Look, it’s easy,
easy you see;
Thou hast lost thyself
oh great Verdini
Snowflakes soaked in paraffin,
I want them to trickle down my chin,
Because I have sinned and I am thin
and I don’t want to look like my liver
which is swimming in gin.
For I have tomorrow and never again,
seeing the great pyramid of oosa
flung henceforth from a well of dreams
shall I decline a fat bemused
and lyrical swish of diminution
for the rifle of parallel desire
with which I am blessed
Hic.
And I am a cigarette
sellotaped to the end
of a bleeding lip
soon shall be buried in a pile of dust
crushed and disgarded with luscious contempt
swilled down in the dumps
paddled amongst the shit and spit
in a pit of mud and blood.
For she is blunt and she is tiny
and I have no yellow lines
All for one and watch with mother
Coming true at various times
Then she went and rented rivers
Singing hey man
floods in Spring
All I knew was bent and withered
I knew she was the King of tides
the watcher dodging
Jams and breaks and dams and grief do
Come along and watch her walking
On the bank with handsome
carriage floodlights
Shining in the brief
March
Air
But no one was there,
to stare in the bitter wind
which tore the faces
of innocent passers by
who'd just witnessed a crime.
The crime was wasted and festered
and tattered scarves were ripped
and shredded in a pageant
full of nonsense and noise
and a struggling toothless lady
who stank and screamed,
but nothing came out
of her stained and rancid mouth,
but a rasping hollow rotting sound.
Aaagh begotten
flesh and rat-piss
wiels disease
Stinking dog pus like a love feast
Scattered through the sewage pipe
Making tomatoes wherever it lands
Making hedonistic smells from clay
Making play where fishes flap
Come with me my severed brethren
Come and eat these maggots raw
Come and walk by shattered willows
Bent and savaged
just as straw
I will never go to heaven,
never read a book again
listen to the sounds of human beings
rattling and eating and whistling
endure the breathing
of other people
It’s all so smelly
and not frosty enough.
Disgusting as lumps of meat
and fish heads
jumping out of the ice in supermarkets.
It’s crude and wonderful.
Like the back of my watch
Sweat encrusted jewel encumbered
Smashing beauty from the tick
Lo you sit and tick unheeded
Needing time to wind you up
You useless gimmick
Old forgotten
Dying by the force of service
But you live in dreams like colour
Hopeless when reprinted
by the most efficient machine
How can I touch you
When you don’t exist?
At Christmas
The summer holiday
Or some other time
when nobody’s witching?
In a bubble of snot
I dwell in the fingernails of a Parisian tobacconist
and swim in the cracks of the fallow pavements
whilst the dogshit’s being hosed
into the gutter
by giant street cleaners
on a Sunday
when all the dogs in the world have been walked.
time turns to gunge and is no longer now,
No longer warm breath
that you can see when it’s snowing
or beans and garlic
that you can smell when they're cooking.
I am the ghost of grime
which haunts the dreams
of old men and beggars.
The colours are just ink,
infused with thought,
so dangerous it stops you thinking.
Quiet shades of white and purple
Telling anarchy of purpose
Why don’t people sell their stories
When they write their epitaph’s?
This one for the guardian
That one for the times
This one for my mother
Next comes readers wives
When we’re dead our smiles get lurid
as a model fucking money
Why not run like shit down sewers
That’s what they’re made for honey
poets hang themselves from piano wires
men grow tits by accident
Who invented mindless questions
Who made handbags made of envy
Who said shoe heels should be bent?
Along the streets of trepidation
Angels sing in vats of pasta
Worlds collide in deprivation
Hungry ghosts are slave and master
Trouble is grot
Anger phlegms
Beep beep beep of consternation
Oh to be in realms of not
Where pictures flea
And lice are legion
Crabs are almost flat
Politicians are reason,
Bogies are tasty,
except in Paris where they are black,
but still they have a gritty kind of quality,
so does unwashed lettuce,
and worms I believe,
although I’ve never eaten one myself.
maybe I will one day
when it is raining and they are plentiful.
We wouldn’t have such tasty potatoes
if there weren’t such things as worms.
Nightingales wouldn’t have anything to eat,
or maybe they'd eat snails like the French,
I don’t know.
