I will come armed to the teeth
And Joe, when the riot comes, I will save you a place among the chaos
I love you forever Joe Strummer
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Hey! Play it really low
War in control, when we were young
And now we are old, the chrome guns
Are the same as the charming wine of the nuns
The metaphysics of the majestic soul
Is just an entitlement, it's strong in this one
She says "I deserve this." unable to hide her inadequacies
And reservations about presidential fools, like the rogue agents
Like me and fela grupi, till the clocks run out
The guns come out in the Brixton Sun
Time for gun control, like the paper planes
That fly like the paper dreams
The taste of thin rhymes that you had your singles on
Singularity, I interest your plural discretionary warning
I have been given many caveats by the ladies at the Taco Bell
The eatery still welcomes the immigrants, like the American Government
I felt better about changing my mind, regarding the tall sights
And the people digging ditches and splitting the bleeding cigarettes and marijuana bills
The tube terminates at Kennington which is nice but it's not Wimbledon and it's not as bad as Paddington,
the bear will bear me out on this.

Say your goodbyes at Kensal Rise because at Warwick Avenue they'll ****** love you unlike West Ham where they don't give a ****.

Little Venice, Hampstead and St. John's Wood are all very good, Sloane square for the toff, Knightsbridge where they'll rip you off and
Brixton station where gentrification has changed the atmosphere,
the map tells me
'You are here'
but I can't see you.
☒ Give to me the possession of my hormones back for full absorption*
☒ as I'm keen on resuming the bony splinter means of bone resorption
☒ while admixed by neo-commixed protocols of bio-ecleptic sorption
☒ Let's stomp sun-burnt faces 'cause J. Edgar Hoover was the riddled
☒ manufacturer of Malcolm X from a ***** mulatto known by Little
☒ who scrounged while Jersey burned its cheap, girly skirts for a tittle
☒ Marilyn Monroe was like a door **** because everyone got a turn:
☒ spooks, gay wops, greasers & tunnel bums who were keen to learn,
☒ even day laborers, migrant fruit pickers & coal miners eager to earn
☒ as Marilyn's 'scribed tranquilizer regimen was of no mortal concern
☒ 'cause it was Norma Jean's lithium intake that no one could discern
☒ anymore than the Unabomber's gripes seen by Alexander Cockburn
☒ or the clinically-constipated pretentiousness of nut-job Bruce Dern
☒ who holds far less star appeal than a gator-****-covered swamp fern
☒ or a petit jury of unscrubbed, chitlin'-lovin' nitwits about to adjourn
☒ into the night life of ******, their ponces and mamas horridly stern
☒ who were evicted by the Empire Hotel Group of the Hotel Lucerne
☒ whereat a politico can parlay sick-leave *** with a volunteer intern,
☒ in a meeting room spread eagle on **** carpet near a V.F.W. lectern
☒ for a thrilling roll of tattooed *** wiggle, tanned hip swish & churn
☒ Thiomersal makes serums kick ***, so we'll long for what we yearn
☒ to eat doves, hawks, wrens, rooks, robins & the greater crested tern
☒ Merck adds the blood of rabbits to their notorious M.M.R. vaccine
☒ to proliferate superior mutant strains that filtrate foggy brains clean
☒ Patients are murdered in hospitals for their kidneys, lungs & organs
☒ Do not cry over spilt milk nor over the disarmed Aussies poor guns
☒ 'cause switched ships Titanic & Olympic were banker J.P. Morgan's
☒ The P.M. didn't expose insurance fraud for fear of losing war funds
☒ The power to tax involves the power to destroy is heavy and taxing
☒ as it wanes menstrually when it is not in the seventh house waxing,
☒ or naked in a river with water moccasins, gators & pirañas relaxing
☒ as redacted facsimiles of pentagonal papers have militarians faxing
☒ about whether Check 'n Go offers the best 3rd-party-check-cashing
☒ while our children are dulled by prescription tranquilizer dopamine
☒ they are concurrently spazzed by that genic stimulant amphetamine
☒ which was pharmaceutically pedalled by allopathists as benzedrine
☒ that's able to hyper-stimulate a brain faster than a ten-pound praline
☒ while sickening patients via rashes of neuro-transmitting histamine
