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.

Julie

A tiptoe on the ice beneath the snow,
believe me when I say there's a way
to go, yet. But still don't fret 'coz don't
forget that I have set this up so let your
fears and tears disappear and smile
a bit and try to enjoy it.

And by it I mean this scene serene
of standing on a frozen lake, so
wide awake, watching the mist rise
from our breath. So don't delay, the
time to play, is here today, so won't
you say that you love me?

Spiral

Sunlight glints on frosted branches;
frigid fields hindering life's chances,
callous glances of possible romances,
no more dances, no more watching.
No one's watching, no one's watching.
Dance, dance. Spiral
into chaos, into moonlight,
into harmony.
Life's dramatic irony
stands tall as we all take
comfort in its shadow.
All but those who dare to
burn, dare to learn for what
they yearn, then a return. Spin to
the centre, reach out to the tips,
slender, inviting, return to the hips.
Return, return. Burn.
You're so warm.

Bullray

Infer what you will:
deliberation of
interpolation. The
jury's out; shout,
shout it out. Time
passes and will
be passing in time.
Speak no evil,
certainly not in rhyme.

I don't know, maybe you do.
Science was made up by folks
like me and you.

Childhood amnesia,
no one wants to
believe ya'. About
what I don't know,
I wasn't there, saw
things through a
different lens, this
is the mental bends,
and I can't comprehend
the cataclysmic
kaleidoscope that
smashed and
shattered all
Swiftian Tropes
and left you
feeling like
a joke.

A Song For Kyoko

Twilight creeps across the sky,
a slow-dance intertwining with
you and I. We sit and speak,
flashes illuminate the eye and
show us things we cannot deny.

I can't show you where it hurts,
because I look at you through
emotional blinds, so I see you
only in spurts. Complete pain is
horrid, but are fragments worse?

Though I owe you an attempt
to ease your pain, cathartic
dialogue, dramatise your
condition, all the classics
rethought and written again.

So this is the story, don't
you know, of a lovely
young girl named Kyoko.

She loves like she lives,
with plenty to give
and plenty still stored;
her feeling's ignored.
Stockpiles of emotions, sat
in a barrel, slowly rotting.
Even the sweetest apple
turns black if uneaten.

Her Neccessities: air, food, water
and some contact, just a sliver
of skin brushing against hers.
Something to let her know she's
alive. Something for which she
can strive. Someone to sit
by her side, and talk
and laugh
and cry
and watch as cliche's rain
down from the sky. She can't
remember being so happy
that she felt afraid to die.

It's all I think about as she sits
in a chair, screaming out to
walls of mirrors, getting endless
echoes in return for her thoughts.