Little bits of litter blowing everywhere,
Is it that we are carless? Or maybe we don’t care.
Bags and bottles ******* of every kind,
A simple picnic our ******* left behind.
Bottles of all sizes floating on the pond,
If left on the beach will travel far beyond.
Polystyrene boxes used for burgers or chips,
Are float on our ponds like little litter ships.
But worst of all the dreaded carrier bag,
Hang from wires and trees like a kind of flag.
Just to make sure we spread it far and wide,
Cars are used to carry debris to the countryside.
Now that we have spread it from coast to coast,
We are a famous nation because we litter most.
Fish and chips were sold wrapped in newspaper,
You could say part of a natural recycling scheme.
Pop was bought in bottles with a paid deposit,
Kiddies for pocket money collected to redeem.
Litter is not pretty it will not go away,
Soon we will have nowhere clean to play.
Maybe if we learn to take our litter home again,
We would see the trees and flowers,
Down our English country lane.

I remember that Day when we sat
(side by side)
On those Stairs
(Waiting for our Train)
And you bought us Miso Soup
(It tasted like Tears)

The Sun hit my legs
(With all the force of sepia toned Nostalgia)
Covering them, bathing them. glorifying.
The traffic was the push and pull
(To and fro, magnetising, Synchronising)
Of waves.
Harsh, solid, mechanical waves
(Full of the force of Human Atrocity)

Japanese Culture was "in" and everything was "kawaii" and sweet
(With the underlying disturbance of Sexualisation - *** takes pride of place in our Civilisation)

I thought I was eating the sea.
(I could see the tiny fish Nibbling us that time we went snorkelling. We saw a Sting Ray that reminded us of Steve Irwin: Danger; Barbed Wire)

The Snow-flakes
(Fish-flakes)
Swirling in the snow globe of my Polystyrene Cup
(A new kind of Fish Bowl, A new Exposure)
And they swam around and around, Hiding
(Cyclical, controlled by Lunar Activity. Natural?)

If I stared hard enough I would, no, could see myself
(Floating, Filleted)
Amongst those Ribbons of Sea ****.
With each Salty slurp
(That tasted of you, of the bitter Crust that Crowns your body in Heat)
I expected saltier Bladders to Burst in my Mouth
(Drowning me in Poison; Poisson)

I imagined the Japanese fisherman Catching Sun-Warmed Sea
(In a Polystyrene Cup)
The thousands of fish, tiny eyes that Blink, tiny gills that Palpitate - Suffocating in Air
(Aboard his boat, that Famed boat: "Daigo Fukuryu Maru")
Harvesting Silken Strands of Sea **** that Clung to its Crate
(In the same way that his Wife's Freshly washed Hair Twines about her Body. Static, Electric, Alive)

We didn't finish the Miso Soup;
It tasted too much of the Tears that I Cried.

Plastic plates bowls and cups
loaded on recycling trucks.
You've had your party thrown it away,
Less to wash up at the end of the day.
But few fall out they blow in winds,
Escape the grasp of the recycling bin.
Not all bags are renewable plastic,
Less strong now not so fantastic.
So write a note for a new tote,
Handles far stronger less likely broke.

It's not our problem it's goods we buy,
There wrapped and packaged to the shoppers eye.
But when the seas are less serene
Choked on plastics and polystyrene.
Death tolls rise numbers of sea life plummet,
Dont ya think its time we do summit?
To a turtle or whale a tasty dish,
To dine upon the jellyfish.
Not a bag for life that passes by,
That binds them to starvation before they die.

So the seas bob in colour of plastic pollution.
Times running out what to be a solution?
Its high time we started a clean up revolution!
To use less packaging to educate all.
Before the tides continue to rise and we loose them all.

The ice caps are melting at an alarming rate,
How long before for all it's too late.
Eco systems absorb UV,
cool the world for nature to be.
Polar life need ice to remain,
In cooler climates to sustain.
But as they melt and tides continue to rise,
Am losing hope for their demise.

