Aphorising

It was a hollow room with
just a few pieces. Interactive
pieces. I suppose the idea was
that we create our own art.
I liked that. Turning the mirror
outward; a collective self-reference.


I plot the satanist revolution
whilst hurling copies of
the Tao off the roof of
King's College. Elphistone
Hall seems a million
miles away now - clattering
along England's uneventful
buttocks in the western
night, in a long tube -
This is practically sodomy;
fitting, then, that I'm
coming from Brighton.


Chino XL distracts the mind
and makes poetry not good.


Dry white whine. In quadruplicate.
Seduction is practically a business.
Gotta make a profit; although
I was only in business
by accident; a case of
misrepresentation.


What is art? Is it a bunch
of lines on a page because
the hand cannot keep pace
with the moving image? Or
is art something metaphysical?
A notion, perhaps.


There's a girl on this carriage
who's gonna be gorgeous when
she gets older. If I was a
modelling agent I could
'discover' her. But what
the hell IS that anyway?


You twat.


When the sapphire lion
crushes the golden cannon
the rest of us lose hope.
Nature defeating weaponry
is nice, though. And those
fucking peacocks got a
taste of their own medicine
in the Orient.


Machine Gun, tearin' my,
body all apart.
The way shoulda been
over two years ago;
but this is just the start.


Sundraped clouds slither
over the heavens and
we'd like to call it
afternoon.
All our flowers are in bloom,
too soon.


We want eternity, cry out
for its neon claws - wait -
we got confused somewhere
down the line; someone turned
the arrow around.


Pakipakipakipaki


I am a great lover of words;
I shall write more on this
later.