DO NOT FEED THE WORDS.

george best love guide

2012-01-13T09:09:00.003+01:00

dear womenfolk
the portion who would like
to be marauded
by menfolk
not by other womenfolk
do not be afraid to ask
it is now ok
to ask for sex we will not
be terrified

once you have seen
a man
one of
the best ways is to
do it like
George Best and
spell his name out in
dead fish
on his front lawn
at night
while naked.
Men like
George Best.

stab murder

2012-01-13T09:02:00.000+01:00

everything profound has
already been said
and not recently
at that

a really long time ago
seneca and sappho and so on
any attempt now
to make a serious face
and say
politics is life times
uh, area

hope is like
some trees

don't be mad
for it is wanton

sufi had a thing

i would like to think of something great
but i live in a flat
next to a man who
cleans his walls
with a butter knife
a lot
and i can\t sleep

mark e. smith poem

2012-01-13T08:55:00.002+01:00

sometimes
i want to write something
as great as a Fall lyric
then i read
the UK twitter trend
s
and it's just like a
Fall lyric

are we all in on the joke yet?

bonsoir voulez boire qqc

2011-10-26T16:34:00.003+02:00

cannot anylonger feel my face

2011-10-26T16:33:00.002+02:00

breakdown

2011-10-26T16:32:00.000+02:00

interloper

2011-10-26T16:29:00.002+02:00

torture of the caress

2011-10-26T16:28:00.002+02:00

morbidly obese

2011-10-26T16:27:00.002+02:00

2-pin plug

2011-10-26T16:26:00.002+02:00

opposable

2011-10-26T16:25:00.002+02:00

this is how barflies gouge out your soul over time

2011-10-26T16:24:00.002+02:00

other animals

2011-10-26T16:23:00.000+02:00

how will you fare?

2011-10-26T16:22:00.002+02:00

kepler-11

2011-10-26T16:21:00.000+02:00

for heisenberg

2011-04-05T00:47:00.003+02:00

very quietly you are being shredded
hollowed out
you are degrading, unheard,
your cellular synthesis
frees
the oxidants, the radicals
the Nemeses.

That is time. The poking of holes
into things

it is as the stars gobble
hydrogen;
we are with them
we all of us have our doom
we all begin to carry
degenerate matter.

when the stasis comes
you will be there
everything will
here we are with our beds and plates
and our friendly knives
and rough nightshirts
and we know
how the universe feeds
and how it will rest
and that we will be there
also.
sleep tight, mates.

drop breaks loose from
the mildewed shower head.
New spacetime fizzes
for an undying;
the impact with the enamel
is atrocious
among photons
little droplets
hectic electrons
create billions of new time
that would never have been
and no man
could know
when the next drop
will fall

Altered Beasts

2011-04-04T04:12:00.006+02:00

Crutches belonging to the last of the tronmatic
beasts who once carved their way
this very
way,
birdfoot and goofy, all the power of piston calves
connected to twiggy femurs a popeye leg
they have one somewhere
cast in plaster, stored in Canada
their tenure was short
.75 of a decade
very unsensorial, buttery fluid leaked
from the battery connection, a common fault
roaring like a band of hoovers
they're not to be preserved
melt them
the newer models have gecko-stick
watch it climb
and they walk humanoid -
this is a selling point
that our concerted efforts
should resemble
the beige chaos of nature
at its most vulnerable

they don't transport us
like the broad pyramid bricks lain by
Henry Ford;
they stay where we ought to go
they work
and work
and
make their way to a boiling shed
where they melt and die.
not in a humanoid way
they got that right, at least,
build it, punish it,
but do not allow it to scream.

Cloak (Philip Larkin)

2010-10-07T16:33:00.012+02:00

There had been a time
when teachers had asked what, then?
I don't know.
I knew I was waiting

I was waiting
for Aubade,
oh he understood alright;
read
drunk blank afraid
glare way stay and shape
torn trick drink escape
hold will and grave

the night ticker
shimmers under my skin
the veins must come out
the fingers must dig in
tremble shudder tremors
i feel it in my handbones,
the closing of my shivered throat
i hear the thud of my fall before i
notice it: I hate beautiful Aubade.

