NOW I REMEMBER WHO I AM

all golden bleat it was
like a heartbeat in secret
sending all those visions that
economics presenters
swat away in their
sweaty brain-washed
summaries

Yes, I was wallowing
in words again,
my swords were numerous.
Ahhh, the blade as it cuts,
the thrust,
the dizzy adventure
of lunging
by degrees

and then I cough up everything
the blaze
the flames
all the colours
all the thoughts
I'm sick of reading the thoughts
they're like awkward adventures
you'd rather forget

In spite of everything
the moon went out
the lamb
roared
the apocalypse was dissappointing
the dawn was crass
but the fire, the fire
could explode my mind!

the house that sat on top of the hill
was swaying as I began to make love
to the memory of
everything that had never really happened
and imagine my dismay
when your poison began to work
and all the flowers were
transformed into
a sort of trite torment

Today I caught the X9
and it was like hell
and it was like heaven
we laughed as we stared
down on everything

all golden bleat it was
like purified oxygen mixed
with some difficulty
into the hum of a bus
with a mysterious name

and we fly
we fly along
past me,
past you
because we're no longer here,
no, we don't for a minute
think anything will stay still
we just enjoy the company
of the wading birds
and the loving ghosts

CORRECTION

I wrote a poem in
my book of poems,
about fuck-arsed poets
who stick semi-colons
in the middle of their
tedious lines of twaddle

however
I was wrong
that's not what they do

I check out all
these modern shit poets
by reading idle snippets
of their bilge,
whilst browsing
in bookshops,
you remember them?

and
I have now observed
it ain't semi-colons
they bang around,
it's full stops. Like this

So,
I stand corrected
you stand corrected
we all stand corrected

I do wish
they'd stop doing it
though

DID SOMEONE REALLY WRITE THIS?

Trawling through
the swampy wastelands
of modern poetry
in some vain attempt to get
my 'stuff' about
I came across this:

"We prefer poems with these qualities:
image, subtlety and point of view;
a surface of worldly exactitude,
as well as a depth of semantic ambiguity;
and a voice that negotiates
with its body of predecessors."

Well, I'm fucking up for that!

Oh, body of Predecessors!
Sorry, I just kicked you in the nuts,
I didn't know who you were.
If I'd have known,
I would have, like,
semantically,
and ambiguously,
and showing a fucking fistful
of worldly exactitude,
not to mention using
real subtle imagery,
torn your heart out from your body
and thrown it to the dogs

How's that
for a point of view?

POEM FOR SOMEONE ASKING TO BE TAKEN OFF MY MAILING LIST

Your soul
stirring in the breeze

Your soul
swaying like a bucket of bile
on a cruel wind

Your soul
lilting,
trying to escape
the awkwardness
and the uncomfortable
conversations;
more english than you can
ever imagine

Your soul
disintegrating in
front of  our eyes

and you know what
I'm doing
..while all this is
going on?
Well, I'm waving...
y'know...
fond farewell,
all friendly like,
a dainty 'will not darken your
doorstep again'
look on my face

Here I am,
No, here I am.
Can't you see me?
Can't you discern me?
Come on!
I'm everywhere

YOU HAVE BEEN SIGNED OUT DUE TO INACTIVITY

Signed out
due to inactivity,
what a way to go

Hung out to dry,
slung down the basement,
lobbed up the attic,
kicked into the alleyway,
ditched in the canal,
downloaded into oblivion

Left to rot,
yes,
ROT!
and all because
I was inactive.
And all because
I did not,
I did not do anything

Cruel computer
screen,
carrier of hurtful messages,
harbinger
of cold, icy cold,
large, blue fonted
words of dismissal.

Staring upon your
present passive perfect
notification,
I do not feel stronger,
I do not feel like a rainbow,
I do not feel like a bud about to burst

Signed out
due to inactivity,
and there ain't nothing I can do about it,
except
sign back in again!

ARSEHOLE

Malingerer,
voider.
Whipper-snapping
proximity of
a human being

Jerkhead,
pissed off,
pointless, mouth-farting
lump of
uselessness

Everywhere person,
crap-faced,
non-thinking,
hole of desolation

Slithering,
withering
negation
of any semblance
of joy and
sincerity

Off you go,
go on, get out there,
into the world!
You've got lots of people's
lives to fuck up.
Why waste time
reading poetry?

FRENZIED

The previous 98
poems on this here blog
have been gathered into
an e-book thingy
called
'Selfish City will not fall'
available from
Kindle, Smashwords
and hopefully all the others
when I overcome
some teasing technical challenges

There's a vid
of me reading two poems
on youtube,
called, errr, 'Two poems'.
I'm out with my novel
A.N.D./O-R,
in a little while
and there's music stuff around

I hope you too,
dear fan,
you are also
living a useful life.
We all must try,
mustn't we?

The shit will inevitably
hit the fan.
Humiliation and
disappointment
will crunch our brittle bones.
Indifference and
failure
will lock us in their
unforgiving embrace

but if we don't do
anything,
who will?