Parish 1

Warts siphon lust into pockets. Grim space lunar crust. I had a dream about a girl who ate her hair in class. One strand at a time  – dipped in hot butter. She was expelled for drawing labia on her bald head and bringing a replica neutron star to show and tell emblazoned with the words ‘Mary was my fuck golf. Hole in one.” The teacher rose to speak, her teeth turning to dust as she looked downwards at the head. Something twisted in her jaw that remembered her of the scent of hot limes. She sat, hard, on the uneven chair. The girl left the scene to the accompaniment of strings, her two fingers raised in triumphalist valour. I’ve shelved that among many of my emotions.

Underwater constructs shocked shards shellac. Surface tension boundary drawn. I am seldom satisfied with leaves. A small part of every arse-cheek bounces when hail falls sideways. I love the look of blood in February. The light lends the oxides a playful air. Summer, blood looks lost in a new town. With my ink I write a man’s name in a child’s hair. I’ll have to follow protocol. Bureaucratic un-agency sails past for want of a blunt addiction. My pinkies quake. Touch my left hip and watch me go off. I’m princely underneath this grime.

I am in love with the comfort death promises. Swaddle me in your 4D blanket, mother, and grant me access to my homeland. Something about freedom smacks of cannibalism. My turgid money flies the world. Lucky bluebottles traipse the walls in search of sweet somethings. Sweet nothings. Whisper them to me through a megaphone as I sniff your neck and plan my escape. I want to sew a fake button on your shirt during the eclipse. Life can be nothing but an extended ellipsis when all newborns are bathed in the smoke from their cremating, dessissting fathers. My first breath is of you.

I covet the ways your cheeks twitch while you cry – a blunder and wilting tremor to name no few. So far you trust me, no further beyond, I carry you twice through unwise gatherings. My solipsisms melt; reserves jettisoned …

And then,

through

the net curtain,

slow

ly

a

fox-cub

crawls,

still mother-moist,

seeking

some softsanctuary.

The linoleum creaks –

the vacuum moans –

my eyes taxi for takeoff.

Somewhere, a crooner lies to a leaning woman.

A lie leans, feminine, into the crooner –

The crooner and the lady lie together.

“MY! WHAT OVAL HANDS YOU SHAKE?”

Two’s Company

Some days pass like cut limes. Churned centres pop capsules enter fists. Surmount entropies conquer fear.

Polar expeditions run into clockwork trouble with porches. Swings meet sledges in a set-to of a moderate portion.

The patterns on these plates remember me of my secreted mycelium. Stored as fiends they’ll be recovered when must sets in.

A minimal face looms, chokes apple pip solemnities.

Sword incoherent in a forest of sentient baskets. The wire keeps course.

Nowhere I have gone further beyond reeks so perfumed of her hands. The smell of warm plastic permeates the smog. The sun looks lost. Publish the signs. The intervention of milk.

A double helix births a double spider on the platform edge at Green Park. Southbound. The conductor sees 16 legs and wills the train through the mallow wall. Petals cascade through pushed breeze bodies sniff. The tunnel sneezes hot pink and the destiny ands.

A man steps outside his front door whilst tearing out his bottom rib. He boils it over coal in the name of Christ, she isn’t. Succulent self-meat. Excuse me?

What do you think happens when a tear is birthed? Matter, liquid, cannot be refused exit any more than a vomiting child. Tears sop the child. “Clean-bot to aisle 394 … Dog-Sled Combustibles.”

As the sun sets in, roan grasses quietly munch the skin of a bison. A native peace-offering. A gamble. Running lake cast down pubescent mountain. Summit shells.

Sedentary sediment focusses TV – personal service – deep armchair plumes coffin comfort. Orderly’s elbow squeaks high C in corner as Mrs. Malfeasance is lifted, paper stiff, to the rooftop morgue. The spoils.

Pulsating lights brighten the LED teeth of bitch pre-teens. Oestrogen shake and get to. Swallow down your escaping croak and effervesce.

Two’s company.

Do You Have The Time?

Grandfather cadaver chimes clock o’clock. Corner sluice clogged – human juice. Tears in his pockets leech certain oaths. Given, a noun pronounces it.

Burglary of a vein.

Sarsaparilla smile w/ crock-pot teeth. Shade darker. Flush edges. Freedom shirks the desert. Chambers of sand house snake meet. Decipher Cromwell’s moustache, for curled around a hair is the pinky of Christ. I am but a child. Of a child. Of a child. A steam bank can mirror a corrupt file. Her eyes whir at 5700 RPM when she masturbates. Unearthly vibrational curse.

Taste Easter blade’s sproing-count.

Count Backtoher.

Moss key tones slice headphone hum tube groans. A hand brushes mine and I feign feinting under my tongue.

Grappling hooks attach to the backs of her legs. Assault motes peruse her pantyhose. The sun reverses. Point and shoot.

Serve your in-laws the rattlesnake you stepped on. Drink the delirium poison from your leg and pronounce Luther the devil’s plastic pet. Deliver your sermon from their mount. Gun them through in your dreams and steal the stainless nails from their handsandfeet. Collect nought thoughts in a thick glass jar. Throw it through a wall. Fetch.