cloaks. Larkin wore a cloak
an ugly one
they are all ugly

every dream a delusion,
every romance a danger
to someone else,
how dare they
try to live their
horrid, bristling dreams

in a gaping warehouse,
naked as my erection
lets me be
i know there's nothing
moth-eaten
between dust and i
gravity and i
between swelling and rot
i fear too
and i jam it panicked into my hub
a butter knife
in my thoracic cavity

His solid crane
and condom of skin
kept it all in;

a clang in the warehouse
a gust comes in
sweeps the dust to
power and glory
and it settles
each tick
on the eyes
of dead poem-writers
thickening
like fear.

bees

2010-09-13T02:36:00.003+02:00

tortilla flats
vertical council wrecks in a
half-drained sea
in the mud
and road
see
an uncertain load
an uncertain
phone ringing
vibrating
ringing
i pull the veil over you
no answer
i pull a nail out of you
no answer
your flesh is all
buttoned up for winter now
all tucked in

there is a danger in you
eye of a missing child
did you do this
to me?
i shouldn't miss you
it's easy to pass on,
take your little flag down
pass away
like our ill conceived
children
i shouldn't mind me
i'll quietly slip
into the sea
of
the internet

i try not to think
about it
i try to eat
a stale pie
i think there were bees in it
this is
the saddest part

something stuck among
the buildings
callused paint
carcasses
letters
our tiny empire sorely bitten
it was,
obviously,
though we were too daft
to see,
clearly written

there is nothing right,
there is
nothing left

Awkward Swallowing

2010-06-01T19:24:00.016+02:00

(first printed in Nth Position magazine)

It's not quiet
like they tell you
in movies
it is loud
it is hidden
behind buttons
do you know how
easy they are to
break open
buttons
break-fast juices spilt
out of your mouth
you cupped your
hand gulped
splashed
laughed all at once
spilt apple
on your chin
it dribbled over the
gore between
your fingers
a tiny silk spit strand
landed in your lap
and your spider tongue
sucked it back.
but later
ah, later, it started
so well, but temper
is the blue
in the beige of chaos
oh well
two sweeps of blue
under your eyes
tired
like dark lipstick
on the rims of two
teacups
a tongue moulded in
one of your chinks
you're less angry now -
like chewing it is
impossible to sink
when swallowing;
it IS very loud
and the same shamed
step when a dog barks
and you jump
how silly
just like
after too much love
you did not mean it.
Listen,
a word in your shell-like,
it is like weapons
it eats like planets
it infests like things
screaming like insects
under your skin like.

Gut Flora

2010-05-03T07:25:00.016+02:00

First published in A Tale of Three Cities magazine

I've already turned

England into you

I miss it

I wish it never existed,

that there was just a gap

where it rains

and now and then a boat

drumming shod-shad

by ol' dogger bank

old filthy lampost

with filthy flowers

trinkets of crashes

duck taped together

wet

and

windy

just a gap

the watford gap, and nothing

I wish I'd been dropped

into the channel from

the vulva of a mute swan.

To think people have been

shot here

the chink still in the plaster

not for a pearl, a petal,

a prick, a rose,

not for a finger of almond

or for this swollen milk,

or for bruised, bitten necks

or brutal conkers

fancy trousers

magic sweets.

I gave you a country

England

I wanted your little wrists

you smell like tree sap

burnt

beer

talking

and crisps

Why should I be ashamed of lovesongs?

Not everything is honking, giblets,

burgers, ha ha ha,

some things

are sad some, disgusting.

Here it is:

The way you sit on barstools

reminds me of Querelle.

I'd take out your eyes

and pickle them with mine

I want to rub caraway

onto your flanks

stop you from screaming

you are younger than me

and

that is how it will always be.

Sarah

2010-05-01T00:16:00.006+02:00

Her face is covered
with fine paramecia
she hates certain things
I am sending her typing.

Trilby

2010-04-11T06:48:00.001+02:00

warren ellis no beard

2010-04-11T06:23:00.002+02:00

Swim

2010-03-20T04:17:00.002+01:00

How big is the
lake of human blood
can you float in it?
Is it magnetic?

What a nice image.
But really it would be
a big pond of AIDS
dried up by the sun
in two or three days

Everything is junk
except the sun
and music

Ants & Aphids

2010-03-16T23:04:00.007+01:00

I hate my skin
all the cells have
gone dusty and renewed
since I touched you last
I hate science
for making me know

Skin is only good
when it's alive
and you wrap it round
like a coat I would
wrap around you
like an enchilada
you are a bean
a surprise bean
in a mouthful of lettuce
I bit you
I was so happy you
were there
I swallowed
you loved it

Enchilada.

