Thursday, 14 January 2021

Streaming a Haiku

 fish breathe

first month rivers wide

not knowing 

coming 

or going 

Monday, 28 December 2020

Essenkenplatz Rower (Illustrated)

 




(Lichtenstein's Still Life with Red Wine) 


He was the sort that

Would carry beer mats in his

Covert coat pocket

For unstable tables that 

Would bump into him often


Borscht spat Benday dots

On badly lain flags by The

Absolute Friday

Nighters with Stazi barnets

He was tucked up to avoid


The down dent left by

Second story safe haul was 

The cheek suck of the

Bar girl's neat note for the numb

'er for ambivalence see





(Dalí's Lobster Telephone) 


The sniff dog's nod not

Bread of expectation not

Stall tied to edge the

Clamourous bus burr was he

Quall to the fuss of walking


You bets whispered in

Two battered whiskers placed by

The strife eternal 

Diced and shifted gifted to

The nowhere not even odd


There not could provide

A new collar to button

He put his finger

Right the fuck on it tonic

And crossed the narrow road wide





(Bertelli's Profilo Continuo (Testa di Mussolini)) 


The memorial

To the dog with two dicks he

Passed the bronzed pigeon

Shat on statue to a simp

Pairing tit of the drool stool


Kinder scoots strewn as

Homeless folk's strewth dotted he

Spotted the libr'ry's

Shut as John's paper shop was

Like his cigarette rolled up 


He lingered fingered

For an excuse for a coin

Not choc lit he flicked

Through the poetry bit of

Sue Ryder's put out of sorties 





(Herakut's I got quite good at hiding the herd from those who kill beauty for fun) 


Crisp his soup head dreamt

Of rye bread but not that sort

Beyond caged whistles

And mirrors of his drying 

Window sun budget cigar 


Pickled plates a cream

American Frank furs the

Diner's sound soured at 

Psycho records on plastic

That jukebox lent him in thin


He judge watched narrow 

Eyes and James Dean smiles so snuck

The doorway dark as

Fuck to hear imagine ary

Women there misplaced for luck







Ripped



Tights from

     The House of SWP

Ripped on the ex-Christmas tree

     She took another limp

From a packet of deads

     Do that one more time 

Sunshine

     Said she said she said she

 

The Fug on the Fringes



The sun

was the colour of piss on chrome, of

marigolds in baskets, marigolds in sinks, of lager

in the last flat roof pub. The riotous fug.

 

Al limped in.

He’d worked in Bloomsbury before the concrete set.

There was a moment where 50% polyester felt like

silk on skin. He was made of XS, but took an XL RL

knock-off in white. Bone buttoned. Billowing.

Bog rolls on string.

 

They’d got their Sunday’s

caught in the zip of the afternoon. Kev of Mancunia was

double cross, had shot people for less and would not

leave it out. Lydia, gave a ‘missed Frank earlier’

out the side of her mouth.

 

I don’t need to miss this place to know that they was there.

I snapped fairies in the willow by me dead mum’s dog,

do you ever notice? Do you

fucking care?

 

Algernon had a

perfect working washer, Ariston, but opted for the coin-op.

Odds on for a mix-up in the undergarments. Meaning

cubicle confinement to pass the export flat, else that

frilly question, he dared be asked.

The lash.

 

He’d arrived

all over The Danish Girl on ITV 3. It made his year.

He’d kipped all through MotD 2, the pub-time sermon,

to be passed on and on and on

and on…

 

A schtum trudge

through dead tree stools, lily mats, lino grass, took a sharp

down the gents. Parfum ’73 hit his working nostril, for the

veil of stench. Eyes to heavens, he royally threw. Home

counties ‘22.

 

He flicked thinning overgrowth, nicked his finger on

safety glass and rouged his lips. Scarf-tied Sue Ryder, tight.

Firm fingered the hole in his memory, to see

if it had a pulse.

 

Borax for the thorax.

Metal coat-hanger ‘tween teeth. Jutting clavicles creased and

wrinkled. Tranquiliser girls came crutch less with glossy dogs

in flaxen highs, all camomile lawn laid and dandy handsome.

Glue that. 

 


 

The fruit machine flashed back.

Fellow nymphs gambolling meadows, were fellow sods

gambling Sky Sports racing. Keynes would’ve had a

good-to-firm field day. Cornflower pens behind ears.

A horse named Ripp Off ran the 2:15.

Livers for the chop.

 

a damn fix, unfair! In all my time recorded,

such power, such grace should not go unrewarded!

 

The vape was opiate.

The insults, appropriate. The expression on Dave’s dog’s

visage. The brawn by the pawn shop. Salute tattoos

on the arms of Ian. All soaks, masquerading

as functioning human beings.

 

Al’s named each that ghastly prick, as the fug of the day

came in again,

thick.

 

Vent-Axia

magnolia fly-stuck where the loose let, let loose. Arse flesh

for the meat raffle. Each nail, each visit, he filed under

breezeblocks in the bogs. He calf-polish spat on his Reebok,

mirrored a young man never aged.

Not ‘alf.

 

Narcissus ivy, window cracked. It wrapped his imagination

like the absinthe advert dress by the dartboard.

It was a story full of holes.

 

Vanessa tolled,

the crowd bemused. Tomorrow, our lonesome fuck, would be

‘same again love’, as both Al and Algernon

all too bastard knew.



 



For Lviv



In West Ukraine, a blue crane

lifts the barley from the guts of the city.

In this accident of geography,

she found the only puddle on the ground

and made one hell of a splash.


Blonde and pleated, tall and static,

a well trod speakers’ corner, she stood.

Her hometown, a Bureau de Change

above a laundry room.


She could not have the patience of the flower seller.

She did not believe in the sound of the sea.

The hurricane from the away end

blew crosses from the hilltops into her psychology,

blew ticks from the reservoir to fuel her residency.


Statuesque, she daily flung her concrete words, ballistic,

against the amassed and fascistic.


To mark the tenth anniversary of her death,

football scarves were laid.

A small boy, all neat and auburn,

offered his historiography:


Fuck your vile corrupt iconography 


Spat and turned into the café, he burst

already old enough to drink 5 star Hararava,

lit up his cigarette and eyeballed

the old patriots in the corner,

who ran off handing their beer money

to the beggar woman in the street.

He bowed toward her stomping ground

and sniped:


Never admit defeat!




 

Roddy in the Betsey


Went to revere Roddy

in the Betsey

In the half-trim half-time power of the

dimming light

Where pints and flights abut


Went to cozen limbo

Set squirreling

in the glower of the wonder hour

before Mischief Night

But the pub was bloody shut


And where I sat

in another

in the cup

Aberdeen could've been

1-0 up


strippen

healer for vice

give dire and squat

you cabling strippen!


dwelt no fan

goad and hew agile jiz

to remand ire


grub the snake move 

oh but stay!

cage your serfs to no.


is onyx strip zoo?

or he lied...