☒ A superior knowledge must be properly applied to equate to power
☒ from a Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall or Pentecostal ivory tower
☒ below which poor people must be transfixed into a cowardly cower
☒ whilst stupefied by the oily patter of tele-prompted twit Matt Lauer
☒ who graduated from imbecile of the minute to retardate of the hour
☒ He got this way by substituting saw dust for desiccated wheat flour
☒ while denigrating Ike's warning against the militarists we empower
☒ I suspected that the stinking ****** I grew up with wasn't a brother
☒ till the program for adoptees: Look Dumb-***, I Ain't Your Mother!
☒ School-gun-free-zone laws force armed criminals to finally disarm
☒ in gun-free zones to protect our children from armed-criminal harm
☒ as no one need fear for in each school there's a regulation fire alarm
☒ plus in every home-room there's a martial-arts-trained school marm
☒ and if her tae kwon do fails she'll lure from him his gun with charm
☒ as she's a **** gal even though she was raised on a Wisconsin farm
☒ O Lord God have mercy to steer a misplaced/misdirected gratitude
☒ to a septicemic pit that'll sanitarily coax hyper-stimulated negritude
☒ what'll ablate pained receptors spun into a dextro-rotational attitude
☒ coursing towards 1 dizzy patter replenishing whomsoever'll delude
☒ the framed, gullible men & clothes-racked naturalists who sun ****
☒ 100% cocksure to stymie church with a girlified/glorified interlude
☒ before the bank of God files this in suit, the way it wants to be sued
☒ or epoxied, affixed, pasted, joined, stuck, adhered, taped and glued
☒ onto pages of doggerel verse that's shockingly & mockingly shrewd
☒ while an edibly-ripe tomato's rendered unpalatable as it was stewed
☒ for a *******-tight ***** forcefully torqued cracks tightly *******
☒ falling from the stitched mouths of dowagers bitten off half chewed
☒ From Hibernia to Albion, Scotsmen hang martyrs from an oak rood
☒ as pleated t'ings Scottish are sorely transfixed & rough-hewn crude  
☒ where Wales' women decry a Holyheaded Welshman miner's mood
☒ that's digested like lamb lobscouse stew which's St. Helens #1 food
☒ pushing Brixton's Jamaican monkeys into a quasi-Rastafarian feud
☒ Out of the blue you rained on me saturating this prosthetic left knee
☒ I should've shot you in the neck before you pushed me out of a tree
☒ I can't cover my bald head unless somebody sells me a wig for free
☒ From a boat it's good to hurl & ***** 'cause it's fish food in the sea
☒ as rancid crap dumped overboard makes for delicious salt-water tea
☒ the type preferred by the vampiress Liz: Romanian quean of misery
☒ & ma to the wing-eared-imbecilic Chucky mate to mammy Cammy
☒ in full glory, in casual shift that is provocatively low-cut and flimsy
☒ Albanian maniac = Albaniac from under & off a Penn Central track
☒ Romanian  maniac = Romaniac no matter the ooze of angled crack
☒ that will trump disease by scarfing red-peppered cole slaw cabbage
☒ so as to avert pelvic-girdle bruising plus sudden high-thigh damage
☒ Conventions banning torture are seen by State eugenicists as quaint
☒ because botulism makes not a crone seem no younger than she ain't
☒ In circles dark chronic emphysema is a darkly chronicled complaint
☒ soon as you thunk no violation too vile could make Liz queen faint
☒ on the decks of slaughter-ships finished in super polymerized paint
☒ **** no stick to monarchical petticoats while the shell rots of a saint
☒ where no sodium fluoridated water can pineal gland ******* & taint
☒ as no lardy laird shall see redress from Marxian Scotland's restraint
☒ Dominican man-eaters wolf almond brother & nephew sandwiches
☒ over the shrill hue & cry of black, barren, hog-shaped Indio *******
☒ whose godless zombie voodoo chants prohibit hiking furry britches
☒ even though hairy pants are the #1 thing that negresses know itches
☒ all students at Lee Harvey Oswald's C.I.A. college of patsy snitches
*☒ where marksmen and sharp-shooters exhibit shaking-palsy twitches
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
it's become truly: self-evident...
why i haven't been able to write as i once did...
it's hardly a hiatus - or a writer's block...
it could be any of the cheap-thrills
of custard-brain and fudge-thinking...