Be quiet or be killed.

2010-03-16T23:00:00.010+01:00

I am neither beautiful
nor brilliant
thank goodness
that would be
unconscionably terrible

can she take the whole
thing in her mouth?

I want your budding body
to sing next to mine
I want it to buzz like Higgs boson
or a rubbish fridge

I want to feel the climb
of your uterus
the insect's back
and,
every ridge.

Do Not Eat The Words

2010-03-16T22:50:00.007+01:00

DEAD MOON

2010-03-16T22:36:00.009+01:00

I know she comes
she watches telly
she drops sweetly to her knees
because of sex
and drugs
and drinking
Tho separately
she is screened by red
she complains
she is gaga and oblivion
she has tiny hair flowers
she is a you cute little girl you
she went to space

I thought about her,
snowy
zooming around the large
hadron collider
zoomy
That'll unbutton her hair:
Sit up on my bed
your feet are cold

Her eyes
her nipples
her ovarys
her knees
are all lined up neatly
she knows I want them
but not how much

what if my lips were white
and my penis was royal
what if i promised to
loathe you
to death
i miss her

to death

Dear People of the Future

2010-03-16T21:41:00.006+01:00

Dear people of the future
I am sorry for Sea World and
the Tories and all the cats
who won the Victoria cross

They were not my
ideas

Dear people of the future
I am weird because
I'm dead
for 264 years
I felt just like you
unless you have evolved
in which case
I say it's about 3 feet,
you know it is exactly
1.204638 metres

Dear people of the future
I have been worried about you

Dear people of the future
I am sorry about god
you're better off without him,
I bet your entire society
is mostly porno

Dear people of the future
little ghosts rattle me
and I'm not calm.
The past is less fun than you.

I have no identity
please give one to me.
Thanks.

HELL

2009-06-06T19:08:00.007+02:00

Hell is a false body
that laughs

Hell is a mutant
eating your pineal gland
Hell is wonderland
Hell is a kiss

Hell is insects arriving
and having a carnival
when you're
in the shower

Hell is coming inside her

Hell is next to paradise.

Violet Trefusism

2009-05-08T17:02:00.016+02:00

The Unquiet Grave, Cyril Connolly:

We love only once, for once only are we
perfectly equipped for loving: we may appear to
ourselves to be as much in love at other times -
so does a day in early September,
though it is six hours shorter,
seem as hot as one in June.
And on how that first love affair shapes
itself depends the pattern of our lives.

Mitya Dreams Of Salome

2009-05-02T14:59:00.004+02:00

Mitya Goes Blind

2009-05-02T14:34:00.005+02:00

Untitled No. 256, retitled.

2009-02-19T02:20:00.006+01:00

Ode to Vulva.

We were a couple of unskilled sleepers
imperfectly awake. I am sorry
Victoria, I have tried to become you.
I saw you hung from your halo, holding
your mother’s crucifix as your tongue made

new lovers of all your teeth. I was
thicker tongued when muddied fingers pulped the
wet pages, then you wrote on my wrist the
names of your first lays as I ran blinded
into you; it’s hard to stop a wet mouth from

bleeding, the taste of your pig-iron lip on
my tongue turned the words bitter. We sat in
rain-cars, rubbed candles onto your antique
blue womb and you pulled up your skirt, checked your
maw in the purseflap mirror. A mouth cast

from the vulva of Aphrodite sang
the words from the dead wet letter, marked ‘To
Ophelia’, but given to me on
that frozen night of robed men digging their
silent, acrid tongues into the cores of jade

green apples, tasting for a dirty seed:
‘Here’s hello from what you will become, from your
distended dreams of lithium, from what
will become all that you should have done.’

Mutant Moon

2007-05-10T12:11:00.008+02:00

I'm opening this zoo. The moon really bothers me.

I like May. I don't know who to thank for it being May,
but,
O Isis, O God/Christ/Buddha/Fuck,
O in the name of Courtney Love, it pleases me.
It's at this time I can erase the memory of
picking up milk bottles which had
little tongues of frozen cream pushing
the cap up towards the sky, like a heliotrope plant
screaming for the sun.

