Ahoy! Yee of slack faith so long!
You greater lover of Bacon Buttie and melted cheese soul!
You great washing machine of sterile poetry!
You great lover of endless precision.
You great articulators of all World Philosophic Muse
And me the great imitator of other pretenders!
(Whose society is it anyway!
Life is not a business …we proclaim
- as we await to pay the bill)
You middle aged woman who read this like reading a school boys notebook.
You cynical and sterile painters of white wall with white hands.
You blazing bastards of aboslute maturity and professional sleeper on beds!
You tiny micro-dynamo of a culture!
You who do not write with any clear aim with mind with matter to move!
You who are absolutely intelligent but fart while you sleep!
Me who constantly debases the debasement of a debasement by
picking his nose in churhc or while someone marries the totem wife of trophe love!
I am only ten years old emotionally and you who are fifty six are old only on the surface of your skin. You have learned adulthood and unlearned the real immaturity you display
Me who shall continue to write these sordid little dribbles of supposed prose poetry until he wakes up at 65 completely embrassed at the youthful slabbers of a wanton and overly expose tiny spiritsoul!
Time now for some sporadic images from outside real window here
this is not looking to solve worlds or make politics playful
-unless everyone will work a farm without complaint -
(naive romantic yes)
The rain urinates down from the sky
and swollen grey clouds amass like armies
from WW1 - they have the look
of two large scholarly eyesbrows crowding into
a frown…of disappointement.
Five children sun about in the sun
searching for their mother
who has fallen alseep in the
back garden with slight sunburn
they will sneak into the kitchen
and steal 3 biscuits from the biscuit tin
Damn! Then the memory of Alex 16 Years Old DEAD
Smashed over an L.A. high way and lying there like
an open wound for everyone to see and remember
there on childhood but all the cars that passed
and all the passengers that looked would never
know that he would be on a life support machine
for one week before it was switched off
no they still do not know that and nor should they!
nor do they know that Alex’s parents where Scottish
and that on the day he died lying there on that road
the woman who came to comfort him in his pain
was Scottish…and therefore the last voice he heard
was scottish.
Love is nostalgia.
Imagine: from 1800 until 2006 7:48
everyone has been nostaglic for the
lost and the lonely and the dead and
the dying. And it is absurd to think of
such thing and it is beautiful and it
is those sort of thoughts that build
gaint monuments and steeples to God!
Rays of sun shining through the blinds like
one thousand swords
The Politicians well intentioned actors
in a cynical sit-com about valueless
modern culture vulture eating world
from the womb to the tomb in ten
easy steps of sorrow and joy
and watch your mother and father
die and be strong enough for that
as flowers wither they nod there heads
o gaint love
o small love
o patient love
when will worlds
quieten to a heart beat
when will Mothers
lift up their arms
and Fathers untie
their breasts
when will the
million questions
undress to answer
themselves
and this then
is the only here world
and perhaps there is
another universe
that birthed this universe
and they conjoin
like four bubbles floating
with overlap
this here world seem beyond false
and all people touch hands for a few moments
and that should be enough…
)