Sunday, 13 November 2011

She was more beguiling
than diamonds emerging from
ambush,
In her softened form,
glassy haze
reflecting the verdant pasture
of the dunghole scene.

She was a mandrax fiend
and in this screaming
Hendrix Christ head of mine
She appears
Eyes like sapphires, spears
Jewels clear as
moonlit firmanents

None of the
Dirt of Africa,
none of
its bloodshot malaise

So freakishly blue
they looked made up
of mesmeric hues.

Monday, 7 November 2011

the devil leaves the dumb ones

The devil leaves
the dumb ones alone
the battered millionaire,
the grove of the last artist.

This is the last of England
going down 
ignomoniously
its frightful to say,
Betjeman, you
dandy cock
its the last hurrah
we love you
keyjammin'
in your womb of
ambiguity

Sunday, 6 November 2011

2001

2001
It's a great year
For a country to
Capitulate
America the great
The gleaming white
Senate
In bloom
The fulcrum of
The wheel
Ball bearings loosen
The Capital cannot hold
Now wobbles Horribly
greatness scattered
Its nobility in particles.

A flower dethroned,
Scurrying seed to the wind.

house full of books

House full of books
Is where He lived
with his Beer and
Occasional girlfriends,
Cigarettes and computers
While outside,
Faith in numbers
Grinds everything
To ugliness

He meditates on
The rooftop
Amidst chimney pots,
empty wine bottles
And carrion birds
rinsing their scavenged
Paprika chicken
In the rain puddles.
On the horizon
They're still building
great leering shards
Apoplexy architecture with
nowhere to go

In his minds eye
Silence, for a
shimmering moment
Before the cocaine
cacophony of
two penny trash-can
music, falling
Economies
The cracking entrophy
Of the flesh.

Below, wailing drunks
Won't care if
They die under
bulldozers or gentrification
He meditates
An epic pathos
Dead skin cells billowing
like ribbons on the Wind
Then, grey nothing
Only pulse remnants of light
behind his closed lids
He senses
In lonely bookshops
The sluice gates of Pity
open
As pointless as
aid for africa or
roman legions
In hollywood

Wednesday, 2 November 2011

Hydra Exile


Pleasant here
Peasants there
Massaging one's feet
And it's so discreet
A charmed retreat
Trad Gallic verse,
And the girls are perverse

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