Tuesday, 27 September 2016

The Transcendentalist


So the scents of pre cornflake sex
And post energy drink breath

Pervades the carriage like a squid squadron infusion..

Acrid lemon bleach musk cologne
Tinkly-plink-thud beats effervesce from earphones
She leans arching on the glass pane knackered
Eye-liner Rothko remastered
Her groin marine satyr
Not so lucky a bastard
She receives a sext from another torpedo piece of spam with pecs
Night riders of the triple-xxx scuba app. pipelines
Anticipating the lying
Looking forward to her beau's spying..

Free newspaper time
Good deeds and lonely bee-lines
Fleeting eye-contact frieze a la carte
Doves flee shark Bonapartes
Amorous darts
You looking at me
You better be
This empty cup of coffee
Would murder for a cup of tea..

Egg sandwich Nazi
An olfactory nuclear catastrophe
Two parts sulphur
To one part ego cadaver of hoax-to-fade celebrity
Outreach egg sandwich Nazi..


Egg sandwich Nazi
A committed hater of commuter humanity
The clown at a Fred West house-warming party
And apropos of nothing
I met the scribe who outed an inspector
Later suicided in some woods
But that is another poem
And I never would..

The Zen master invites us all to mind the gap
I always sit cross-legged in the aisle when she chants
..mind the gap..mind the gap..Which gap
My chakras haven't activated sufficiently to decode this mantra
My codon helix still only binary matter
Although the descendants of Enki now spin peeling our ionised sun 
..mind the gap..mind the gap..
The commuters file through me
I'm a phantom rocking the 3d stun gunned..

Well she could be referring to the gap between this one and the next..
The gap between our fantasy and the grim reality..
The gap between our vulnerability and our armour..
The gap between illusion and dharma..
The gap between us surface dwellers and Agarthans..


I content myself that on the subconscious plain my third eye apprehends
Like a cherry blossom tree the haiku
An elusive state of bliss sudoku
..mind the gap..mind the gap...
..and the bends..I add 
Arising I clap one hand
Breathe in and hold on..
And hold on to hold on and in-breathe again - 
Holding
Intoning - 
...mind the gap..avoid the bends..mind the gap..

I know I will breathe out some day..




Tuesday, 13 September 2016

Monday, 29 August 2016

Tycho (Deviationist Astronaut And The Zany Karmic Architect)


I'm rushing below the firmament in a submarine
Pulled up by balloons
Rocket thrusters won't work in a vacuum
The torrid plasma liquid washes over the viewing screen
And the Hubble telescope cannot anywhere be seen
This periscope doesn't recognise the space handed to us it seems..

Am I floating beneath the epidermis of a prison planet scheme
I fear this is way beyond my theosophical steam
So how to define the omniscient dream
And space isn't so black
Its spectrum spans luminescent green to cream..

So what animates the animation
Is our reality externally generated and framed
Perhaps our earth is only a splash of an atomic spark
inside a vast stellar game
Are we merely holographic entrapped imaginings
Programmed by the zany karmic architect with cosmogryal game
Or maybe I have too much non linear time on my hands again
Deja vu circles around as once again
Time spirals on the helter skelter curves
Snakes and ladders arc on zig-zags..
And whatever..


A tractor beam from the moon pulls and parks me in
The indigo oceans crash and swirl below the glassy domes
For some lucky souls this is home
The helium-3 propellant firing down sloshes through the fins
The crazy nightclubs below flash and sparkle
A typical Saturday night then..
                                                  in the downtown crater Tycho..


Will I meet a moonmaid offering an immersive beer
I'm a lonesome deviationist space astronaut submariner
Touching down with a smile and a tear
And if it's five hundred lunars for a praying mantis lap dance
Sorry but I'm outta here..

Who built the moon
Optics present crescent spaghettify
Absinthe cigars Ganymede elves and rye
I float when I float and flop as I fly
Soon in the groove you'll be fine
So promise me you'll try it sometime..

The gravity chambers slishslosh beguiling hues of bottle sea blue
The bar chairs are of the nymph empath's euphoric crystal
I sup and wind down

Take in the view..