Leave the jungles and forrests for self restoration,
Less fossil fuels and deforestation.
The trees keep falling from constant felling,
With palm oil growing; plantations swelling.
Our orange ancestors the orangutan,
Has been their homes since the jungles began.
To break life cycles whole eco systems,
It's time to change the world with our wit and wisdom.

Else what do we leave to the future generations,
Man on earth just viral abominations.

The first time I kissed you (again),
we were sitting in your car,
under shadows and street-light orange,
and the impression I was going inside.

But then I found your NERF gun,
which you said was for robbers and slow drivers,
but proved more entertaining for girls
who like to sit in your passenger seat.

So we broke into a scuffle
in pools of orange light
abandoning  seat-belts and any pretence that I was leaving
to wage an epic war
inside a parked car
over ownership of the polystyrene darts.

The end came when a missile was lost to your backseat,
and we both reached for the NERF gun,
and that kiss I'd been waiting for since I'd first put on my seat-belt
materialised between the space above your handbrake
and a little plastic gun.

Demon from Depressed Depths
Horror lurking in the murk, squirting myself through liquid nightmares, paranormal animal portrait
The walls of my bedroom are black, the ceiling navy, ****** sun above me winks in mockery
My friends are few in this frozen almost-society; I wander the briny fog in boredom, purposeless
Eyes swollen from swimming, swallowing so much salt: dehydrated underwater, skin pasty and ill
I hide from starving sharks and their terrible tiny teeth, but duel the diving whale: he I can drown
I can ***** forth literature; the pens of Whitman and Carroll were filled from my blackened innards
From fingertip to toetip I am nearly biggest, in a world without fingers or toes, primitive appendages
I am all knowing: I commune with the dead: I can operate a Ouija board alone with all these arms
I was killed off by Tennyson after just 14 lines, but Lovecraft made me what I am: heathen deity
Wonderful creature, yet I find myself here: battered next to chips in a polystyrene tray: Beach food

A Nightmare*

In my dreams I am the melting man.
Through tinted glass I am without senses.
With eyes that feel the sting of sight and fever of hearing,
I am allowed into the killing ground.

I followed my friendliest faces through some foggy
thick soup that does tickle my eyes
and vex them to lower.

Up again to this lonely temple
Where so many familiarities touch the ground and
my vessel with fatal hands.

First kiss and polystyrene men;
synthetic and terrifying.

Where have I seen you before?-

December 11th
Close your eyes.-

Here we are again.
there are sweats all over
i have been here so many times before and i sweat and cry

the killing grounds
dear mother, take me home, i sweat and cry for i have come here again
take me away? where have you gone?
the killing grounds

the pile of death
hopeless death that is violent and
my poor fragile eyes sweat and cry and
drip away

see those empty faces
of first kiss and polystyrene man
i reach for mothers hand
but i must linger in the mess of filth

December 11
please let me leave

i am losing
skin falls in drips
like cream or paint
and i must join the filth

no crying may save me.

Long before Horus' exposure on its trunk
and the nailing of Jesus upon its grain,
rings have been added within the Tree
while people proclaim to hold the key
of salvation: a continually borrowed mythology
swallowed; an extra-strength sleeping pill

pulling the masses into slumber,
and away from the awakened truth
that such supposed salvation
is an illusory ticket far too easy to obtain
for it to be real—
a discriminatory, fairy tale-damnation
that multiplies the divide
of "Us and Them."

Too many people hand out the easy tickets,
then cut and light the tree:
a hypodermic injection of selfish memories
mixed into the mortar of temples designated as sacred,
while dogmatic shears amputate roots from the sky.

Too many people preach
about a cheap, polystyrene heaven,
while only a few walk the narrow path
that leads towards the kingdom within,
and live the sacrifice because it feels right.

Again and again,
the ticket isn't so easy.
We must put aside our slumber-crutches,
stop watching the few carry the rest
upon their backs, until bones creak and groan
from the weight of people waiting for salvation
to be handed to them.

For 27 years, 46664 was etched into the bark
of a branch in the road.
When forked doors opened,
a living, breathing gospel
brought down fences,
and even then, the wood was made into crutches
for people to say,
"M will fix it; M will do this, M will do that;
M will save us, just wait and see."

