Hey

I am going to focus on getting published so more people can read my poems. This means that I won't be posting everything I write on this blog. Wow, I really don't write very much.

ugh

shelter

I'm sitting in stamford hill, wedged between synagogues and kosher wine

sipping from the cup of shared dissent, it is pained on the walls

in portraits of past madness, lines drawn with impulse, driven by intangible memories

repeated blue and orange essence, wired forms and abstract black and white obscenities

and is this obscene?

Stealing space from the void, reclaiming the un-used red and black walls,

tracing the textures of flowers that creep up the

un-used red and white walls

and I dare not move past my vantage point, up the spiral staircase

past the dogs and cats, and laundry and water bowls for the dogs and cats

and art, always art, spinning up and down in a whirlwind of expression

and dogs and cats, and there was only one cat but there were so many

walls

and at the top, Andy Dreads might be clicking away at his computer,

or just laying calm on his high-legged bed

I can only see glimpses of it, projecting my mind step by step

towards open doors and familiar adjustments

drawing my fingers across dark brown wooden banisters

the voices that linger and waft out of the walls and door frames speak in many tongues

worldly accents crinkle and slip through high-ceilinged rooms

and I am among them, in this foreign land, hiding from the reality of rent and stable living

and I, who came out of the rain, soaked and tired, smelling of cigarettes and tension

was let through the threshold and given a bed

About San Francisco

1.

we are all little slips of it just

rough ends of unfinished sentences

rough beads of rolling beads of

bean fed little birds off set by

setting suns in the fog of their

repossessed nothingnesses

and expressions of poetic

miss-thoughts

this is not how it should start

in the park, overlooking the

steep edges of oakland

and I'm fucking up before I even start

I'm just overwhelmed by

the sun and the grass,

and the size of this page it

could go on for days

and it's clear now but

night time brings cold fog

and haze

If I was thinking right I'd

have beautiful thoughts

but I'm shrunk into a

place of unwanted smallness

of mind and of sight

if I could see further,

if I could think with a calm mind

2.

What if we were all as free as she

without the ceremonial flowers of remembrance

pounding the earth beneath her with

cosmic energy, drawn down from the

cos

mos

from

the the open open the

back edge of the sharp hill she dances on

toes on green

heels in the air

body twisting to the will of the breeze and

beat

lungs full of a wail of pleasure

and

cos

mic

will power

Dolores park is a spinning gypsy

hair cut and the smell of

ancient acceptance

and she

is falling off the edge

with the wind in her

hair, and she

is with the others just

3.

green is green in instances of green when green is brown and can be glances of blue too and green can be black when up against brown leading to green which is green when green is just green which is blue jeans on green in sections of patches it seems to be green and the patterns of feet which after the green are the patterns of blue which can be red and then green as the eye passes over and repeats the green which instantly seems just as green, just as green.

4.

I can imagine it, all full of hope and

the innocence of not knowing

and I guess that's what it is now

pastoral drumming and the freedom

of dance

breathing in the memory of 67

and probably 76 too

tanned bodies bobbing to

terrestrial beats while their

disregard for spiritual gravity

floats above them

balanced kicks laden with a

southern vibration that shakes

these northern hills of California

the exalted freedom of

expressed excess, coursing through

the blood that rushes

to my head and through my eyes

and my fingers

and there's a ringing

like sleigh bells that

reminds me of the portable

refrigerator reality of 2011

and it's really here

at the end of a long

tired nap

in the sun

under a palm tree in San Francisco

5.

