We Are Them Forever

Qualified for the torrential blasphemy and the curved rusty saw blade, corrugated roof top in the inorganic grave and a solid life form and creation of the clock. Steamed bleach surpasses the strain, adheres generally and supplemental, aware of the traditions. Aware of the rendition and the recalibration of serenity. Plausible and intricate enigma in the deep whirling pool twisting spiral to the forgotten floor, rotten core trodden scored trench tepid puncture of the predecessor. He hadn’t realised the top had been left off, it had spilled everywhere. Unused to archaic methodology and unknown to homophonic esotericism the drift was uneven, inevitable... a cacophony in its own splendid relocation.


My Rose Garden

The haze from the neon city lights cast a plastic warmth into the mild evening. Riff raff and loudmouths weaved their dance and sneaked by with dazzling eyes and crazy puppet arms. Just walk on by, club fiends and stare endlessly about. Enjoy the jibber jabber you cretins of lunacy and allow my passage through your alien scented orgy. Fat women on stilts clambered through the centre of the street and suddenly a great shriek locked my breath in my chest when one of them toppled and fell with a crash and many yells. The crowd festered around the scene and as the flow changed I was at once dodging halfling prostitutes and great bearded clowns as they swarmed past me. I ducked inside an alleyway with narrow, damp walls mudded with some putrid mucus and in the shadow stomped on a child. He winced and spat out the cats leg he’d been chewing before running out suddenly into the human deluge. Waiting a while until the traffic appeared to ease and my breath was caught, I strode out with all my might and was straight away enveloped and carried off down the street. Some men had grabbed each limb and hoisted me into a huge basket that was nearby on a cart pulled by two oxen. Bumping about inside were a few people and I landed with my arse on a poor fellows head but when I felt a slight nip I slapped his face proper. To my distress, these people inside the basket stared blankly at me when I questioned or greeted them and seemed to be hypnotised by some imagined grandiose rhetoric. One laughed and turned back to look out through the gaps in the basket and licked her wrist vigorously. I took one by the scruff of the neck and manoeuvred him into the centre of the basket in a squat. Then I positioned the fellow I had slapped into standing in between the squatted man and the basket wall. Taking the woman, with some resistance, by the wrist and shoved her until she allowed the standing man to give her a piggy back. We stayed like this for some minutes and I feared the structure would not hold, but then, with the sound of roaring cheers from outside, the basket lid opened and I jumped from the man squatted on the floor onto the piggy backed woman’s shoulders and leaped through the opening with all my might.

Gunthers Palace

Voices rhyming, shrieking, whining gurgles and long threaded sentences without pauses, no gaps for breath, a constant embryonic surge of metaphor and quick syllables on and on, a steam train passing through a tunnel, no light just motion, thudding batting hundred hits a second Morse Code in hieroglyphics, an ancient alien hum, lowered pitch of acousmatic insect buzz and obtuse frequencies of particles moving in the air, wind, a blasting hurricane not cylindrical but linear, A to B, from back to front, an awkward ferocious deluge of sonic communication attempts. A song so thick with tone, so dense with texture like the living wrinkled lines on the old Colonels face and it never stops no pause for breath, no surface to escape to, no hovel from the battle to hide, no bushy tree to climb into and no breast to snug.

Zoroaster

Those red dead eyes
Blank fear no more
Hope in a glass ball
Those red dead eyes
They follow 
The crumbs back to variety

And we chase from the morning star
A memory

Writer of reckless random
Could you find meaning
In the cruel dawn of death
In the still birth
Walker of winding paths
Those red dead eyes

Hope In A Glass Ball

Hugged and cuddled through the night, comfort in their need, glad recipient, whisky in the hole, story time, going to those fairy villages, sleeping under stars, relish the beach at summer and sit singing by the fire in winter. The colony can rest assured the faithful shoulder patted by the hand of hierarchy. The lovers nest is high in the perch, woodmen and woodpecker blinded by the floor, the faithful shoulder unseen and the wild grasp of eroticism delights the wanderer, the hierarchy an orgy, the reassuring hand grips the breast of ecstasy. Clinical desk general cabinet, on a chair, leather, long legs, raised eyebrow, spectacles on the tip of her nose, polka dot skirt, head full of new arts and old methods, the laws of physics fuzz, the emotive essence humanity coupling, the sodden and the inspiration travel with the stars and breath flows and rhythms and melody, occasional stirrer of the potion, the motion the emotion, the rocker of the boat and painter of the sapphire sky. Blazes comfort damp, ground supports the air and the cotton ball is chased by the kitten,. Those bedtime stories and those quiet peaceful times just before everyone gets up in the morning, and those sozzled later years, good times and the mashed potato, boogaloo, funky chicken, tequila rush jam. The hilltops take their meditation far out there, misty and languid they see the silence and hear the bright sunshine throughout. The pill pops take their medication far out there, dingy and sordid, they see the silence and hear the bright sunshine throughout.



I Will Make A Man Of You yet

‘Streets crawled with beetles, grass ran with snakes, clouds hid the demons, the sun was his eye. The mouth of the dragon was wide as the ocean, spikes on its back shivered with anticipation. Seas filled with yolk, hills stood like graves, shots in the distance, howl of the wind and of course the wives wept for their husbands and the lovers lay limp on the stone. In the castles lived the jokers, in court spoke the thieves, in the jailhouse lay the hermit, on the pyre rest the virgins.’

Igotdafeedin Eyes

Shoeshine Pantomine

An Act Of War

Groans

Correction Number Three

Becoming a sadhu is a difficult lifestyle. Sadhus are considered to be dead unto themselves, and legally dead to the country of India. They may be required ritually to attend their own funeral before following a guru for many years, serving him by doing menial tasks until acquiring the necessary experience to leave his leadership. 

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