Whoa
What is that

I'm stopped dead in my tracks..

I spy other moonmaids weeping in a distant pool viewing their news
And I feel I'm about to somersault into..into..
Because I can never..
I conceive I am about to know
I never knew...


So what would you do
If you happen upon umpteen moonmaids weeping at their news
Would you just carry on drinking an immersive beer
So I will slip away
Well I have to
I must intrepidly peer inside their limpid galley
Carefully foot-fall-floating quietly near..

And
Some moonmaids gazing inwardly seem hushed
Others shed tears
One somehow sensing my presence turns around
Churning over goodness knows what thoughts profound
Instilling transference into my mind
How did you arrive here
Oh by typical balloon spaceship submarine
No
How did you appear here
I turn to point to the bar behind me now gone disappeared
I can't even find the entrance slipped through only moments before
Behind me now is a gossamer silken turquoise shimmering waterfall
Yeah okay hmm
The weekend starts here I guess..


From here on in things I fear
will veer ever looping vectors of weird..


Swimming over this moonmaid now steers me to her viewing dock
Floating 4d immersive screens enveloping us all
She is explaining how each screen is a human soul
I myself am utterly goggle-transfixed
Depth charged into the shimmering truth arranged
The moonmaids are gazing through souls
Thousands..
Then tens of thousands more..

The screens within screens within screens
Almost as if every soul...

The root of the every water drop
Every incarnate consciousness
The The
As threading through the you of you
She plunges me through the screens
Trip wired
The minds fling a torrential heart-rending choir
A multitude of beings simultaneous per second per second
Imploding I cannot breathe..

And
As the tree
Through every vein of every leaf
Coursing through the living screens
I a crash test dummy colliding with Dream..

She pulls my head away
I gasp for air
Have you eaten
Well I had an immersive beer..
With that she slams my head back into the 4d..

Where am I
I am a..
A terrified child
I'm experiencing the life
and thoughts of a terrified and sobbing child

I'm bleeding against a wall
Something fell inside me hurts

A man a few feet away from me is firing a machine gun
He is shouting something at me
But I don't understand..

             
Booms bangs smoke
                        Above I see a drone
                                      I cannot move..

The city around me is rubble and burning
I feel my head I see blood
Where's my mother
I don't understand..

My eyes..I cannot see
I cannot see..

Where's my mother
Why has she left me..
Where is she...

Can't she hear me..

Where is my mother..
Please let her be okay..

I am thrown into the air
I am really scared now

I feel strange
I feel..like I am sleeping now..


The moonmaid pulls me out the screen
Just as this child folds over
Thus this one screen within the others folds over
Folding over just broken I blank out..

Silence in the galley
Arias of silence
Delivered by moon sirens..

I come to
But I now see no longer
And I am no longer an I
Disembodied
Bereft in a veiled vast space
Some kind of another place
Ultra dimensional nothing
Night teems off night
Peeling layers slip outside of time in full eclipse

Then..
A drop of light sense infuses
Tangible
Touching
Enveloping
Flashing a beam through this glimmering fabric
Waves waves and pulsation waves
Thrumming
The hum-drum totality
Vibrating
Of a different octave..
 - Am I experiencing a dead imagination


And a fresh new raindrop splashes
Vibrates on an orchid leaf..then gone..
 - No

I'm back..
Floating on the gentle waves
Of the shimmering waterfall
The moonmaid is sitting on a rock above me
Gazing intently through the screens
The screens within screens within screens within screens..

I will lie here still for a very long while.....
.............

She turns her gaze toward me
Unfathomable
More elusive than ever
...in another lifetime...she whispers..
I have no time to ask

She is leaning over now
And now she is pressing a finger through the middle of my forehead...

The heart of all matter
The sand flow of neutron stars
A birth..


I see myself now walking against the flow of the waterfall
Held in her rapt trillion light year eyes..

Now I see myself
Now

Floating above myself in the bar
Yet I'm still prone
Held in her gaze
As she floats above me.. 
I'm  floating above me..
Oh man..


Now on a slow dive landing
I turn around
And the waterfall is pulling away
And she is now fading into air with the other moonmaids

Slowly turning away from me
She is whispering
Don't return....until we meet again..

             until we meet again..never return..
    ..until we return..we will never meet again..






