Monday, November 30, 2009

Hips made of smoke.


Smoke lingers
and curls like the ghost

of a belly dancer.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Black operation.




Why are you standing at the foot of the lamppost, outside the park, in black pin striped three piece suit, yet you are a teenage boy? It is winter. Bitter frost hangs the night. You trail thin puffs of breath. What are you waiting on? Your hair is lacquered smooth with gel and glistens under the wake of yellow light. You stand up-right in sentry. Your face, pale smooth white skin, bright amber iris's rimming jet black pupils, chiselled jaw line, and straight warm red lips.

You hold a black Oak stick with a silver regal brass knob, by your right hand; tap it, once, twice, three times, upon the pavement. You lift your head to the sky, which is cloudless and perfect jet black, stars illuminating, like frost and white stones sugared upon the pavement, glittering under lamplight. You straighten your lapels with your left hand, and then lift your left arm, toward your face to read the time. What is waiting for you?

Lamp light trembles in threat of going out, you look up, searching then look forward again, unconcerned. The street is silent. You must be very cold. Yet there is no impatience in your manner. You seem, precise. Prepared. Deliberate. Clandestine. Suddenly, like the black bird startled, you snap your head to the right, look off into the darkness; some sound? A call? It is impossible to know. You take three strides outside the perimeter of the lamp glow, untraceable and sealed, by the pitch dark of midnight.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

The big gay cliche.


'Sexuality is not the centre of the self' - McGuire.

Let's get one thing straight, I'm not. - Bumper sticker

Men loving men.
Anal invaders.
Sex pests.

Promiscuous Devils.
Seducers.
Opportunists.

Obligatory effeminate,
ball bursting touchy feely
perfumed sons of Adam.

Flaming sodomites.
Sensitive assholes.
Pink as tongues.

Girly, limp wrist
cock sucking
bell boys.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Armies of dictionaries fighting over the meaning.


Words -
sent out on up the line
to face the firing squad
as I sit back and idle.

The tomato and the tortoise.

To be young takes a very long time - Picasso.

We are outside play school in not-to-warm-sun but lemonade-bright-yellow, the wind is sharp, like the edge of an ice cube against your face, but not as cold as the need for an Eskimo. We are going on the 89 bus with Misses Proudfoot and Ms. Lilly. They are the bestest teachers in any mile. I think a mile is a long way to walk without an s at the start of it. Ms. Lilly says that I am a clever boy, to think such a thought, both ends of her mouth got bigger, like a flower stretching in the sun, though the flower is her smile. Me, Harry, Lydia, Jackamo, Joyce, Steven, Ted and Jackie, and Linda, with lemon hair, all are waiting, on tender foot excitement. We stamp up and down, and point at the sky like it's a person. The bus arrives, all hiss and fume and rattle, bright red, like an apple or a tomato. A tomato tastes wet. An apple tastes sweet. 'We are going inside, to sit inside an apple or a tomato, Ms! I can't decide.' and she frowns in a way that means she is happy, but says the word precocious, which is a type of food, but one I do not understand.

Jackamo says, an apple is a circle and a bus is a square. And I said a square is only a circle with edges. And he said, maybe. Jackie, is humming a song, hopping up the stairs, she is good at hopping even though she wears glasses. Me and Harry sit at the front window, Jackamo and Ted, sit on the other side, and all four of us drive together, blowing the horns and skidding round corners. What an amazing tomato to drive in. And everyone agrees. Steven and Lydia are practicing singing to themselves or talking inside their heads. The bus sings with noise sun bursts through onto our faces, everything is bright and it's hard not to feel happy as we go.

We are going to the science centre, because that's were the world works. Joyce says – we are driving an apple-bus. Steven says – no, a tomato-bus. Linda says – a strawberry-bus. Harry says a potato, and everyone falls silent for a second, and laughs as they realise potatoes are the colour of skin, not buses. Mrs Proudfoot is talking about orders, and Misses Lilly listens with head nodding attention. We don't understand. We turn the corner, all of us driving on our chairs, and a bridge appears and we go under the bridge, and Jackamo shouts – 'It's night time!' then we come into the light, and Jackamo shouts – 'It's day time.' It is the quickest day. We all agree. We want to go back and forth under the bridge so we can have more than 10 days and nights in one day. Jackie can't count to ten so she can only have eight days, but we will wait for her, in the other two days. And we keep on driving the tomato, faster, through lights and the serious world. We pretend to lick the chairs and eat the windows, but it is no use. You can only eat an apple from the outside in, so we have to wait until we get off.

We are the seeds inside the tomato, Misses Lilly as her smile becomes Ms. Proudfoots smile. I think, we might be the seeds inside the tomato, maybe the seats are seeds. And Linda shouts, we are the green of the strawberry, but that confused me a bit. The science centre is bigger than a house, said Misses Lilly, bigger than nursery, bigger than five high schools, we couldn't imagine five high schools, and wondered how they could fit a science centre inside a world or even inside a mile. A mile is a long way to walk, Mrs Proudfoot taught us this morning, so we remember. She says, a mile is further than from my front door to the play school. And, Dad drives me to the school, and it takes as long as the bus, so she is right.

Linda says science centre is huge, like a machine, which can eat us. The swing doors are mouths into the belly. We all tremble and shake like it's snowing. I am scared of the idea, everyone is scared of the ideas, but not of the doors, and Linda holds my hand, and says that if it is actually a monster, she will ask Misses Lilly to call her Mother; we look into each others eyes and I promise to go inside the mouth first and check if it is OK, if it is, I will come back and tell her; and Linda says thank you and smiles and this made me grow a smile too. 'Nearly there everyone...' Misses Proudfoot sings out, and we bounce up and down, and wring our hands like they are on fire. And Jackamo messed up his hair and gasped and put his hand over his mouth because excitement made him crazy. And Jackie sang: 'We're driving a tomato, we're in a tomato.' We hissed with joy. And, the building came into view – we could see it – it is like a giant shell, like a tortoise, but grey like metal, and not green like tortoise; but Linda said it's a tortoise, slow and old, like an old man; so me and Linda thought, tortoise aren't monsters, they are nice, take their time and are gentle. And we gasp long like something when something bad has been avoided for something gooder. Much gooder. And we can’t wait to understand how science has invented the world.