M is finally free. Yes, he is free!
Free, but not lost to us;
he survives as spirit-seeds.

We must cease to lean upon crutches;
we must purge the pill from our blood
and awaken into gardeners who water the seeds
within the soil of our hearts,
before the vision withers completely,

and we remain only as husks
waiting to be hydrated by watering cans—
weakened hands and arms unable to lift their weight

held in our own hands all along,
held in our hands all along.

After a lot to negotiate
toing and froing
you exchanged your teeny heart
for my bag of 18-something stones

I carried it home in a hurry
much lighter than I expected
for what looked like a big cherry
it was shaking when I checked it
I worried at its odd little quivering
a bit timid and nervy
like a leaf blown from its tree
but happy to have a new owner in me

I nestled it carefully
in my mother's best white sheets
but was scared to see
it start to bleed quite a bit
not that it might die
but about what my mother would say
about the red in the laundry
and what she might tell her mother
if she got it back needing a doctor

I decided to pat it
with a towel to keep it dry
no even better
shower it each day
keep it a bit moist
sprinkle it with Eau de Toilette
every morning blow it a kiss
like having a sweet pet
to greet after I shave
I wanted to rub my hands with glee
but it needed treating with kid gloves
and exercised in carefree handling

but first I had to squeeze it
not hard in case it burst
just in the middle bit
around its plumped up waist
it felt soft and squidgy
and beat quite quickly
not like my stones

I wrapped it up in a cooler
using styrofoam
aluminium foil
and a brown paper bag...

Styrofoam is a good insulator
and will keep the love from oozing out
the aluminium foil is a heat reflector
and the paper bag  I am not sure about
but grocery stores offer them
to put your ice cream in
so it doesn't melt as fast

I had a meal of cheese on toast
then returned to check my box
your heart was not there to be seen
isolated in polystyrene
O dear I wished I'd cut a window
giving it room to see it grow

but then I spied you in the garden
painting stones to a wondrous glow
so lovely I traded back my carton
and your heart lit up inside for me

.
                                                Enough is not enough
                                                     I want too much.

                                                      “Excuse me sir
                                           you haven’t paid too much.
                                                  I gave you too much
                                               and you ate everything.
                                        I need to throw away something
                                                 and the bin’s spilling."

"I drove too many footsteps
past too many throwaways
too many pylons
water towers
possum-eaten polystyrene cups
Mcdonalds
Mcdonalds
Mcdonalds
camel boxes
and walkers
with socks as hard as coffins.”

                                             Enough is not enough
                                                  I want too much.

Leather coat. Oxblood.
Denim jeans. Faded gray.
Rhinestone belt. Black.
Wrinkled button-up. Charcoal.
Old Ray-Bans.
Silver necklace with a brass cross.
Canvas boots. Burgundy.
Three Moleskines. Brown.
Two pens. Red and blue.
Six picks.
Twenty seven dollar and thirty four cents.
One beaten down carrying case. Black.
My guitar.

The whole is greater than the sum
of its parts
but just barely

I might as well be a polystyrene box floating through the city
dodging traffic
bartering breakfast
strumming heartsongs in subway dens

Oh. One glass pipe. Clear.
I forgot that, it belongs on the list.

Okay I didn’t forget it.
I lie, sue me.

Getting high
or low is just a part of me though
and some people think it’s all of me.

Some people look at me like
I don’t have a home, which makes me angry,
not because they’re wrong,
but because they always look disgusted
with I think they should look concerned.

My guitar case likes to change itself from time to time.
Sometimes it’s with the seasons
and sometimes it’s with the sun,
but generally its with the sparks in my head
and how it reflects them.
I’ll wake up round 6
underneath the Williamsburg brudge
with warm bacon in my nostrils,
cold sun on my skin,
and my case will show me the WD
on it’s back
and tell me it means “Wonderful Day.”

On snowy Sundays in Battery Park
it’ll flop down on a quiet curb
and whine, “Warmth ******.”