 

Monday, 1 August 2016

The Empath


You're scared of the dark
You love the night
You easily empathise with another in pain
For yours you pay little mind
Your ghosts awaken
As you fitfully sleep
You have self respect save the self esteem..

The things you feel
The steel you no longer feel
The healer healed only with the hurt so sealed..



Tuesday, 28 June 2016

An Extreme Case Of Pareidolia


A friend of mine said this to me once
It was quite a while ago
So I'm paraphrasing..

Here's what he said..

Oh I wrote this poem once too
It was a long time ago

He brandished a piece of air
And I asked at the air 

Only once


He nodded sagely

Only once
It didn't do anything for me..no offence but
it just wasn't me..
A bit pointless poems..
Although to be fair..it got me laid.. funnily enough..yeah yeah
She loved me for what I read out to her
I genuinely felt all of that..
all of that stuff for her..
And all those feelings just gushed right out
Almost like it wasn't me
I still think of her
You would have loved her too if you met her..
I hope wherever she is she is having a great life..
Those few weeks we spent together
They were just bliss
And the thing was
I'm sure at the time I knew it..

He trailed off wistfully
And I probably nodded
And replied

Yeah


And he probably affirmed

Yeah she really loved me for what I read out to her that day
Now..looking back..I wish..maybe..
Oh I know I can't now..
Long time ago..

His memories seemed to drift around us
Like a let-go balloon
Waiting for someone
To clutch its string
And pull it through golden fields..

But as I say poetry is like a time-waste for me..

So I tried to lightly console him

Oh but it got you a lovely girlfriend..

Yeah you're right you know
And it got me a holiday too
She invited me to stay at her dad's place in Saint Tropez
He had a casino and a yacht..
It was a bit embarrassing..

How so

Well she made me read my poem out to her dad
And I remember I said to him but I don't really write poems
And he said no don't worry I don't really either..He was a really cool guy..

He gazed at the window
Or maybe out the window
And I'm trying to recall for you which
But so sorry I can't remember
So I gaze at my mobile phone
Where this poem is gazing back at me
And it doesn't seem to know either..

So I read my poem out
And he shouted bravo in some
French words
And we all laughed
Just all laughed
And he gave me three-hundred euro-quid
to bet down at his casino
Where I won my year's travelling money
And I bought that evil motorbike..
Never again..
I'll never write a poem again..
Not sure what you see in it all..

He looked again at his empty hand of poem
So did I probably
And then
He said

The nineteen-nineties were mad weren't they
Looking back now they feel so..so destined..
I dunno..

Probably a few moments of silence..

And they were so pre-9/11 in every way..

I probably nodded an hmmn yeah I think I know what you mean
Before asking

In the past did any of your paintings ever land you a girlfriend


And he replied

..Hmm that's a good one..
Oh I suppose so
But only in an indirect free kick kind of way..
But painting
It's just me..
I just love it
You should try it sometime..

And I probably said something like

I know what you mean
Poetry for me is painting
I paint through my thought-shapes pictures of words.
.
It's also something I just have to do sometimes
It isn't for anything..
He concluded..

And that's our problem
There's no hope for either of us then mate
We should have grown up by now
The fact that we don't do this for anything is the scary bit..

And I'm sure we both laughed
And one of us probably looked out the window
While the other probably gazed at their empty hand of poem
And I can't recall which one of us did which..

And we lost touch with each other shortly afterwards..







Tuesday, 21 June 2016

Poets Should Be Teachers Like Submariners Should Be Bricklayers


Izny the Zepoleene
Wasn't very good rhyming words
But was very good rhyming clouds
Now how many poets can beat that

Mimzy the Triximeme
Wasn't too au fait tilling fields
But was very good tilling cows
So how many farmers have seeded that
                                                          ahem

Please note
Mizmy could also tile cows
And the cows graciously enjoyed grazing mosaically
 their untilled fields
Mooing gentle shimmering chessboards..
                  
