Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Block

The bell chimed its last,
broken down and fast
removed. A space stood
there, an empty stare
ran down her where
once was a smile.

Here was meant to stand, a stanza linking these two strands. It should have been poetic beauty, but try as I might it won't come to me. I sit mentally writing down half-phrases and shouting out in frustrated rages. My mind's a cage, my mind's a cage - and the key is lost. Search the page, it would help. Hurry! Find it! Lest I beat my fists bloody against the wall in a desperate search for enough emotional intensity to return to me my creative propensity.

I was asked to behold
a tower circled by the
radiant heat of marigold,
but I stand in a panopticon
of the soul, and I am so cold.

Friday, February 09, 2007

I

(6/11/05 – 30/9/06 – 1/10/06 – 29/1/07 – 8/2/07)

For Everyone

I

I tried to write some poetry, but London
got in my way with her flashing lights
and happening scenes. Someone teach
me how to network with the white man.
I fucked a virgin in the ass and
she creamed - I was unsure
but she burned beef incense
and slowly trimmed my pubic hairs.
I read Eliot, Ginsberg, Shakespeare
Dylan, Poe, Plato, Nietzsche
and Wittgenstein - yet still
knew nothing at all about Love.
I sang really badly in my bedroom;
earphones crackling Melodic
Death Metal made in Sweden
by the New Aeterna Deus.
I listened to Zeppelin and The Beatles - a
bunch of white guys ripping off
the Negroes. Monsterous Guitar
Solos then blew my mind, thanks Jimi.

II

Ironic idolator gleaming knee-deep in philosophy and poetry,
smoking the crack-pipe of Consumer Capitalism,
coughing relentless, blissfully drowning in rivers
of free thought and Thinking About It.
A left-lean debate-machine. Capitalism's unruly tenant,
fuck rent. Ironyball in your society's side pocket,
poetic prophet, watching philosophy's sun set.
When will it rise again? Unknown. Your mind's
blown, I'm Christ's clone, and a Social hard-sell
and morality's motherfucking death knell.

III

I sat with Edinburgh, I talked with Edinburgh
and it was like I'd been there all my
life. Then Edinburgh went to be
with the Angels in California.
I called to Glasgow, I went to Glasgow, died in
Glasgow, ressurrected in Glasgow,
got fucked in Glasgow, Glasgow
was kind to me, I <3 Glasgow.
I fell platonically for Kings Sutton, I went
to Kings Sutton - Kings Sutton
spoke to me in three different
dialects, each were exactly the same.
I used to be with Oxford where the red
shone brightly, now all is a faded
burgundy and relocated to Birmingham
for impossible musical inventories.
I listened to Croydon with a bass-slap-pop and
furious political alignments and the
souls of British Ska and Grindcore
kicking down the doors of a Dutch girl.
I spoke to Eindhoven, exchanging thoughts and
emotions and ideas about Ruud Van
Nistelrooy. Soaked in literature, the
tide carried her - an authorial glacier.
I read Cole Harbour on the internet, and
wept, because it looked much like
San Francisco, California, and
spoke so very gently about life.
I conversed with Toronto about everything
something and nothing. And we
misspelt words for fun, slightly
homophobic but never really angry.
I punched Whitby in the face repeatedly
until it became Leicester. Bitter
green clouds of absynthe, laced
with the cunt juices of Rotherham.
I watched Kings Sutton slip into vapidity
and trickery, egoism running rampant
around the attention span of an ADD-
-afflicted gerbil. What A Waster.
I lost time with Reading, which then became
Tokyo. This could have been something
special, but time stands still for no man
and for me it ran twice as fast.
I had conversations with Leicester rocket past;
and realising that Whitby was Hoyland
made me laugh. Do circus mirrors make
me thin and white? The Debate Continues
I saw Chester replace Rotheram with joy, and little
argument. Smooth transitions lubricated
with plenty of sarcasm, alcohol and
strange men asking "where's the party?"
I partied in Leicester and chilled in Hoyland and
we drew up plans of World Domination
via Cinematic Conquest - Untouchable,
we discussed things repeatedly.
I talked to Saint Petersburg; and fangirl moments
for imaginary Jewish playwrights
aside, this was heavy discourse in
orange, swimming in fact and fiction.
I wrote to Malaysia, Malaysia wrote me back
with dirty fragments of genius sparkling
like stolen diamonds in hookah-smoke
from the mouth of an iconoclastic dreamer.
I dreamed about Umina Beach; flickers of depthless
black engulfed my field of vision and my eyes
started bleeding. Untold ecstasies await
in a haze of cigarette smoke and sex.
I masturbated furiously over Kentucky and never
stopped once to think of its impossibility:
Vibrant sapphires. Green popsicles.
Towels. Opeth! Sex! Cum!

IV

My fire rose, fiercly at first, burning faster, then fearfully
pushing for the fences, rebellion! Freedom!
We fight! The fortress will fall! I forsee a
feral and fleeting intertwining. Fixation.
Heartbreak. Fatal. Ash.

V

I finished writing some poetry, London in the
end only enhancing my lucid crack-
-house stoner breed hallucinatory
fantasies in which I and my three
cocks impregnate Monica Bellucci,
Adriana Lima and Angelina Jolie
all at the same time. I then come
around some fifteen hours after
bleeding from my balls, with the
final traces of orgasmic residue
dribbling down Your Chin.