The content of landscape

‘From being imagined,’

                                        In spite of a disturbed world

Hot dangerous Japanese day dreams

Killer whales in pods swim in your dream oceans

New prescriptions, new horizons, bending latitudes

Trace the arc of that back pain down to the base of your spine

The post traumatic shock of birth

Both being born and birthing this music is the colour of derelict punks 

You sigh and a world is blown apart

Ancient river of joggers blossoms now

The dredger makes his way through silted waterways

Water curses and courses 

Swoon round the Hackney delta, the Riviera
 River Area.

Rainham, lone horse field more rain 

Solid gold meat wizards with a hard spot for you crushed into

The carvery cavalry.

“What’s the weather like tomorrow?’

“Shit.”

Graffiti tags of Moist, Span, Time and Taste

Grow along the tracks natural as lichen they are almost invisible unless you appreciate

Their wit and ingenuity.

Riding the Medway express bouncing and rattling over the rails

A million pies fly past the windows rain sloshed and frost oh look over there the outline of a castle.

Obscure South London stations break off into rolling fields and combs and wolds.

Bold ideological opposition is what is required from Generation Left they say.

I say “I asked for the vegetarian option”; mesmerised by a clearly meat susage that has been delivered by mistake.

You and I are merely a failed business venture, a vacant lot cancelled out by down time.

                                  Where it happened

                       When existence                   

                                                                               Ran away 

What with 

                                                 All the Being

            Now                                                                                         what

Your                                                                                        tired

                        Walk.                                       Once

Now                                                     over

                                                            Here?

Catching Dust

Perfectly compacted 

Thought,                       

               Packaging to relish & savour,

Last night 

                            the landscape of my youth was flooded.

A green parakeet sat against a pink background of blossom

Leaside on    the Hackney Rivera.

Potholes in the speed control zone

Lime paste pickles jars of it

Black skinned Brazilian

Another book about the redemptive power of swimming

Genuflect on the gregarious outdoors 

Pile up on the M25

Flooding as an “act of God”

Lattice of tiles

Murmuring in your face

Hovering under the skin

It is the swimming lane

Highway that refreshes the most

“smell the flowers while you can” says Woynarowicz; “you’ll take anything when you can’t get nothing”.

Pub banter over and under and over again,

“There’s always reality, nothing wrong with dreams.” And a face full of alcohol.

Stop, breathe start a pop-up shop to exorcize your grief at a life lost living limp lurching

Forward

Pulse chain 

Berger / Bolan / Poe

Locals

Torrential Ginsberg today in the library

Great beat gusts all over the place

Rock star’s pop up shop again

Nose drizzle speaks volumes of 

Coagulated snot amid a tunnel of parakeets that threaten to kill

The landscape is a midden and you are failing 

Killing time with the other bums reading the paper

Educate yourself out of poverty it says but

Stay in your lane

Pedantic steam punks working in the gaming industry

Arcane rituals / abandoned caravan park / ever more aggressive dogs

Standing at a bus stop watching the ebb tide

Work over rough notes etc ….

Nature's Mad Mannequins

Outdoor and indoor assistant required.

Kicking up an unholy stink from the guts of the world.

Rotting fruits embedded in a thick fur carpet at the bottom of the refrigerator, it smiles wide

An odour of malignant decay.

Shocking electric eel vision

Of a hut suspended as by fronds in

A dream or dance of death decay and depravity

Dressed up as delight

Now dance

We swing this way and that with a glance at the altimeter

And as you frost a glistening smile

I ran full pelt out the window

As you watch

Again, then I reappear later from the shadows

Now do you understand

Again, reiterate the statements that brought us here

The old dole office, a bus ride away would favour 

A few crumpled notes. Is it glamour you require? Like that of a gatehouse belonging to a long- sequestered drive way up to the main house obscured by trees.

Dust and gravel matrix the quadrant the stars the model railways

Over and above everything else

Bright wide expanse of sky 

What is this terrible shit, is it tragic. Is it a tragedy, we may never begin to know. 

Entering the village pub that night bodies roiled in a drunken stupor, the type that inspires great wisdom then after great head pain. Tweed and guns, tweed and guns so much tweed and so many guns. We discussed the local murders among other things. You said I had gained weight, I said, “You are a terrible mad drunkard.”

Think on.