    ..Only to be check-mated later
      By the abattoir gentleman
His first pre-dawn task
Happy-finishing the milkmaid
 Clasping her buttocks 
  with his clammy
       thrumming tactical bingo-numbed mugwump fingers
beneath the Ben-Day Dot reversing twilight..

Morphing now rapidly into a kinetic
Hulk killing-machine post-Heathcliff

 Deployed James Blunt secrets still echo-throe her
inside her post-coital ears

A delicate sunrise
       A circular-saw screeching

      Cow eyes silently beseeching
         Squares polka-dot Pollocked

                Stun-punched and Picasso'd 
 Curated into Cubist frozen fractal Guernica-
smorgasbord
 by Evensong..

                                                                      
Cixxy the Nipineem
Wasn't very good with the ladeez
But was great at pulling daisies
Now how many Alan Titchmarshes can do that



Please note
Cixxy also once allegedly pulled Alan Titchmarsh

Observe
I said allegedly

And that allegedly is a VERY big ALLEGEDLY indeed
So please note that dear litigious post-rock poetry haters

                                          Thank you so very much

Now the question remains
Where did Cixxy allegedly pull Titchmarsh to
This being a matter of some fierce and dissonant discourse and debate..


You know
   the Alan Titchmarsh fan community 
       is a frighteningly fractious and recalcitrant place..

One theory has it
Cixxy pulled Titchmarsh into a hedgerow
The other
Cixxy threw Titchmarsh over a windmill
Which makes much more sense to me
As
Nipineems often throw objects of their desire over windmills

In Nipineem culture you see
Throwing someone over a windmill
Is a sure-fire gentle-hearted method of breaking the ice
Especially when you throw someone over a windmill
And they smack side-on into a frozen pond

And as we all must acknowledge 

Titchmarsh is the uber alpha male
Thus likely to excite and trigger
       bursting Nipineem hormone bubbles
Small allegedly this time
But big allergy
Especially if you suffer from hay fever
And don't do elegy poetry..
  
   sad swans
pill-popping pylons swaying in corn circles d
esultory ducks

      the thwack of leather on willowy nun  the pissed parson pressing grapes at the fete

a flying screaming
to-be sneezer
smashing into a frozen pond..
                                                        Typical phoned-in imagery
                          of countryside idyll-dystopia twenty-first century wonder-porn...

     Okay     Now    
That's a Hank Kingsley Hey now
Post-rock poetry groupies
Imagine being thrown over a windmill
And smashing yourself through a frozen pond
And having a sneezing fit
After breaking above the marbled glass waves of shattered ice..


                                  Now
Does this second scenario make much more sense to you too
Let us have a fierce debate
But no violence please
We all know how these
Titchmarsh-thrown-over-a-windmill

                                   head-breaks-pond
                                           sneezing-fit debates can escalate

You've been there
Yeah I can tell
Me too oh me too
incidentally,,

For
Nipineems
The windmill
Came before the chicken and egg
Windmills and
Nipineems both being lacto-vegetarian

                                                                                                                  random thought..
..for there are no rules to invoking romantic rainbows..
end of random thought..

                                  Now
May I ask you one question please
Okay thanks
                                  Hey now
                            Here is another
Has the legend that is Titchmarsh
Mentioned this controversial biopic episode in his sneering
And perhaps seething
No-holds-barred
Warts-and-all
But generous-to-a-fault-that's-me 

                       I-can't-help-myself autobiography

Frankly
I haven't yet invested in his ghost-written autobiography
I mean how on earth do ghosts manage to even hold a pen..



I wish this poem had an end
But where does that begin..
Now here you go ladies
Gird your loins
Ugh
Isn't loins the most horrible poetry-word
Probably in any English language
Gird your lions
Yes
That is much better
Ladies
Gird your lions..mooo
That lion roared moo because it has mad cow disease
Bee Tea Double You


So
Ready yourselves
Seamless post-rock poem-gear-shift in..
T-minus 5
4
3
2
1
..
Blast off..