Number 4 oh 50 on the side edge

of the easy street

sipping deep from the air around

with a nicotine straw

and you can hear the music

even when his breathing stops

and the beat is drawn with

the steady, slow clicking of

empty keys on brass and

stainless soul

as his grin-less smile taps the

edges of reed,

and what he's learned from

the universe slips through

the cracks in his teeth

6.

all the other dogs

are jealous of his quick,

long legs

especially the ones who are

too wound up to use their own

enough

It won't ever be enough to just see your thoughts spelled out

shaped into jagged sigils of assumed meaning, loaded with

ions

from the stars and your finger tips

it won't ever be enough to hear your voice

cautious and quick, even sometimes a whisper

and oh when you whisper

and the pointed lines of your personal gasp

slips

through

your lips

but when I can feel your skin between the lines

of my finger tips

and see the star dust left over

from our arrogance at skipping over fumbling

and fucking

when I can feel golden and safe

sheltered from the lack of importance

of our beeps and clicks

and find that deep, crackling hum

it will be enough

it will be enough

and I will carry it

wrapped in flowers and linen

in a glass bottle

with a rubber top

so when hear your voice

I can wring it's edges

and breath in our frayed,

fourth dimensional

meeting

and it will be enough

it will be enough

so when I see your thoughts spelled out

bent around gullys in the cosmic river of

the visions before me

I can rub my fingers across the letters,

coating them with ions from

the star stuff you're made of

an answer

What was it like?
It was like the translucent edges of my
outlined existence
gained focus and depth
drawing it out of the softness of your hips

it was like my fingers slid across you with
no resistance
re-writing the textures of my palm with
careful, attentive points of light

it was like my chest was strong and
I wasn't so thin
as merciful breaths of air crawled in through
your window

it was like smooth, wooden blocks
grabbed the hands of every clock around us
and twisted them into spirals of nothing and
not needing to be

it was like the air in my lungs was made of
the air in your lungs

But what was it really?
It was real
It was real

untitled, in walthamstow

It's fifteen oh five and the sky above is twisting through
focused alleys
pressured walls of tight, rolling air
breathing down life from the leaking fissure of
endless
edgeless
wonder

it's fifteen oh five and Shawn is strumming his guitar upstairs
maybe he uses it's strings to cut himself loose from the
thin lines of humanity that keeps him tethered to
people like me
trying to understand what it's like
I can't, I'm just a little american shit
blasting florescent grey waves of store-bought nihilism
through the plaster ceiling that lays beneath his feet

if only it was cold,
if only I had lived longer and seen the truth of the world
too busy basking in the light of my youth and store-bought wisdom
if only I didn't watch the clock in these moments of
store-bought faith

It's fifteen fourteen and I'm stuck between keys
trying to justify my puppet arms and my kept fingers
licking blue blood from the wounds across my pride

I'm so bad at keeping the time, I just needed to keep it here
here beneath him
ignoring his thick, brutal sadness, as it floods out his window, and through these
store bought ceilings

and his voice
when he sings
he just... gives up

It's fifteen seventeen and
I'm lost between these store-bought keys
dreaming store bought things

and his voice,
nah, he made that himself
and the world made it with him

Poetry cafe number 5

I wasn't in times square in 99', waiting without patience for the coming apocalypse

I wasn't in berlin in 89', waiting without patience for the dropping of barriers

I wasn't in manchester in 79', waiting without patience for absolutely nothing to happen again

I wasn't in frisco in 69', waiting without patience for the world to wake up

but I was in south west london in 09', waiting without patience for the pills to show up

laying across figurative sofas in longing poses of communal affirmation

huffing painted lines of blue haze and white, dissociative inquiry

hurling myself away from the light in every effort to forget the blinding colours of a weakened reality

and I don't mean to romanticise it

it's just that I wasn't there for any other moment in time, only my own.

And I was here in twenty eleven, spelling out numbers into electronic symbolism

waiting for you to come through the door when I know you won't

but if you did, you'd be slightly darkened by the spanish sun, and your eyes would squint to avoid the burning sensation brought on by too much exposure to my complimentary tongue

so I wait, in this place that I am

praising it for its wood floors and white bricked sentience

as it heaves, waiting with patience for the coming together of minds

do I overestimate my place in the world?

I am a branch, hanging down into the river,

wishing that I might just break off and float away, free from my connections to this

complex tree

and, are you a strong current? Or another branch? Or does it matter as much as the simple fact that I wish you would walk through that door, and smile and make me feel a connection to the rest of this tree

You weren't there in Boston, in 04'. waiting without patience for freedom from internalized voodoo. The truth is, neither was I.