I’ll amble up Prince Street through the holidays
looking for breathing buildings.
He’ll jump from my right shoulder to my left
and whisper, “Where’s Dad?”
He goes back to my right shoulder.

I like to laugh when I walk past Starbucks,
any old Starbucks,
because everybody in there is from Seattle
and they came all this way for a cup of coffee.

I came all that way too,
but I don’t think it was for a cup of coffee.
I lived with a girl named Cat
or a girl who had a cat
in an old walk up across from a Quizno’s.
Cat gave me coke.
The girl
not the cat.

I remember she
or we
had an ivy green front door
because I’d stay up and stare out the peephole
watching people come home late.

I’m in a tunnel,
a carpal tunnel,
a tunnel of pain,
no purple rain,
you thought you looked smart,
in your designer heart ,
that Polystyrene look,
your pretentious Facebook,
but I'll watch you fall,
won’t answer your call,
I'll just hide in my tunnel,
my carpal tunnel.

creeping fingers,
crawling hands,
innocent at first--
innocent? not likely--
malicious more like.
the purity of your
polystyrene soul,
the unremitting cleanse,
the repent(the chase),
it's your lifeline. the
shocked look, saccharine power
held over tiny fawn--
****** clarity as they might,
oh dear incubus.
the power to end all
held in tiny fists.
this births not demon babes,
but a century of fear
and inadequacy.
downy kittens hardwired with
an inevitable self-destruct.
bring the world to it's knees,
incessant, indefatigable pathogen,
taking grasp of neurons, synapses.
good intentions yearned for the green light
while yours-- red as the blood rose
manifests in lovely lips
for eternity stained with **** wine--
the wine you brewed, you fermented
in the cellar of ******* and hatred.
the father, the son, and the holy spirit,
and the things that lie between.
blessed fingers, blessed breath
freezes as the stiff arms of your diocese.
hushed catholic whisper, angels to never
nearly achieve their wholly holy grail--
your kryptonite. secret looks, hasty deliverance,
catharsis.

Power of the wind is an awesome force
as you try to get about.
Incredible strength as man is powerless
to control the elements.
Nothing can stand in the winds path
or stop its almighty wrath!

Bringing down power lines and crashing trees
nothing is safe in it's wake!
Cars tossed about like they were polystyrene
roofs ripped off just like paper.
Moving the air at a destructively fast rate
ripping off the garden gate!

Nothing can stop natures almighty surge
man's vulnerability exposed.
No matter how mankind thinks it rules earth
he is nothing and at natures mercy!
Just a tenant renting space on a long lease
as time nears for his release!

Predictions of annihilation never seems to go away
and what is written must happen some day!

The Foureyed Poet.

From the window she sees
A sponged together sky
And chalky clouds
And a trail of wisteria buds
Which dribble into the street
From the window she sees
The men who watch cricket
Scoffing at the TV
Above their takeaway opposite
And she sees the polystyrene cartons
That people leave in their gutter
From the window she sees
A drabble of changing children
A laugh, a scrabble, a sliver of a tear
A road that’s been scrubbed down grey
And little dust particles
That creep upon it and sing
And break and smile, relentless
From the window she sees
Hope
And prays she’s not outgrown it

Phyyt phoo, two aqueous lenses peeling through, the oxygen layers.
Pupils turn as they unfold, hungrier for light behind burnt sand barriers.
The switchboard like a carnivorous plant field independently moves points
And compacted, segmented panels respond like exoskeletal joints
There come the staccato screams of steam one at a time, puff, lining the door  
Capsule, contaminated with air, is cleaned when the beetles wing lifts the floor
The boy I was, offers a raised thumb from the ground, science disciple
With Helium fission equations on a sheet hanging from a bible.
My eyes behind a visor open slowly, it’s time to take control
Still tears slowly lift from my face like a violin bow rising to sing low
Now in a place where time means nothing I can’t regret a thing
I just wish this clinical empty cold on all, to take the warmth that lies bring
With Creaking myofibril strings so imperfect in this black vacuum dream
I shake the hand of god; with polystyrene gloves as his work is so unclean.