but... i'm more or less... celebrating...
   a celebration: me celebrating:
me having to recalibrate lost details
of... the persuasive life:
it doesn't matter how little you do...
as long as the little that you do:
is the good...
              for example:
i'm not a big fan of self-help books...
jordan b. peterson
is hardly the sort of psychological
literature i'd venture to find...
r. d. laing: the divided self...
william james...
    jung: western man in search for
soul...
   julian jaynes: the origin of consciousness
in the breakdown of the bicemeral mind...
the anatomy of madness ed.
by w. f. bynum, roy porter and michael
shepherd - tavistock publications:
1985 first edition: cheap... at teasing
30 quid...

  rule 12: pet a cat... when you see one...
sorry... that can't be a rule...
oh today... today was just one of those...
american beauty: sam mendes is dead
sort of days...
  the air was cool in the evening...
it still felt like spring...
and i was walking back with a bottle
of scotch and some pepsi cola grenades...
and this ginger and white did
dance with me...
in view of traffic... clockwise: decently
understand in english terms...
but then he changed "lane" on
the pavement... so i changed...
then he changed... "lane" and i did too...
and we met up at a point when
he knew the "stalker" and i knew my:
forgot to bring a leash...
just my smelly fingers from...
just having roasted some pork ****
on the barbie (bbq) to a proper...
tender and juicy...
            yeah... i "petted" the cat...
more like: ****** felt it was necessary
to make me... obliged... to pet him-her...
mouth agape: snorkling / purring...
tease of the nose... grap of the tail...
stroke of the spine... sniff of my fingers...
but... rules for life...
                        it's not a given...
to pet a cat...
                  it can't be made into a command
that you should: when... chances are...
you won't be able to... not every cat
is a gambling addict: gambling on...
universal trust...

           i guess i felt right and the cat knew it...
i have two alternative rules...
but they would be deemed heresy...
one about attempting to pet a fox...
and a one about... sticking your hand
in front of a rabid dog let loose off his leash
chasing a more tame: yorkshire terrier
cowering under the bench i was sitting on
drinking beer...
with the free hand holding the terrier's
collar... and outstretching my hand
for the rabid dog to attempt to bite...
two conflicting parties came...
the owners of the yorkshire terrier...
thanking me for keeping the poor shuckles
in safety... a girl and a boy... zenith: 12...
18 for the both of them...
and the owners of the rabid tongue...
an almost feral family...
       i still have my arm and...
                       so sorry from the mother...
and her daughter...
with a straw in her mouth...
going to strut along like some illuminated
buddha: so... that's how you do it?
yeah... if it's not a hand on the iron...
or into the fire...
chances are... hand into ice...
or... between the affair of two dogs...
outstretched hand and a choice of 5 sausages
to bite off...
i don't like to gamble... unless it's with
my limbs...
or my life...
                  i enjoy money for the authenticity
of a transacation...
prostitutes in a brothel...
supermarket cashiers: the whiskey...
  i will pretend to not have...
when i buy a jazz vinyl...
      i wouldn't pay for...
people go to restaurants to talk... hardly places
to eat...
   well... good! i like to cook my own
food... and i don't like to talk
when eating it...
                     i like to know i have my hands
cleaned and the food is also readied
for cooking: clean...
i have a distrust for restaurants...
and for people... who'd want to talk
******* when they should be eating...
sorry: simon says olvier wants more...
plus... all those riddles of... complaints...
when someone paid to cook...
can't get a well-done or a decently rare:
bleu stake out...
                           what's the point?
a look of dis-satisfaction works so much
better: when it's no worded: Karen towing...
via... ******* a lemon and doing
the cooking yourself...
not that... shopping will open any time soon...
new clothes?
   for clothes you'd require to have arenas
to be seen in them...
yeah...             slow burner...
chew and choke on coal before you see
         a bonfire from that cul de sac of events!