An alien crash-landed in
Taplow
His crease-free silver space suit
      hung from his saucer's back window
Creased

By the busted furry robot
Bouncing off the helium-3 air-bags
And so luckily for him that visible interior vacuum-atmos-ambience

        fit right into the
              Taplow sales rep groove

The sales reps racing to
Taplow singing
Squeeze My Baby Aubergine

Noted the crash-landing saucer
And almost stopped to watch this strange tableaux
But they didn't
I admire that

They didn't travel all the way to
Taplow
From as far away as
Langley
Only to witness a typical alien sales rep saucer-crash-land tableaux
Even though the alien wasn't a typical sales rep at all
No
He was actually an archetypal atypical alien area sales MANAGER
Who was once subtly depicted in a tapestry
Bayeux
Back in the day when archetypal atypical alien area sales MANAGERS

                                               rodeo-rode around in Agarthan chariots
                                              And made their go-faster-striped ass-racers 
                                               piss in plastic bags made of parchment-reeds
                                              to be thrown carelessly outside the
                                             Dinky Donkey drive-in amphitheatres                                              Nothing changes eh

This is the end
As Jim Morrison famously once sang

This is the beginning
His admiral father less famously might have conspiratorially whispered
In the
Gulf of Tonkin

And that's a very speculative musing there
            my post-rock poetry haters..



https://youtu.be/CIrvSJwwJUE
The End



Friday, 10 June 2016

Sunday, 5 June 2016

I'm Going To Write A Poem About You


Childish I'm sure
But the way that pavement cyclist 
Pedestrian-pranged me his signature 
I became his press-ganged human speed-bump
Suffering concrete-kissing discomfiture
Well he certainly deserved nothing less
than the back hand of my pierian
So as the pebble-assed smurf pelted away
Revolving dalek camera on his pompous high viz head
I brushed myself down
Bracing myself for what I am called here to do
So of course I shouted after the piston-peddle ghoul
I'm going to write a poem about you
            Yeah you
                          You


Cab drivers waved and saluted
A high street nun ran from across the street
Just to kiss my hand
A police officer nodded then walked on by
We reached a mafia code-silent understanding
She even threw me her pen

Immature I know
But my annual performance review left a taste bitter
Yet again informed I wasn't short-list-quality promotional candidature
Apparently singularly undermining the rise of the firm's added-value line curvature
And somewhat fazed by another HR ninja
Her reptilian wax-line grin 
              all herbal teabag voodoo reasoning
Gifted me the spiritual cue as of a dream
So as I turned and strolled out the room
I'm going to write a poem about you
Boom

The shop steward hooted 

Offered me exclusive black label vodka undiluted
Two babes at the tea point blinked me the sauciest of winks
A glimpse of nocturnal promise 
Probably no methinks
But perhaps a lingering warm embrace
An admiring sloppy kiss
Do earnest-brow rhymes emit such subtle pheromone
Is poetry actually for this
If only at sixteen I had known this
      If only I had known this
             at thirty-six


On a distant parallel earth I've known
Conflicts are always fought with verse
The only distant shock waves emanate from startling sonic couplets
The only missiles flying are sirens' missives mystic
We listen
They listen
No bullying
No murder
Just rhymes
Or blank verse
Should nothing else work
Not sure whether blank verse or violent death is worse
I pray for the semi-innocent witnesses of performance poetry sometimes
We all know performance poetry isn't always a victimless crime..

The crime scene cordoned off with police tape
The body tagged under the sheets 
And that's just the poet
The emcee in the corner pleads with the detectives
A smoked-glass stretch limo snakes slowly by outside
A poetry agent in the back snuffs out his cigar
Observing the aftermath sits back
Whispers something enigmatic to the chauffeur
Who then races away into the feral and starless night..

And once upon a time I said
I'm going to write a poem about you
It was while she tipped tinned spaghetti all over my head
Before magically brandishing
                          and then smashing my new laptop                                            repeatedly over the bedstead
                                                      But it was okay for her to do this she said
                                                                             As it was her bedstead


Case for the prosecution closed
I was tried and convicted and living dead
I should have fled but instead
I raised with her this terrifying prospect
I'm...going...to...write...TWO...poems...about....you now
All pregnant pause in italics for emphasis 

                                                      with the TWO capitalised for added dramatic effect
Harold Pinter on the decks
She laughed then
I doubt that she's laughing now..