But May has a smell, like leather on the wind,
like a funeral pyre of straw dolls being
burnt in effigy to the
coming of the big burning, the Parisian summer.

The Parisian summer comes like the storms and rain,
the sun burns all the old life,
the rain washes away the
bits and pieces,
the general flotsam of humans.
There is a sort of grazing among people - they are less hungry.
They move around like lizards.

But May is the perfect time,
the perfect time to be 23, the time for the Girls of May;
like Fuschia in Handcuffs, like Velvet in Canelle,
they are improbable children.

CLARK GABLE HAS YELLOW LINE SYNDROME

2006-01-05T03:17:00.000+01:00

That beautiful dress made of the fur of Mata Hari.
Wherever did you get it? It was soft, and the pictures were unique.

Your hair smelt blonde today. I didn't let on I was blinded by the paint I used
To cover the mildew in the bathroom - so you didn't think I was bad.

I had to throw out the shower curtain made from the silk of Errol Flynn.
I hope you don't mind. I'll read The Blind Owl to you
Because your skin smells somewhere between...the sea and a Cypress Tree.

I hadn't shaved my beard, but you wanted me to look more like Disraeli on his banknote. I was sorry.

I saw mother. We sat in the car and watched her, and the seat hugged you,
Like the splinters hugged the sailors aboard the Victory

The double-yellow lines in the road reminded you of Clark Gable,
You couldn't be bothered to explain any more than that, it was to do with the paint.

We sat outside. The sandwich was good. The weather was fine. You went.

'Don't get murdered!' I called.

TOWER BLOCK

2005-11-08T05:21:00.000+01:00

A
p
o
i
nt
sc
rape
ing the
cold alloyed
sky scarred by
paper cut vapour trails
a lid for the boiling pot of
seething humanity breeze blocked in.
5
Patent shoes and well pinked cheeks,
obese beaks and quacks, checking
their almanacs for a mention of their     S
names, property fat cats screwing like
Archimedes the blood from below them
4
Floor fillers in black and white striped
uniformity, bank robbing, sex traffic
bottlenecked in suburban tenement,      U
property is bereft, existence is theft,
deception provides criminal success
3
Well spiked carpets, unpaid medical
bills fill the walls, the junkies den too
smacked out to make it too high.         I
Uniformed in crystal loveboats wet/dry
vanity in black pupil chic is mediocre unique
2
Human male of no consequence seeks
well-heeled faceless female for middle
living, above the stairwell but not the     C
hypocrisy, voting conservative democracy,
he’ll probably take a gun to her in M&S
1
Pinked cheeks again, but now cased in
leather, breathy carcass, whipped and
clipped, vials of blood to be drunk over      I
dinner, Venus in Ermine gown and slippers,
she’ll probably take a dildo to him in S&M
G
Monomaniac devoid of hope, hooligan
misanthrope, dangerous dog owner
voyeur left to only ever look upwards,       D
hoping to steal a cheap snap of spread legged beauty,
thinking that the scent of her flower might shake him from his mangy pot.
B
Supporting the vicious reality above him
lives the dreamer, the artist, the basement
dweller, soaking the damp and cold and         E
turning it to beautiful things, the only
serious question is yes/no suicide.

Open Letter to Beatrice Dalle

2005-09-21T05:10:00.000+02:00

Dear Beatrice Dalle,

Or the Girl Who Looks Like Her, or Acts Like Her,
shoplifting razorblades, fighting with metermaids
on a balanced diet of cocaine and deadly nightshade,
I am aware of your divinity, as I’m lead to your wet place
by my own insatiable thirst for disgrace.

I will try to enchant you with tales of our
bizarre imaginary honeymoon
spent in a beautiful Assyrian glade, or in
Marlene Dietrich’s loftspace or at a
Sublime Motorway Intersection.
It doesn’t really matter about the setting with me and you.

So anyway, we’ll fuck under our motorway bridge
and I’ll smash all the plates and glasses with Grecian fervor
which only serves to further my affection
and unbelievable L.O.V.E. for you. But I get so
attached to our lyrical and poetic moments
that I forget the truth that lacks lyricism, but
I’ll smash away and we’ll
make love on all the broken glass (and you can go on top that day).