     - it's a... william styron account in reverse...
well... he noted: he only wrote when sober...
or having a hangover...
and he reserved drinking to listening to music...
and then... melancholy creeped up on him...
romance of melancholy: depression...
michel de montaigne would tell more...
probably cite you a horace or an ovid...
while he was in a slump...
and if: the gods would provide...
snap his fingers and his quill... and spark
a joke of crown prince of terse:
a dead-end of rhetoric: a ridicule...

       a one most prized... self-deprecating
ridicule of the whole situation:
or none of it...
   to have quit smoking...
      i don't want to write because...
               i have quit smoking...
to have quit: yeah... when you see the remnants
of former you: smoking while walking...
smoking when waiting for a bus
at a bus stop...
   smoking when standing outside of a pub...
smoking when you might as well have been
eating a carrot: or a stalk of celery...
or chewing a gum...

whatever happened in the 20th century
for the benefit of man and the intellect of man...
and... what has become:
most probably... very ****** ***...
            nothing new: very ****** ***...
no ***: is better than: very ****** ***...
              the  neu-nein-neu regel...
  interlude between... shaking a glass:
look of inquiry: refill...
         and... jumping backwards and forwards...
the illusion of deviating from
the cold definition of a transaction...
   the pomp and circumstance...
              your house... your car...
your x, y, & z... the brothel... her pepsi...
your whiskey... no one's bed...
   the... love this part...
gloating of the winning parties that came
out of world war II...
gloating... israel is established:
peace in the middle east...
              the gloating of the winning parties:
communism bad... capitalism good...
the soviets launch a robot probe
that lands on mars...
all bad... the yin and yang and... now...
capitalism has to... cannibalise itself...
    fun times: pretending the competing side
to be wrong... when the competing side...
can also... out-compete you in scientific
and technological ventures... fun ******* times!
we have: zee bomb! shitz! they'z 'ave zee bombz twoz!
fun times... cornflake march
at the crack of dawn!

oh yeah... that 12th rule for life... really helps...
written by someone who...
well some cats will allow you to pet them...
some will shun you...
get over the rejection... treat them like ****
or... objectively... not as a photographer's
******* in visual media arts college:
the "subject"...
        
           even with this: i don't feel like writing...
or giving fictional credentials to the story...
i'm finally freeing myself from
a... 13 year old addiction...
      and come to think of it...
                  it wasn't so much an addiction...
as... a circumstance of obliterated willing:
or... un-willingness... the dimension of choice...
choice being: either the global curfew is
lifted and i'll get the usual cheap trickle of
moldovian cigarettes...
or... i'll cough up... the price in england...
which is... blackmail...

             no wonder i don't feel like writing:
maybe i should draw a schematic of hand
placement before the altar of the keyboard
so that... you're not looking down when typing?

ha ha! pet a cat when you see one...
because... all of a sudden...
see... that's a strange scenario:
what sort of a half-bred human do you
have to be... to conjure up...
a stray cat? how boring do you have to be?
stray dogs? i've seen how it's done...
a guy ties a dog to a park fence...
***** off...
   someone the dog escapes being tied...
joins a dingo pack and sleeping beauty: the end...
how ****** up do you have
to be... to... issue concerns for a stray
cat?
         it's like: the mind of the solipsist
never... bothered you?
the cat probably thought:
i be the solipsist and wander: **** knows
where...
than deal with this cookie-milk and sickly
sweet sort of *******...
solipsism i can heave...
i know of the hippocratic oath...
there's no sisyphean contract obliging me
to stay with this "camouflage" of mundane...
you'd be susprised:
cats tend to sleep... when and where
life happens...
a stray cat? is probably a cat with insomnia:
because: there was a "when" and a "where"
that supposed itself to be inclined
with all the geometry of dasein...

the lived life is better than voyeurism:
or a leeching off of life...
           that's also **** without *****
envy and: should i be jerking off...
to... photographs of people being tortured?
the ****** contortions of being skinned...
or being ****** like a duracel ****-it-****-it-****-it
bunny?
you tell me...
from ***** envy i came away with...
beard envy... mmm.... choke on this giggle i will...
b'lahahahahahaha!