Cloud of gold and night
And hurt, swarming around an
Oily dumpster filled with sacks
Of torn receipts
And polystyrene fish-stink boxes;
Yellowing bags bloodied from
The butcher's counter.
Plastic sacks the gulls have sliced
Open with grease beaks and lard white skulls
(The optimal greed of bird)

But it is the wasp's tornado of
Stingers
And beautifully armoured torsos,
The heat of them and the buzz wing
Drone below the clang
Of the scrap yard next door;
The hum of something you could call anger
In a woman or a man,

But which is nothing more than wing
Against heat, it is that which strikes me,
That meaningless will to go on.

A resounding truth sticks to every wall,
Like meat on teeth, beneath.
Surfacing tragic like cyber sugar on the conscious,
Of every intelligent automaton.
Devaluing the humanity we created in sleep,
Harbouring our nylon smiles and effortless chaste.
Ripped flesh on creations, godlike
Burned images, sigil instilled in culture
Nocturnus, bleeding in harmony
Locomotion of self actualisation homunculus cured
Rid of transcendental elements at the first instance
Of empathy, drawn out in an empty tenure
Interlocking lines-moving, spread out against
Aluminium and glass, superseding the law of nature,
Bubbles, echoing through the apology of life
Bursting forthwith and raining bleach and decadence,
On delirious heads-boiled in sand for life eternal.
Your masquerade, a bloodline polluted
By perfumed green shading, eliminating the best
Carrion, complicated sadness, basic molecular print
Our progenitor, poster child for carbon-based reluctance.
Menial beings, occupying space to nowhere,
Hotel rooms full of dust,
Lying figures, tossing themselves on typewriters
Creating a kaleidoscope of prose.
Hands, arms & legs bound by penance,
And the delayed snot of the diseased
Winding amongst this polystyrene city.
Sunken into a cosmopolis refuse,
The anchor to all that is pure,
Heaven is your populace.
And your ego is the gel that destroys our relation.

From the stem of the brain comes spiders
Already dead and ground
Into black arachnid paste
Filling up a small white polystyrene cup

Precariously balanced atop
A faux wood computer desk
2ft from the ground and shoved in
The corner of a dingy, sterile office space

Twelve floors up and three streets from wherever
Seemingly, and willingly
Standing still, waiting, to be thrown
Across the room and crushed

By the thick rubber so(u)le of conscience
Peering into the nebula of hot exhume
Each grain of plastic simultaneously
Destroying and creating infinite space
As the bigger pieces shard sporadically.

It's cold tonight
Breath could be seen in the damp
Air of every extending cubicle
If only anyone were there
To see such a thing...

Begging for a question could only it be asked
Obscurity fills the halls and laughs
Across the windows, creating an organic
Incandescent glow, which broods
Around the ankles...

But only to those who are there...or were

The angles, the geometry
Of this vast open space - Seem to bend
When not observed, as if omni-present
And transformative - Shaping itself to jest
With the known & unknown
This midnight city is hot, buttery and populated

But stretching down, splaying -
The idea, the presence, the cold

Never seems to leak into the real world
Not even when a window opens by itself
And an outside wind rushes in,
It is escorted without even the softest sombre

All that is left is foundations creaking
In the high winds, as the battered bricks cry,
Yet this seems to only be heard from the outside
As the air settles, the structure sags
And shifts with every push - spinning almost
From under itself

Yet, we cannot see this or feel it...