I was just across the river, not even noticing how sober I was

not even realising that I'd never met you before

So I wait,

in this place that I am

praising it for its wooden books and plastic chairs

giving in to the acceptability of it all and

waiting without patience, for the moment when I know for sure

you won't pass through that door

I may, I might, I must just write

to justify my being here, to validate my breath among you

what if my fingers seized and my lasting impression fluttered away like

so many fallen leaves, crunched together on the floor of oblivion

cleared away by the passing of time

blended into the deep, raw wound of humanity

I wish I had TV to distract me, or drugs to calm my existential dread

I wish I had a way, and a reason to justify my empty head

I wish I didn't wish for any of this

I wasn't waiting without patience, huffing, hurling, laying into reality with harsh narratives of the specificity of time, crossing rivers of fallen leaves, swimming through the wound of humanity and

I wish

I wish

I wish I didn't wish for any of this

about taking my time

I'm not rushing

rushing

rushing rushing

to write this

using incorrect inflection on page

and symbols in memory

on smooth, blood pumping muscles

de-ionised chemical

compounds sending

waveless vibrations of

love through the

overstated all and

everything of being

I'm not rushing

rushing

rushing rushing

even though my letters

are scribbled and slanted

lacking stable relationships

with the carbon-less whispers of beauty

that run between

the textures of your

irises

and oh god,

for we are all god

and you are

and oh god

if I could understand the depths

and hold my breath

and just

dive into them

I'm not rushing

rushing

rushing rushing

to link word with

feeling

fleeting glimpses of

formative bone structures

brilliant spark, or

solar flare of

multi-optional intangibility

do you understand

how little we need to

understand

or am I rambling, overflowing

with multi-layered absurdities,

confusing for the sake of it

avoiding fucking obscenities

so I'm not rushing

rushing

rushing rushing

I'm just writing

and we are all

just

here

The chorus of empty head

I don't know
I don't care
I've got an empty head
I'm not I'm not I'm not
I've got an empty head
I can't I won't I don't
I've got an empty head
I am I am I am although
I've got an empty head
the necessary isn't but
I've got an empty head
the flawlessness of nothing
I've got an empty head
I'm full of it I'm full of shit
I've got an empty head
I'm also all the things I am
I've got an empty head
I'm breathing and I'm living
but I've got an empty head
I'm near enough to see it
but I've got an empty head
but but whatever, but whatever
got an empty head
I've but I've got an empty what
I've got an empty head
I'm sounds and things I've got to bring
I've got an empty head
I'm nothing nothing nothing nothing
without my empty head
I'm everything I'm infinite
I've got an empty head
I've got an empty head and I'll be better when I'm dead

Poetry cafe number 4

The walls are sinking

heavy with the knowledge of past aching thoughts

deprived of their wanted burden

desperate for the cover of unknown words and

tie-dyed expressions of aching thoughts

dancing around repetitive, incestuous thoughts of

community and shared experience

do we share these walls?

Of course we do but will we see them when they are bare?

Will we walk these halls after the sun dries up,

and the hydrogen in our eyes becomes brittle and

dusted

will we seek these bricks in our minds

when they have been stripped of their meaning and

faith

are we broken without questions?

The need for a curved ending to

plastic sentences, written with haste and a need for

acceptance

bar-codes of existential prophecy,

love

the humming of bees

the crashing of stock markets and the

death of the humming of

bees

When bin laden died, I was in bed, probably jacking off

I don't remember

but when the books are burned, their ashes stored with many other unknown children