  it's good being a man and growing old...
i'll know when to turn into a tree or a tombstone...
lucky for me i already know what it is
to become a genocidial maniac armed
with *******... a toilet + flush... a still brain-riddle
    (photoraphy of a blink... movies? no go zone
of stockholm)
of peaches... cow ******* and the anatomy
of a woman... the mermaid and the ***** ****
and the b.j. but otherwise the avenue of ovaries...
and salmon godheads with all our
children being named: bubbles and bob...
oh i do wish there was a *** life for me...
that invited me to the... to that other playground
of latex... and... the better sort of games...
past the music and the movies...
from scratch... the sandpit goldmines...
the... hidden bedrooms with bloated
barbie and ken's anatomy classes...
she's in her tattoos and i'm donning
my latex...

       now her ***** is my... one cigarette:
when there were 20 to begin with...
for the day...
              to smoke... when waiting for a bus...
at a bus-stop...
to smoke... at a bar... to smoke... on a bus...
i'd love to revise smoking marihuana while
drinking... but... i don't have the luxury
of the 2 hours it would take to reach
the nadir LD50 and the zenith of ecstasy...
of imitation ****** *****...
  no point seeking Parsifal and the glory
of objectivity when... any drugs or ***** are
concerned... so much for the objectivity
of the argument: the persuasion...
the persuasion is already lost...
to the argument for the subjectivity
of the "individuated" / placebo solipsism
of the solo- / dodo-project encounter...

i quiet like... schizophrenia... a word...
a metaphor... when it isn't a true scenario of...
low i.q. premature dementia...
when one is... misdiagnosed with it...
psychosis osmosis... i like that phrase too...
i asked to be: left the **** alone...
lucky for me... i'm the new age
cindarella ****** with a glass stilleto and
a kiss of judas to boot!
i may... oh: have the looks...
clue: what's a schizophrenic and also
    napoleonic hydra?
            my style of quizzing...  (9)
b-i-l-i-n-g-u-a-l...
           does schizophrenia exist...
           within a bilingual dynamic?
            no... out of curiosity... just asking...
perhaps i'm a case of the quadratic?
                 is there a known case of a bilingual
schizophrenic?! a quadratic?

well yeah... while those solid *****
over at mini-apple WHY-WAY...
charlize theron: gwoo YA novella wake me
up when september comes
and there's an iraqi farm of...
infidel pigs... blah blah...

riots happened whole i was... concerning
myself with... the "ad hominem" of...
gary glitter versus roxy music...
for the sole focus of a single song...
rock & and roll (part 1 und susie: deux)...

****... giggles... i'm even sporting the vogue
details... shorts... slippers...
day-two-ago smelly socks... a lebowski
robe...
   the day can seriously... happen all and freed
of me... even the cricket!
hell... i'll boycott drinking tea:
just in case the cricket players run out
of it!
always the best alternatives!

this is... best... oink oink: equpped with:
schadenfreude convening with
ridicule sort of jokes...
send in the orcs! no... SEND IN THE MONGOLS!
lest we forget about the middle-ages
framing of a looting of Baghdad!
SEND IN THE MONGOLS!

               or send those wheelz and tire-tracks
to... that humane... fifth assumption...
when capitalism had it so good:
two: towing each silly...
ideologies...
two: the germs and the slaves...
the day: when... ha-ha-h'america
rediscovered europe...
pretntious *******...
they're not native h'americans...
but they're still: dutch: all quizzical...

   capitalism never had it so good...
so much for the lost arts of breathing false...
when the slavs had communism and now...
if only mongolia was in the news...

SEND IN THE MONGOLS!
where are the mongols?
  not in dover... for sure...
             nugget of (the) ukraine...
known as crimea...
their capital: Sicz...
          and Siecz...
   "too many" consonants...
the Z is replaced with a H...
cheap: ****...
       чeap: шit..
                 "too many"...
                "consonants"...
oh i see how competing with communism
was always...
your... "thing"...
beside... exporting the capitalistic:
saves moneyz builds hou-hou-sez...
  and they do! somehow!
           but this... summons before
the court of the egregious...
             the fire... the cold-cod-blaster
events of: indiscrimenate... solace
of eventually tier upon tier...
lots of looted attributes...

