‘Oh to have a second mouth…’

Morning.   It’s a bit messy today.

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‘Give us up money, sirs or fuck it away on your balloon so mighty! Hey you…all coppers are bastards! Brass studs! Police bastardboys booting us dangerous..well you’d do walking!”  His melodies were not so wise the days, syntax and sensibility were more akin to a rough guideline than a police roadsign telling you not to touch the tiger tanks. Contagious it was too, it take a cunt ages but it was contagious and you’d pick up it run with and found syllables escaping through your first AND second mouth…

Didn’t mention the second mouth?  He told me call it Ajna which is a child’s name so I call the mouth Mumbo instead, an alias far more fitting for an invisible pair of lips mouth tongue and epiglottis that manifest itself in the approximate position that the Hindoos believe the third eye resides.  It has molars, no incisors, and grinds day and night.  You can’t hear it until you know until he says and then it goes forever…Used to be wise…used to be a man of knowledge but know it’s drinking bad fluids and throwing ideas.

I see it in the mirror, a little molar mouth slightly above and between my eyebrows.   He says he’s put cocks in it, for the extra money-like.  It’s mad, sick, mad.  Not enough for one mouth though, letters assembling sentences like a broken factory line hissing smoke made of meaning and context.  Mad.  I think I’m okay.

I cannot see or hear it now, with the gnashing with the talking with the crying moan.

Typing is a wonder, wonder of the ages and as the fingers dash the mouths quiet themselves.  No mumbo jumbo.  Fingers do well though, quite enjoyable, and I must say it’s good to have silence.  Ten digits doesn’t really seem like enough though.
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Okay, time for sayonara.
Stay cool, don’t close the fridge.

Jump the fence and open the door you shouldn’t…

Deep down I am just a 1940s freelance journalist.  Jumping fences to take that scoop photo the chief wants to get the dame with the jackpot gams off my arse.  Sorry, ass.  Fucked up my nomenclature.  I love to open doors I’m not supposed to, climb dusty stairs and stand on a rooftop confusing people.  Police tape?  Caution tape?  PAH!   An invitation!  It whispers to me…”Interesting things are here, come in come in my curious friend!”

And of COURSE being the hardcore bike-riding ‘nuts-to-you-old-man’ rebel without a clause that I am I cannot help but get a metaphorical hard-on from antisocial sangfroid.  [I get a few points for using that word, Mitchell & Webb fans know what I mean].   Over the last two days I have used these adolescent urges for good, and managed to get the hot water problem dealt with in my building through a combination of petty theft, graffiti and angry yet verbose phone calls.   Ahh.

This is my phone alias today talking to the Council, and various strata managers.  Mr Vandelay!  A brief moment for me to take my hat off to the originator.
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Thank you Mr Vandelay.  I wasn’t an architect like he was, I claimed to be a trombonist and needed the hot water to wash my valves.  I told her it HAS to be done in the shower, NOT with kettle water as I need a ‘continuous heat flow through the B-flat mechanism’.  Bullshit baffles brains, as Hagbard Celine taught me.

Words now.

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polychromatic harlots

by the end

she was cutting out the faces

from the pictures of the women in the trashy magazines

rolling them up together

in a ball of glossy polychromatic jealousy

and tossing them out the window.

i’ll never understand women

she is more striking

and more vividly unpredictable

that those two-dimensional newsprint harlots.

the sad thing is

whichever one makes my coffee

dark

strong

and beautiful

will be the one i take home on a lonely saturday night.

___

“Ok, time for sayonara!”

Next time – a hymn to the dying sun in G minor and a poem about cunnilingus.

What’s a few years between friends?

I am releasing my little word-budgies once again!  Letting them bash their skulls against the gilded cage of my cerebral cortex was starting to give me a headache, so I unlocked the top of my head and let it fall open…freeing the winged idea-birds to flit and fly around, echoing my own thoughts back at me in an avian squawk.

There is a very real chance this will last about ooh two, three posts maximum before I decide to play the trumpet instead.  I am attempting to learn the trumpet.  This blog is NOT about trumpets, nor budgies.  It is about cages, and pretentious redheads.  Since I don’t write poetry anymore (it is like pissing in the wind, only more slightly less poetic) I will throw in all sorts of malarkey, but probably not song lyrics since I’m actually using them for songs.   Ideas will be in evidence, as well as subtle clues hinting to where I hid her body.

If I stick with more than a week, it will lead to

• music
• anger
• philosophy
• drugs
• politics
• religion
• sex

I don’t mean that’s what will appear on the blog, I just meant that’s what will happen after a week of psuedo-blogging.  Trust me.

 
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Here’s a thing.  A talking blues I’ve been working on, somewhere between Townes Van Zandt, John Lee Hooker and Cake.   Uh-huh.   It’s ‘The Thorazine Shuffle”, and is a paean of sorts to the tribulations and funtimes of being institutionalised.

(to be spoken like johnny cash, if he had a texas drawl. try to imagine instrumental passages breaking it up, wherever the voices in your head TELL you they should solo, solo!)

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“Well lemme tell you now about the thorazine shuffle…..It’s as though your new black cuban-heeled boots with the rockabilly roots are replaced by soft pink fuzzy slippers, all the better to slide around without a single spring in your over-medicated step as you tango over to the games room with your shoelaces tied and your cerebral cortex interminably fried. 

Just because it’s a metaphor don’t mean it didn’t happen…that right there is the thorazine shuffle.  In 6/8 time, emphasising the beat on the 1, the 2 and the hey fuck you.  That’s how you dance.”

