Girl

She's gaudy,
so bawdy, and
she always fucking ignores me.

It's agonising,
so paralysing, but
her silence is almost tantalising.

I'd leave,
to grieve, but
it's too painful to be a reprieve.

So I stay,
to decay, and
irony strikes as I waste away.

Renata de Deus

Renata de Deus; beauty
queen drenched in sepia
stained purple haze
watching time fly by
intermittently falling
into conversations
with mother and the
twenty strange folks
that know her through
the new-age wireless,
tapped and wrapped
into tinfoil and towels
reading Salinger and
slowly twirling her
real pearl necklance
around her real finger
contemplating what, if
anything, is Real down
below.

The mind stutters
like shutters six feet
underground with London's
underground rattling past,
the next stop is: Hope & Despair
and I thank you for being there
as I alighted onto a desolate
platform, save your solitary
figure head tucked into collar
as the cold wind blew fantastic
newspapers in and out of the jet
streams of mother nature
wrought glorious revenge
on the destructive indolence
of the masses - brake light flashes
on a cold winter night bringing you
closer to me, exhaling warmth
and inventing our own Rhyme
Scheme, you are a Living Dream.

O 2005!

O 2005! Truly a magnificent year, one
which had highs and lows that
were fluctuating rapidly.

Which involved varying degrees of joy
ecstasy and poignancy. Each in
amounts larger than a handful.

Which blew its brains more times
than it cares to recall but
not once did it climax.

Which looked down at all those people
dressed in tracksuits, but then
worked with them for 2 months.

Which suffered total technological breakdown
only moments from perfection,
and was forced to wait for help.

Which finally acquired an eye to look-through
and see the world as it truly is,
or could be with a little bit o' work.

Which let Ukraine into their flat by way of
Switzerland, they brought a child
so we baby-proofed our thoughts.

Which went to Birmingham and Glasgow to
bear witness to the Apollonian
Aeterna Motherfuckin' Deus.

Which travelled sporadically to the cities
that held the faces in the windows
in Windows; and revelled in them.

Which believed in friendship so much that
all the falls only spurred them
on to find that One True Friend.

Which met Some Such Friends for the first
time and engaged in illicit intellectual
intercourse with several others too.

Which had its faith in humanity restored by
a beautifully warm-hearted redhead
from the corner of Atkin & Kessler.

Which wrote poetry in varying verse with
ranging rhymes but always themes
of despair and human suffering.

Which was exactly one-hundred years on from
impossibly mutiny on the Potempkin;
These Are Not Maggots!

Which saw evil inaugurated again, and the
world sighed because there seemed
no hope then, and there's none now.

Which watched Internazionale remind the world
what passion is; burn yourself away
in a futile and stupid display. Love.

Which saw Iraq continue to fight for her
Freedom against the Scholars of
Money and War - a hopeless task.

Which had idiots attempt to assassinate
its favourite City, only to fail
due to underestimating Her.

Which got harrassed endless by men with
small cocks and big guns whilst the
Chinese transgressed 10-foot away.

Which saw the return of The Icon, stepping
out of mind and onto an unreal
space outside of time; Unlimited.

Which looked into a mirror and saw the Self
and the Shadow and the Mask
and all the rest of that crap.

Which had many realisations thrust
upon it like so much bad
food at family gatherings.

Which ended with thunderously underwhelming
normality, sat in a quiet room hoping
for more adventure in The New Year.

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.

Two Faces

Broken shafts of sunlight
penetrate eternal clouds;
God fucks the Earth.
Cosmic Love.

Crippling decay as bricks
crumble in our homes;
Man fucks the Earth.
Confined Rape.