O birds
They fly all over the place
The little fuckers
hey
Give me back my two white maggots
You bastard.
pic - rainbow over campsea ashe - arthur tikhon cooke - age 5.
easy you see;
Thou hast lost thyself
oh great Verdini
Snowflakes soaked in paraffin,
I want them to trickle down my chin,
Because I have sinned and I am thin
and I don’t want to look like my liver
which is swimming in gin.
For I have tomorrow and never again,
seeing the great pyramid of oosa
flung henceforth from a well of dreams
shall I decline a fat bemused
and lyrical swish of diminution
for the rifle of parallel desire
with which I am blessed
Hic.
And I am a cigarette
sellotaped to the end
of a bleeding lip
soon shall be buried in a pile of dust
crushed and disgarded with luscious contempt
swilled down in the dumps
paddled amongst the shit and spit
in a pit of mud and blood.
For she is blunt and she is tiny
and I have no yellow lines
All for one and watch with mother
Coming true at various times
Then she went and rented rivers
Singing hey man
floods in Spring
All I knew was bent and withered
I knew she was the King of tides
the watcher dodging
Jams and breaks and dams and grief do
Come along and watch her walking
On the bank with handsome
carriage floodlights
Shining in the brief
March
Air
But no one was there,
to stare in the bitter wind
which tore the faces
of innocent passers by
who'd just witnessed a crime.
The crime was wasted and festered
and tattered scarves were ripped
and shredded in a pageant
full of nonsense and noise
and a struggling toothless lady
who stank and screamed,
but nothing came out
of her stained and rancid mouth,
but a rasping hollow rotting sound.
Aaagh begotten
flesh and rat-piss
wiels disease
Stinking dog pus like a love feast
Scattered through the sewage pipe
Making tomatoes wherever it lands
Making hedonistic smells from clay
Making play where fishes flap
Come with me my severed brethren
Come and eat these maggots raw
Come and walk by shattered willows
Bent and savaged
just as straw
I will never go to heaven,
never read a book again
listen to the sounds of human beings
rattling and eating and whistling
endure the breathing
of other people
It’s all so smelly
and not frosty enough.
Disgusting as lumps of meat
and fish heads
jumping out of the ice in supermarkets.
It’s crude and wonderful.
Like the back of my watch
Sweat encrusted jewel encumbered
Smashing beauty from the tick
Lo you sit and tick unheeded
Needing time to wind you up
You useless gimmick
Old forgotten
Dying by the force of service
But you live in dreams like colour
Hopeless when reprinted
by the most efficient machine
How can I touch you
When you don’t exist?
At Christmas
The summer holiday
Or some other time
when nobody’s witching?
In a bubble of snot
I dwell in the fingernails of a Parisian tobacconist
and swim in the cracks of the fallow pavements
whilst the dogshit’s being hosed
into the gutter
by giant street cleaners
on a Sunday
when all the dogs in the world have been walked.
time turns to gunge and is no longer now,
No longer warm breath
that you can see when it’s snowing
or beans and garlic
that you can smell when they're cooking.
I am the ghost of grime
which haunts the dreams
of old men and beggars.
The colours are just ink,
infused with thought,
so dangerous it stops you thinking.
Quiet shades of white and purple
Telling anarchy of purpose
Why don’t people sell their stories
When they write their epitaph’s?
This one for the guardian
That one for the times
This one for my mother
Next comes readers wives
When we’re dead our smiles get lurid
as a model fucking money
Why not run like shit down sewers
That’s what they’re made for honey
poets hang themselves from piano wires
men grow tits by accident
Who invented mindless questions
Who made handbags made of envy
Who said shoe heels should be bent?
Along the streets of trepidation
Angels sing in vats of pasta
Worlds collide in deprivation
Hungry ghosts are slave and master
Trouble is grot
Anger phlegms
Beep beep beep of consternation
Oh to be in realms of not
Where pictures flea
And lice are legion
Crabs are almost flat
Politicians are reason,
Bogies are tasty,
except in Paris where they are black,
but still they have a gritty kind of quality,
so does unwashed lettuce,
and worms I believe,
although I’ve never eaten one myself.
maybe I will one day
when it is raining and they are plentiful.
We wouldn’t have such tasty potatoes
if there weren’t such things as worms.
Nightingales wouldn’t have anything to eat,
or maybe they'd eat snails like the French,
I don’t know.
O birds
They fly all over the place
The little fuckers
hey
Give me back my two white maggots
You bastard.
pic - rainbow over campsea ashe - arthur tikhon cooke - age 5.
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