I'll remember

I'll see these empty walls in my head

and beg

and beg

for there to be words

and there will be

written in the backs of our skulls,

four, five, six,

and the seventh will be the seventh

and the hundreth, we won't even feel

saturday storm

I was

down in

a long park, rife with

the combatants of Saturday weather

diving through sunbeams to avoid the coming storm

as it rumbled in the background of cliché, through london

baked pre-summer half turned over with a smattering of green and blue

spring

we sat with angular men, drawing blue corners around shaded eyes

squinting to filter the light of our faces and hide the light in our eyes

as the rain came, we denied it

pushing back it's coming importance, weaving through droplets of

inevitable wetness, drenching our shoulders,

pulling my eyes towards the lack of cloth on your

lower neck

forming dotted patterns on your splotch-framed cool attitude

and you danced in it too

all toes and the rest

but it's the rest

the rest

the rain went, but the sun never came back

tired from weeks of overexposure and the anticipation of christians

longing for the modest cover of grey, pulverised water

so we sat under a tree, hiding the sky

in a swinging boat of warmth and acceptance

dipping our toes into the exploration of self and

expensive cocktails

I looked into your eyes a thousand times that day,

and every time your eyes blinked with divinity

with a forgotten importance of the dark edges of blue

with soft, sharp, steel gaze I just wanted to bleed through it

and see the back side of your brain and your mind

I watched your lips as you read my words, looking for hints of a

hidden smile

one that you might want me to look for

one that might have the sky and the moon in it

that night, I don't remember the moon, but I saw it within you

that night, I don't remember the moon,

but I remember you

Poetry cafe number 3

Like we would need to escape

if the flames of ignorance burnt our temple down

our pages are made of mind-stuff

grasping out of our various lobes to clutch the slippery truth of the word

like we would need to escape

so insulated from the ignorance of bonfire piles

of discredited magicians and prophetic charlatans

denying us the tangibility of love and of hurt

as we sink into red plastic chairs to feel the full

aching brilliance of shared thought

like we would need to escape

if the inferno reached this far down,

would it be better outside, in the ruin of human life

or should we put our hands up, sacrifice our fingers for the warmth of shared brilliance

cut us out, cut us out,

keep us underground and cool

give us signs to escape, into the quarantine of society

we are not monsters

we who hide under the stairs,

hogging blake for ourselves,

eating large gulps of irony and romance

gluttons of shared brilliance

like we would need to escape

we fire-proof few

you could burn us to death, but we'd still have our bones

and those bones could spell out new words in the wreckage

like we would need to escape,

well probably we would

but not because you told us how

like we would need to escape

the fires of shared brilliance

under the stairs

when I grow up

When I grow up
I will be a recluse, and a poet
watching the brick wall for indications of
an inner beauty, patterns of sense in red and
brown red, angular spaces of rough grey
will I see faces in the grass and concrete and
faces in the patterns on bathroom floors and
stains in the corridor
fleeting memories of what I can't see
movement in language of
the opening of layered yellow
incantations of life

when I grow up
I will be a habit and an impulse
breathing shallow smoke filled breaths of
cumulative tiredness
watching repeated patterns of
life's patterns refusing to give in to
slowing fingers and strained mind
timed by the length of ash trails
quantified by hurt and joy
wandering grey idol of the lack of being

when I grow up
I will be clear and alive
or I hope I will
or I hope I will

When I grow up
I will have scars on my hands
not from working but from rough prayer
to gods of longevity and ego and faith
digging through sharp, heavy ground to find
sustenance in the foundation of love
refusing to give in to the separations caused by
my lack of extra-dimensional awareness

but I could see it for a little while
please believe that I could see it

an unworthy poem, written in a worthy notebook

And you are,
A scarf, and things,
Blue and green with,
Streaks of acceptance.

And you are, a solid eye,
Staring with honest energy,
Placed across the couch in,
My mind.

And I am,
Wishing I could see your,
Scarf more clearly,
And see the weary inside it,
Scared of my pen and mind.

I'm a wolf, just,
A psychic vampire, strung out,
On the junk of emotion,

And you are,
So,
So,
So many branches of light,
If I could grasp it,
If I could just be a leaf.

poetry cafe number 2

And I'm here

among the wood grained dark stained

flat tables of cubed sweetness

ailing books with cracked spines

practised cryogenics and god

if I could spell it with seas

if I could fly over low oceans

dipping beneath the harsh waves of

crumpled reality and

forced memory

meaning from bed to heart to head and

plastered from bed to heart to head and

mixed flavours of forced spelling

and I'm here

among wood grained light stained

curved chairs with scuffed post-punk

ailing souls with the need for a fluke

a fleeting flute shrill

twittering through electronic windows

if I could spell it with care

seeping through wide cracks of

garish bravery

gaunt aches of the head and heart and

I'm here

thinking of what I could do about

think of what I should do about

thinking all the time

I'm here amongst the white brick readings

growing up in Reading, city of every state

springing through fields of repeated sentiment

finding new townes and boss weights

shivering with the anticipation of the next word

and I'm here

and I never quite finish

and I'm

I'm just

a work in progress

What can I see with my dying eyes?

