[i]Headache:
It feelith as though
a brick bashith my skull.
It feelith as though
a knife sliceith my frontal lobe.
Decadence par excellence
in a European mind state
run by powder vodka fear and wine
A migrane migrates through a Nation of spine[/i]
It is not because the Sagrada Familia has yet to be complete and may never be complete in my lifetime. Nor is it because I have not eaten a tomato in several days. Nor does it have anything to do with the fact workmen have been opening up the street and feeding cables into its belly. Nor is it the fact that I indulged in a big power bag of cocaine on the weekend. Nor is it because everytime I pass that Church it has a sign which says ‘Jesus: The Evidence’. In fact, I don’t no what it is that it being referred too.
*
Headache, Migrane:
such aliments are aliens to me.
Knives do not stab my brain…
Asprin does not know my name…
When I am asked to swallow
pharmaceuticals
I retch and reach for the water…
*
Stress is a large office block in the middle of a City.
Every City is a highrise stress…but no one asks
when will City regress to open field…
*
There is a man who rapes women and when he gets home devours five gravy soaked steaks, but we don’t know that and never will, all we know is that he has a ferocious taste in women and meat - lives alone.
*
In this suburb at night, if you stand outside in the dark, nothing happens: for hours and hours: nothing occurs - it’s as though everyone has died in their sleep. It is as though a great boredom hung over the streets - a winter cloud. No explosions here: noone screams. Everyone is safe. Everyone locks the toliet door even when the house is empty. Everyone puts the snib on their front door in the middle of summer. Everything is safe, but noone can be trusted. Old ladies whince when tall men fling bags over their shoulder. Couples walking dogs cross the road when hooded figures come strolling by. In this suburb at night, if you stand outside in the dark, nothing happens, and I never will: that’s why the writing is so bad.
*
car car car car car car car car
car car car car car car car car
car car car car car car car car
- carparks as a space offer very little poetry
So walking along the road -hyper with coke-this bald headed freak bitch guy comes walking out of a dark lonely alienated park (the park is alineated because it is the only park for miles) - he walks toward me and pulls something from inside his jacket pocket - a large meat cleaver. I realise straight away this man does not want to party. What does he want? Well, quite clearly he is mad, he wants me to come with him and help him stab a man who insulted him earlier that evening. He obviously has no idea how inapproiate and worrying such a spontaneous request is…but he is clearly frenzied with beer and spirits. He walks along beside me for a short time. He talks but I do not listen. I look straight ahead. I do not care. As we walk along he notices another couple across the road…he leaves me and goes to unnerve the couple and make them feel a special private street walking terror.
*
BOOOOOOOOOOORING!
rang the doorbell.
SHIT!
said the toliet flusher.
I’M THIRSTY.
said the cold tap.
GET NAKED.
demanded the shower head.
LIE DOWN BABY.
insisted the bath.
- it was the evening of the strange
and forward bathroom
in someones else house.
Having no money you realise how all along the table had been rigged.