again, this thing about the cartesian res cogitans
(thinking thing), substance and extension...
i’m pretty sure the darwinistic expression
of early model does not suit this model,
my own version i wrote once, res vanus (empty thing)
fits the gig better - we who can now snuggle in duvets,
who housebound the wild boar,
who milk cows with technological octopi tentacles,
who switch hot dogs with popcorn in the dark,
who ice-skate at somerset house at christmas,
who take diamond bling and christmas tree bulb bling
to equal the same credit on plastic,
who with polystyrene foam beat nature
by showing nature it couldn’t digest it on whatever
level of insect and parasite,
well have all the luxuries now, and we found them
not so much from thinking but from emptiness,
there is more chance of the eureka in res vanus than
there is in res cogitans - it’s the spontaneity you see,
and less need to narrate: love, lost love, aching love , ex lovers.
what else is there? it’s the easier assumption to have
with the niche topic in relation to kant’s noumenon (thing in itself),
i don’t know why i want to mention this orientation
to further the explanation -
early man was defined by res vanus - the sensual overload,
the prime, being empty and forced into the heat and the cold
and the mystic tiger hunger -
and still as defined by res cogitans, we pause and feel empty,
not so much in terms of emotion, but in terms of thought,
however we no longer gather at the campfire,
few people crowd by a lightbulb to talk fables with a
memory of achilles ajax and hector...
we need neon rainbows to huddle -
whether that be by eros shooting the neons of piccadilly circus blind,
or by televisions or computers,
rarity a fire that crept into the ribcage and gave way to
a macaw song of cross-dimensional sophistication off mayan jungles.

shingle
varnished
by seawater
fade as
dried salts
prove the
Sun's mettle

hungry
children
by beach play
quieten
when chips
polystyrene
pools salt
and vinegar

sharp
defences
cut bare feet
sharpened
nerve endings
paddling out
in salty sea

Notice she's kneeling to the cliffs of a river.
The cracks of her jaw give a quiver.
The sky collapses behind her.
Through these eyes tainted in blur,
I see the sand man is singing.
These delusions he's brining.
Polystyrene flowers,
With sights that devour,
Of purple and gold,
Beauty spoken yet untold.
Entwined through her thigh,
There's always a death to deny.
"Could you lead me to the stars?"

Cotton wool sown clouds,
Hovering above crowds,
Towering over his head.
His lungs fell dead.
Leaving a voided space,
For a lit bomb to interlace,
With his soul.
He's a self-awarded black hole.
"Second to the right,
And straight on till morning ends the night."

A CANNIBAL WOMAN strips a bone as I snooze in a bamboo hut Viceroy Dickie Mountbatten was in clover corn-holing a navy mutt
when ****** India emerged from her foreign-imposed-grave-pit rut
to absorb a parting partition shot with a death by the thousandth cut
in '47 while King George VI could not keep his blabber-mouth shut
that by '09 Merv Griffin & Farrah Fawcett's graves'd be ****-to-****
Earth scales of scrap-metal justice record a U.P.C. bony-tare weight reflecting outwardly to vouchsafe not defection of a Tony Blair fate beneath even the D.U.M.B. of Paradise Ranch's 60 grades of shade
that awards to grays Fukushima reactor #3 misty shades of upgrade

This food was bad. The grease dripped off the polystyrene into the bowl as if life itself was disgusting.
He sat in his flat, unable to write. How ironic that a writer with so much experience couldn’t write his own story. He was so good at observing everyone else.
Then the haze of dubstep pounded through his apartment walls and he imagined a ****** scene in which the cops would find his neighbours filleted on the floor and all over their filthy couches.
The blood spatter, the details in which their ears had been molested as he felt his were... what happened to real music?
He felt raw.
He felt injustice.
He felt motion in his fingertips and began to type.
Ferocious typing.
Typing to the beat, angrily aiding and abetting this criminal assault on his senses.
He stopped to take the last sip of his last warm beer. He smiled…

Carving a polystyrene heart.
Turning the white shape,
In hands held close to my chest.
Slicing with the sharp blade,
Suddenly my hands are stained
Scarlet - can a styrene heart bleed?
Just ink on my sweaty hands.
The carved heart takes its place
In a sand mould - vaporised
By molten metal to become
My cold, cast iron, heart.

Let's learn what army-fightin' fun is predicated on, for a man with 1
arm won't double his fun by quickly having his only arm amputated
under the direction of a curse & ampoules of dope sorely calculated
over the indirection of 3 talisman on acidical tabules time-activated
from the minute of saturation when clinicians selfishly collaborated