glam rock: to see it... rather than merely hear it...
that was the prime concern...
glam rock is tamed punk...
glitter... roxy music...
                                 t-rex... bowie...
one song of glitter: is enough for me to forget
anything by roxy music...
t-rex... harder to confine: reproach...
and bozzo bowie remains:
intact: dulwich... born...
                                    brixton...
glitter was: but not when you hear it...
you need to see: glam rock...
to "know" you're listening to
glam rock... overwise...
tamed punk... trans-gender schizoid:
mohawks...
or... that one time when...
john wayne won an oscar for playing...
a one-eyed... drunkard
bounty-hunter...
when... the panoramic loot of time...
and avenue of scene was...
synonymous...
because: just because...
  40 circa 30... years later...
bon jovi was a ******* cowboy
sing-along loitering son...
or a trailer seller! type... typo...
sort of... th'ang...
  
          your st. thomas your st. peter...
never your ******* st. paul!
the newly wed:
   greco-heb propaganda machinery...
but i still write in sold the death of
latin... by god: ha-shem alone...
let's leave the evangelical avengers
of the stinking new continent
to their own wide-breath of hope...
own a car prior to being told: you're drunk!
says...
           the greco-hebrew conspiracy
of the new testament...
to counter... the match... the former...
glory of ancient greece...
with that... rome borrowed...
as troy...
            the hebrew helped:
hesiod minding folk...
       but the latin script...
the dead: unsaid... became...
revised... reinvented... became...
typos of coding transporter and terminator...
no... i minded to look...
no further than the archeology
of nebuchadnezzar's cuneiform...
              
wake me... this desired woo
of history revised...
the brilliance of the wake:
as cited by

the "failure" of casimir III...
point being: the nazis... either... existed...
or didn't... i much like the idea that they did...
i feel less obligated to ingest them
into my own shadow...
notably the amon goeth quote:

/today is history. today will be remembered.
years from now the young will ask with
wonder about this day.
today is history and you are part of it.
six hundred years ago when elsewhere
they were footing the blame
for the black death, casimir the great - so called -
told the Jews they could come to krakow.
they came. they trundled their belongings
into the city.
they settled. they took hold.
they prospered in business,
      science, education, the arts.
with nothing they came and with nothing
  they flourished. for six centuries there has
been a jewish krakow.
by this evening those six centuries
will be a rumor.
they never happened. today is history.
/

yes... today is history: today is also a past...
what past is clinging to these...
helio-centrists of vain... rekindle...
impromptu?
these... valkyrie: kyrie elision woes & woos?
this... multi-cultural german...
this franco-phone... "oops"...
this... sorry-saxon-cousin
of the pomeranian german...
the english the pseudo-german
having mingled with...
the welsh the irish the pict the receding
celt...
bigmouth h'america'ca'ca'nah! no?

       i'd sooner drink my own ****
and gorge on oral *** of a *******'s
****** and **** than kiss your:
ms. h'america... your guess who's h'american
woman... race war... ***** envy...
forget me so it's so...
12" envy and all that african woman's envy
of **** anything worth of as as ***!
burn... baby... burn...

federal s.a.
                    sounds like south africa...
sounds like... what... the banana republic
of ukraine...
   and the costa rica of bulgaria...
the ancient chore... the lore the lore...
the "taming of the dragon":
the rags to riches...
and all that... canadian bullshitting
the bulldozer... n'ah! gnar!
hell! summon the runes!
for the rottweiler!
   remains of: first invested in bark!
gnar! runes!
                ᚷᚾᚨᚱ! and that's when...
you last you "hear" / see the glagolithic
script...
                     so much for...
tattoo: cheap pork brides / prides
with chinese ideograms...
no runes no glagoliths...

                           gnar! ⰃⰐⰀⰓ!

how can you: write... a dog's digging...
a cat's climbing? for the former: barking...
for the latter: meowing?
Donall Dempsey Nov 2019
VINCENT IS WALKING

Vincent is walking
over Westminster Bridge
a sunset grabs him by the soul

Vincent is walking
back to Brixton
his head all full of Keats

Vincent is walking
on air unable to
peel the Rembrandt off his retina

Vincent is walking
an orchestra of colours
tuning up in his head

Vincent is walking
through George Elliot's words
they clamber all over his senses

Vincent is walking
Vincent is walking
invaded by religion
Van Gogh in England passing places I would pass and reading books that I would have read.

— The End —