Because, Beatrice, you know you really do look that way I like,
you talk and dance with such gritty-pretty-pointed-tongues and feet.
Then we’ll have baby, just one, and it will be read Rimbaud at bedtime,
and tattooed with Camus, and fed Mockingbird Soup,
and rubbed dry with Francis Bacon canvas,
and wake up singing ‘Tu-ray-lay, tu-ray-lay, tu-ray-la-lu,
seul oreiller, mur familier, il siffle l’air connu!’,
and be dressed in clothes fashioned from a page of Ginsberg,
and earn ten pounds for watering the
windowboxes of the Flowers of Evil.

And even with child sicking and screaming
you are elegant beyond all known sophistication.
Yes, shoot me, shoot me, this is a ballad of a beautiful woman.
And what’s more is I heard your brother went insane
and that makes me feel a little more comfortable
around you, and you can quote from
Dorian Gray, and you never go to gyms
and others pale against your pale complexion,
and you run around sleek and nakely,
unconcerned by imaginary flaws.

And I the blue eyed boy, slip my slender
frame out of your bedroom window and extinguish our candles
our candles of whose light you invited please be lit.
And I, who was named for Angels,
And I, will throw myself at your feet and
wonder at how remarkably pretty they are,
fearing a glance at the rest of you,
let alone inside.

So Beatrice, fare thee well.

last of the lahiffes

2005-09-20T01:28:00.000+02:00

...the........stolen...............spectacles......

and the Husky Dog, and you look like Dot Cotton
anD Dot cotton
hot rotten summers,
cot death dote on,
Summers with the hose they were hot, hm?

1992

1992, 'I Love You
1992, 'I Love You
1992, 'I Love You

So Much It Makes Me Sick.'

Cancer Insanity Spinster.

*

I, I, I, I AM.
The Last of the La Hiffes
Must not succumb to the notorious
Lust of the La Hiffes
Or the insanity of the La Hiffes
the stutter of the la fiffes

Or Cancer, cancer, stroke

Cancer, cancer, stroke, stroke

1997:

Feels like heaven
[Dodi died Di died Dando Died Dan Dee and Dido

must be worried to be alive in]

2005

The Last female La Hiffe, locked up in council housing,
shunned for being insane, for being an aunt never a mother

and for being in love with
The Husky Dog
The Spectacles
The Hair of Jimi Hendrix

Now I.
'The Last of the Great and revered Lahiffes',
revered through all the land.........
....... knock some girl up
Not A Catholic, but i thought looked like Beatrice Dalle,
but actual actual talk like stupid, aw fuck, i tell her under the
Glorious Mysoginistic Sun

FUCK do I feel stupid now,
but at time of warm and soft and wet and good yes:
Lips -
Eyes -
Figure -
Black curls of hair like flames grow
then black wires grow from her cunt
(a word belongs to poetry)
and spread towards up to her stomach.

perfect, with perfect fit,
hits the top but not so it hurts oh yeah oh yes
...yes all good, yes all good

warm and soft, shut eyes and think of beautiful/intellectual,
open eyes and believe in it...

Simple plan: Take her to Gretna Green.
Perform frontal lobotomy with some
smart plain girl, confidence equals excellence.
Love und romance

hey baby! not your fault youre so fuckin fertile,
you so fuck in old dying car too easy no fun!
no chase!
why?
you call me 'The Man With The Face'
i say 'POEcT' you say 'i reward you with skin'
i look moody like whatever,
you look repulsive and arousing with legs spread in the rain.

I think of all my better things to do, Like:

Steal a boat
Free a Prisoner
Find real Beatrice Dalle (she married TWO poets)

But you'll do anyway,
charming,
drunken,
daze.

You say you love me. I forgot your name.

just.for.a.second.

But I won't marry and make her Lahiffe,
oh no
cos 21st century now mama,
and it's not my name anyway,
can't talk to brigitte-bardot-lookalike-mother-too busy, father...
Wanted
Wanted...
dead or alive

and now i suffer Guilt as last of Lahiffes
is insane
with Steptoe and spectacles and the blues
and the rennaissance and her beautiful
mind so beautiful noone can see it, and noone wants to see it.

And I, great white lope.
Succumb to the notorious
Way of the Lahiffes
The rebellious Ones

so, I last of the Lahiffes, have unnamed child, and wish i was
Oscar Wilde