We are going to understand science, the place were they made the world. Misses Proudfoot says science was about being sensible, and testing things, and I says, like putting your finger into water to see if it was OK to put in all the hand, and she nods, yes. Science is like that. Like making bubbles in water, smashing red roses into dust, showing the corners of the universe, switching one hundred light bulbs at the same time, and talking to dinosaurs. And everyone shouts yes! Science is amazing, an old slow man, who wouldn't run away but let us play with the toys he has made, and ask us to make some. And Misses Lilly asks us all to hold hands and shut our eyes, and love while we hold them, and then the tortoise, and open them.

(Editing to be done.)

Sunday, November 15, 2009

A poetry sleep-in.


The soul is a wild boar - McGuire.

Falling asleep listening to the dull poets

read their dull poems in the land of soul.
Writhing in stuffy halls on hard uncomfortable chairs.
Reluctant audiences exhaust the coffee machine,
stew over stiff silence as one soul is about to
read the last line from a five page epic.
All preparing for perfunctory applause.

This is where poetry comes to die.

Dance us to the edge of love.


It is of course possible to dance a prayer. ~Glade Byron Addams

The desire for love, and to be loved - no idol more hollow - McGuire.


The Bounce man! ...canny beat the Arches ona Friday. Few joints. Coupla sweggers. Botill o voddy before yee go in = holy trinity. Fires yee up fir the dansin. Wee nervous inferno in yir stomach. Heart attack excitement. Love it man, buzzin, everyone buzzin thegither. sub woofer vibrating through thu wallz. Music solidifying the sense of the orgy. Everyone comin the tigether, no fir work or confessin, but fir movement in the primal church. Floor tae yir self, floor fir the crowd, brainwashed by techno. the body wan muscle riding the surf. Endorphin spumes rushin up the spinal like a burst of sherbert powder. Body tingling, like a set o Christmas lights. The bass thudding, four heart valves, pulsin through the marathon. A sea of white noise covering the air like a sheet o metal. Intuitive endolphins swimming the blood stream. All of us - a stampede - all feeling the false love for ten hours - 5 here, 5 elsewhere. Dancin agents wae ir own secret love agenda. Gandhi style. Lie doon or danc the foolhard happy marathon; a joy to be walked over or ran over by anyone good soul. This shit could kill armies man, kill them in oceans of serotonin, melt thum tae a smile, melt the bullets tae tiny tablets, make a good joke o manufacturers o conflict. Caught in spontaneous earth - nay danger o war here - every one puts down their defences and lifts up their arms..

3000 souls under one roof. Electric orchestra of lazers. Hours of chemical dancin' under the false flag of love, but a sense of the love of what could be, if we pulled apart the curtains o our thoughts, brought aw private trouble intae open. Could stop wars a bet. Wars man. Pull down the secret wars. Deframgment yir mind, so comes the empathy, that comes way honesty. A chemical neutrality. A false neutrality, but it lends sense, to the sense, of what could be, if it wiz all aboot pulling secrets through the holes in the wallz, then pulling down the walls themselves. Approach calmly – all of us - dancing our prayers. Hypnosis o the crowd, aw stunned by each uther; hugging stranger prayers. Aw lost tae each other but, really. Selfless then selfish again in that order. Agony aunts and uncles, momentary brothers and minute sisters, spontaneous families, extended, but a false extended family, yet a sense o the family that could be, if all our secrets had been outed and dressed and calmly approached.

Tell yir joy. Tend to yir woe. The syncopated heart beat unifies us aw - artificial sweetener. We are experimenters, an unsound experiment, to get a sense of what it might be like, if we pulled down the walls, the cells, all the strangers, all the unutterables. It's all about how you react to the experience put before you. It's aw about what it could be like if we were all strong enough to handle our shadow alone in the dark. Bouncin man, bouncin, I'm naw going tay sleep, I'm up all weekend, I' m here tay butter up love and touch the telekinetic delusion of our all love together in the orgy of our excess. knock back shadows and sing through the hardcore of the mountains o trauma. Brilliant man everycunt smiling through the seritonin, happy happy, breaking doon aw the fuck barriers, burstin through all the lies o the past, the formalities of the present, and the terror o the future. Music will solve aw the problems o the world yet. With only two arms we canny solve much, save affection, maybe. But this is it, rioting into the night, through the mornin, past rants of seritonin, putting the world to loving right - waiting for the sunrise to shine on our false junk utopia. Wish I didnay have tae always be here on ma own but.




(Work to be done. It's riddled with mess, but I'm mopping it up as I go.)

Thursday, November 05, 2009

Guy Fawkes Night (a chorus of crazed baby chicks)



What radicals you are blowing up in suburban streets.
Startling the solemn households from their quiet Sunday
breathing, lighting up thousands of tiny troops of Civil War.

Anarchy! Streets run amok!

In flocks you burst and scream, a chorus of crazed baby
chicks being strangled, a thousand wild light bulbs sent up
into the air fusing,
  exploding
bouquets of flowers, flying out
like burning feathers.

You fizz and whistle like sparks of fat.
Breaking the rude silence of safe
towns, reminding us of a war
    just
     round
      the corner, or
to shut the curtains, lock the door, and always
blow out candles.