As words and numbers sink into textures and shadows

have I seen too far into the all of being

expanding my vision, blurring my resolution so that I might fit it all in?

As the details hide behind

my inability to focus

squinting to read road signs and facial expressions

gasping through semi-closed eyes for the knowledge of vision

as they wilt

as the colours around me

blend into bleeding patterns of

undisclosed

details

de-tailed quetzalcoatl

soaring god of the crowded city

casting glaring branches of light across the sky

destroying my eyes

what can I see with my dying eyes?

As have expanding as my squinting

grapsing as as blended disclosure

details de-tailed soaring casting destroying

what can I see with my dying eyes?

As grasping details

what can I see with my dying eyes?

Less and less every day

what can I see with my dying eyes?

Less than before

less than before

poetry cafe number 1

He, in wired coat of flax and followed slant

breathing deep the argonaughts breath of deep

seeing eyes of the eternal nonsense

opened to the callous float of blown up ideals

of anarchy

and anarchism

undulating thugs fleeing through flowing streets

spraying dissent across meaningless concrete

soul-less hyphenation and baseless promises of safety

left to harmonize with the hopeless day

sighing that infinite breath of contention into the hearts of

the young

the youngism

the schism between squalid brown glaciers of upturned mud

glowing with the post-coital bliss of anti-capitalism

each of us carry with us the spark this same spark of idiocy

clamouring for the correct way to express our dread

will I kill today?

Oh father molog

will I kill today?

Oh mother azathoth

goddess of non-gendered destruction

touch us through our shaken shoulders, through the wired coats and the grey hoodies

through the streets of contention

through the houses of dictators

through the mud and the dirt

and the love and the hurt

through the rhyme and the sky

through the questions and unacceptable answers

through the green and black crossed youth of futures hope

through the yellow and black of baseless copulation

through the rape of our families

through the gauntlet of doubt

through the wormhole of Lycanthropy

through the glory of repitition

will I kill today?

Oh brother steadman

steady oh shading the harsh perfect light

shaded by incandescence and signified verbal halitosis

allowing our creativity to bleed through our gums

allowing the scurvy sickness of realities harsh caverns

lighting our way through validity and context

will I die today?

Oh sister moon

and will you cry when I stop thinking your name?

Will we ever sit again, and will I spell your three letter name with hope, or regret, or kindness,

or nothing

Will I die today

oh fleeting collective

of crass and bloodied faces

facets of bloodied facts

sanguine money pushers of normality and appeasement

of leaves and of awakening

of meaning and meaninglessness

of esses and nesses and lochs and

quays

of myth and of fucking

Will I die today?

Oh feeling of doubt

I cannot deny you

I refuse to die without you

Will I die today?

Oh guru nothing

OHHHHMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

an old poem, written on a receipt

If I was a crow

and was a bird and

had wings

and could do certain

things in the sky

with those

wings

I might fly to you

and peck on your

window

and if I was that

bird with wings

would you think

I was a blackbird?

and would I remind

you of a favorite song?

and would you

sing it to me?

and would I be able

to hear it through

your window, with

my tiny bird ears?

I don't know

it's just a thought

these are answers

are they questions
have I done it
wrong?

is it a question
have I done it
wrong?

am I casting
cellophane
anchors?

do I know the
clear, crumpled
answers?

have I discarded the
slight itching
reminder of
why the
why of
which answers can
fly across
barriers of
ignorance
trying to
try too
hard to
three
for everything
I
see

am I asking questions?
are they questions?
is it a question?

or have I seen the horizons edge
and glinting jewel of
the pinwheels edge
and

are these questions?
have I done it
wrong?