The Importance of The Working Week

I have been dying to tell of a

Fossilised brain enclosed in a famed wit lives near there.

Thermals are unique and float easily like a lazy river bend.

You are not what we think I am. It is extra-ordinary how this domestic life shines.

Hold it up to light it clamours for approval. 

Get your dog under control I yell. “Easy” is the response.

We are at a standstill terrified in this life while a yapping dog threatens to bite.

Frozen to the spot it is your fear your fault.

Whispers incarnate petrify over frozen ground and dogs are hauled this way and that weary speculators of forthcoming injustice.

In the funnel of being fed alive snatches of conversation like, “for the people” proliferate

in many plastic bags hanging from the trees 

Deck the halls like so much bells and holly threatening to collapse it all

Under its gargantuan weight

For the final head to head.

Like my malevolent concoction of macerated leaves 

Belching up bubbles of green foam silently on the side then maybe

Curl up in a New Age carapace and sit suspended from it, rock bound miles up

Looking through it over and above

This is not real I don’t believe in any of it today.

In its jaws a rough feathery mess of substance, tracery of the body hauled

Dead or dying bleeding still over the village green to be dumped like Punch on the spike of the pub.

You don’t live in this room

                             These walls are invisible

                                                                See through them

                          It's the world
                                                 where we live

The street is your home

                                    Now go outside


and lie down on your grassy bed.

THE MUSEUM OF CHILDHOOD

To dream the impossible / think the unthinkable thing

Know the unknowable 

in a past less real

Than the flickering light 

Of skulls crushed under Imploding gravity

Severe old light gashes out of mouths 

Sparking bodies hurled 

Into the

sky whispers of a sonic boom shudder

as a small child falling out of bed 

suspended mid-air then suddenly

it doesn’t cry out.

Often now crouching low you can sense a presence

In the bushes just peeking

To catch a glimpse of the real

Crawling on its belly through 

twisted limbs & sharp crystalline fossils

impossible beings

encased in leaf rot 

compacted three hundred million years ago

Eyes from under the glacier

tiny honed

Objects.

‘Dreamworld: a vast, almost unexplored continent in the southern regions. The American explorer RANDOLPH CARTER visited several of its wild regions: BAHARANA, CELAPHUS, DYLATHEEN, ENCHANTED WOOD, HLANITH, INQUANOK, KADATH, KIRAN, Jungle of KLED, LENG, NGRANEK, PNOTH, SARKOMAND, SOUTHERN SEA, THRAN, ULTHAR, URG.’

The weekly itinerant

Exercise muscle

Sport banters

Listen to weird music

That isn’t ‘music’

Gather provisions

Listen listen listen

Respond and then clear up

Think next move

Wash up

Think next

Physical work

Wound flex watch listen

Think

Work unload

Dryer wash

Up response now 

Recoil

Drowsy with stress

Take 

Medication

Sleep 

Listen to music that isn’t music 

Connect a few connectors

Observe: (rubbish on the street, horn honkers, street battles, mythological connectors, news reports on the radio, political diorama, birds on the tree out back, crushed by fate, supermarket offers, cultural intrigue etc) (also invisible maps to imaginary domains, future music pans etc other stuff that never happens)

Communicate at best 

Like music that isn’t music I wasn’t there

It is pastoral yet effectively bounces sideways

Regular in its refusal to allow chance fluctuations

Getting in the way of a costly time please 

We beg for our hearts’ entertainment

Out sourced ethics

But what you ask is the story over

There now

It is shows it is pitting your wits against 

The life

Irregular heart 

Beats now

Unbearable heart break unsolved

In five French parts but the sub-titles where often too late

They flashed in a frame

The dummy was floated to the exact spot

But nothing added up

Pattern of numbers retrieval and starry-eyed surveillance systems

Broken we laugh on the wing

And hope that out offspring will thrive this year

Ripples in the earth slowly expanding like

The froth on my beer breathes early demented spectral loops

On the horizon floatation tanks hustle and bustle

I chose you to be my god my guru

Puckered streaks of night rain thudding

Tropical train rounding the jungle

Bend in the rancid night

Of cigarette smoking eyes without faces

Slung the pack on the floor with a thud too fucked 

To move or care dragging all possessions

In a disintegrating black bin liner up the high street on a Friday

Night with fear bubbling behind the eyes historical legacy of 

Heavy oak framed memorial device languid star clad 

Gentle waste fund corporeal blister pack head rest

Over long sprint gas light beacon mist homage surfeit

Of hopeful longing to the restless 

Competency and Evidence

A macabre head carved out of a vegetable

Slice off its head and place a candle inside 

‘Without destination or intent – onwards!’

 A stunning expose of life at the margins of culture; of an existence in-between Being and becoming in the no-man’s land edged out grey zone classless and invisible. A geology of life between the cracks and the colossal strength of will required to prise oneself out of obscurity and into a meaningful experience in society. Submerged in silence regretful insouciant still breathing a hollow sound, come over drink wine with us remember the humble mist, the hollow-eyed living quarters. Today we will take lunch at Ikea it is a cheap day out overlooking the stunning vistas of the Tottenham Hale retail park from the observation deck. Tipper trucks thunder past, tents encroach from the corner view, clustered near rough clumps of bushes and scrubland flailing like carrier bags against the wind bodies embalmed inside escape the insidious cold. Meatballs. The relentless pace of the days marking time in a vacuum. The cat limps about the place. What exactly is the expression you are looking for? The craft of writing, the unveiling of a vast and unique array of spiritual and emotional contrasts uniquely summarised in the form of incoherent prose poetry. The list is endless, more coffee please. 

Asleep awake asleep awake asleep awake aw sleep sleep sleep

The bicycle wheel turns over wet tarmac slipping by the riverside rowers determined looking straightforward doctors and lawyers taking care of the business of life for us some are coxless others row in time along the bank rough faced interlocutors hurl advice on how to finesse performance it’s a daily task for some out there in all weathers.