“It’s never best to raise a fuss, to call the nurse a succubus or claim the head psychiatrist is working for the devil…strangely enough they call that crazy, but I certainly saw a pair of horns growing out of that fucker’s forehead.  Earned me a romantic date with a large needle and an even larger dose of anti-psychotics…you can best believe it was shufflin’ time.

 A friend of mine met Kurt Cobain, ever since he’s just not the same…but he sure as hell didn’t find Nirvana…let alone the nullification of desire that comes from the unwanted involuntary injestion of a softly clinical shot straight into the soul.  Then, they put you in the hole…don’t want you hurting yourself i guess, its for the best, but there’s no greater stress than to want to scream like a banshee when your voice has been stolen.  All you can do is moan, and do the thorazine shuffle…”

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PART TWO  next time, manpeople and girlpeople!

Ok, time for sayonara.
Stay cool folks, don’t close the fridge…

Freshly Created Drunken Poems!

Well, not drunk, so much as tipsy.  Sitting in a pub on a rainy day watching the boats sail by.  Enjoy.  Or not.

‘vulpis…or something like that (in response to a nekochan challenge)

when asked to write about foxes

by a cat with the eyes of an angel

i was intitially confused

knowing nothing of the ways of foxes

yet respecting their sly wisdom

they remind me of myself

in a way

but i have less fur

and they don’t drink as much

 

 

‘ship’

a single ship upon the bay

that floats unmoored

while all the others are nestled safelyt in the harbour’s womb

the ship us one of them

and they are aware of it too

but he just doesn’t understand why they gather in the gloom

“the waves of the ocean

will batter and break

but that is the way when one sails alone

you who are hiding

in the warmth of your ways

will never feel passion, you yield like a stone

i am the water

so deep and so black

when i’m in my solitude the world fades away

so sleep in your harbour

all huddled and warm

so sleep in your harbous

while i face the storm

so sleep in your harbour

like chickens in cages

so sleep in your honour

all while the storm rages

all alone on the high seas I’ll sail away!”

 

 

‘talk radio’

sometimes i get drunk

and listen to talk radio

i find it soothing

music would make me sad

it would make me regret the dust on the paino

but you know where you are

with the late night city voices

i sit and drink

while they bemoan the world

and the price of petrol

the government is corrupt

and someone made the milk turn sout

one day i’ll call them up myself

and feign outrage

i will stifle a smile

as i lament the moral decay of our decadent time

the i will finish my drink

put my cigarette out on my arm

and throw the empty bottle right out the window

‘Surrealist Rain Ballad’ & ‘The Past Tense’

I thought I had better put a couple more poems up, from the archives as it were. What that means in real terms is I trawl through old blogs for poems I made up on the spot; copy and paste them here; then realise how bad they are. Eh. That’s what happens when I never edit anything. So if someone’s seen these before, then tough titties. New ones will be up in a week or so maybe, I think I will post a few old ones first. Hell I’ve got a lot more, but most of them are insufferably awful.

‘surrealist rain ballad’
whiskey in a teaspoon of silver
ivory lace patterns in a puddle by the road
millipede articulations, all a-flowing like mercury
weaving under bootheel as the skies cry joyously to the sea
sillhouettes of silk unravelled
childhood driftwood floated up to meet me
remembrances of gardens and blood and lightning
desiring to return yet evolution requires action
the sky continues to weep ecstatic
i am watching the worms dance
cars are driving by
people are fighting inside
people are fighting outside
cars honking like geese in the rain
i am smiling as i walk
tho i am fighting inside
i am also fighting outside
and the rain is the only one who knows

______________________________

‘the past tense’
it torments you when you begin to think of love in the past tense
regardless of current joy it still hits you hard, and the pain can overwhelm
dammit i miss her so much, i’m sick of this life and myself
living in this poison mind forever afraid to create in case i destroy
wearing a crown of thorns from which i have plucked the roses one by one

i wish i had it within me to die at my own hand while i still have my sanity
but it’s a lot easier said than done when you have the whiskey bottle in your hand
and the pills ready to go (i try to keep some at all times in case i am brave)
i hate to see these words come out of me, low tide will recede and i will be happy
this poem will seem like the crying of a child and i suppose in many ways it is

but i still had to say it
in case i am brave
and decide
to go
away
f
o
r
e
v
e
r
.

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First blog poems – pecadilloes, cigarettes, fallen angels…

Greetings! Virgin post here. Old poems dredged up from old blogs, the only ones i could find. Enjoy. Or loathe. Either way.

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apparently i am a mistake in reasoning
it was meant as a compliment, reason is a whore
we have our little pecadilloes
and at one time we were in love
but now i use her when i have need and then discard her

architects of unreason sculpt cities
and soundscapes of mad desire alive with humanity
reason brushes its teeth
and knows how to sew on a button
but reason never had its heart broken on a winters night

reason told us to fear the tiger
and with good cause, his teeth are jagged and sharp
but unreason told us
that we could strike back
and against the odds triumph like the sun over the moon

___

alone
hot summer night
open bottle
smoking
alone

and smiling

___

met an angel the other day, at least thats what she told me
begging for change and talking up the plastic rose she sold me
her wings i saw were still attached but dirty and unkempt
and her halo now was dusty brown and she leased it for the rent

it hurt me so to see her brought down into such decay
she smiled all the while tho she hadnt eaten for a day
apparently she got too bored of heaven crisp and clean
and descended into earthly realms to live a life obscene

she didnt mind that everything would be a constant struggle
better she said to feel alive than live inside a bubble
if that is how this angel feels, alive with passion strong
then heaven has no place for me, and God has chosen wrong.