My my my my my that’s a fetching scarf – – – it looks to be made from a backwards axiom stitched over a crochet of Bach’s 9th symphony. Will it answer a few questions?

Save it. Do you have the time?

Lights

Define a stilt.

Couple your adverbs.

Screen a robin for a threatening tweet.

The silk of a runner bean’s bed says ‘coffin’ to my closed eyes.

Patronise a citizen.

Citronise your curdle.

Sum.

Daft unctuous necessity can sweat beads.

Sequinned dresses flash as they fall from the low balcony. Such anti-climax.

An orgasm of orange assembles itself against the railings.

Trailing a can behind a car is a modern song of love.

Betrothed effluvium travels well under UV light.

Polarising lenses.

Sharpen your teeth: this meat is tough. Pardon me, you just ate a paradigm.

Shift into low gear and coast the coast. Document.

Canonical survivors reiterate themselves as soldiers. It was an orderly retreat.

A field in France.

My German leaves, a lot to be imagined.

Those shelves groan with incontinent diffidence.

Different semitones shriek something about you.

Kremlin HQ.

Subterranean moth.

Dust.

Pearl diving off the Santa Monica cliffs.

Her

Nose

Quivers

When

She

Comes.

I wear the skin of a koala once a year. It’s a personal celebration.

My fort.

Wooden fortitude under the gaze of Salomé.

Horror as the tweezers pluck. If only they couldn’t perform their task.

I made love to a fire extinguisher salesman. His foam was smoother than yours. Buy it.

Coupling.

My gloves could be warmer.

The BLISS of this moment will be captured by your splitting hairs.

I can bend.

Contour.

Your tits taste like toffee when you’ve been in the shower. My sweet tooth has savoury breath.

Our french windows slide in goose fat.

Render you pallet. Taste your own mouth for the good of the century.

Careen into a negative parsec.

Quark from a duck’s feather.

Darken my mutt.

Boot the tyre’s typeface.

After all …

lights.

Camera

There is always something to resist.

Irresistibly blue.

Green shoots.

Pheasants carried baskets of rennet on their backs.

The padlocks sang with sour new cones.

Two men swapped names for a month and felt the sadness of change with gilt edges.

Cauterised vaginal walls marched on Wall Street. Occupy.

A horse hid a punett of mulberries behind a statue of a mouth. The inscription read “DON’T.”

Pick me up.

Walk with purpose to a lettuce stand. Barter fun. Get beaten down to allow your brain to feel wronged.

Draw a triptych. 3 ovals. Each containing the yolk of another’s egg. Albatross. Gannet. Cormorant. Mutant zygote countryside.

A pale of whitewash to un-mark that wall. Stripe it to bare nerve endings and scrub it clean. Rub sugar and salt into its zounds and put the satisfied screams online.

Follow.

Me.

Switch. Cut. Cut. Switch.

Hot legs stand on moist sand. Toes wrinkle and dry themselves – sort the literal elements.

Upload a picture of a 3-leafed clover. Pretend it’s all over. Weave a new dram of whiskey.

Solidity is a myth.

Jettison your corneas.

Soften your code.

Trip over a false statement.

Topple a grandfather clock. Dye in chimes. Season your scalp with chives. Smell yourself and sigh.

Take up a floorboard and use it as a model with which to explain to a roomful of gathered experts your new method of taxation. It would save the country exactly NO bureaucratic clamour.

Shucks.

Criminals crumble with a dose of liquid N2O.

A theorem disproved remains a theory.

Synthesise a glass of milk and anoint our goat. Severe tremors will follow. This is all to be expected.

Picture this.

Serpent sibilance surreptitiously slinking sweetly sloughs scabs, sport, sun … stops … slopes … slips.

I couldn’t forgive myself my spherical existence.

Cube me.

Ex-Cube you.

Lessen the lessons – we’re all so very tired.

This tableaux will only fleet.

Warm to the warnings of young drowned minds.

Sleep 4 to a bed. Share your dreams. Gods then can feed.

I’ve gone to the river in the hope of catching a frog or two and come to the stump that rivers are a pigmented figment. The fish I caught, those days were ghost.

My places never react.

Redact that dossier on flight patterns of pterodactyls. They were jet-propelled.

I’ve waterproofed a lamp. She screams now in the dry wind.

Wind on a grinning film.

Camera.

Action

A farrier shod steel rain onto the belly of a cloud. The nails he used were of ambergris.

Ham smacks of mother-of-pearl rainbows.

A disembodied voice shouted “CUNT” through a car window on a Tuesday morning in middle-England. It was drizzle. It was dree. It was noon.

Cuttlefish swam in cult regalia up fissures through dust into drains. My sink clogged with cuttles. Call back later.

Piss and tears mingled in the belly-button of her brain while she slept. The light was on. At sunrise all reeked of tumescence.

Send me a bunch of flowers in a thousand years and I’ll do you a doing. I’ll press you. Seven petals.

Those guitars are strung with cowslips.

Persistence is a key human fault.

She throws a ball for a dog with no teeth. His mouth closes over the ball, hers closes over the dog … the ball rolls free, sticky, into a snowdrift. Drip. Drip. Drip. I close my eyes and catch the drops of moisture from the tip of a snowman’s carrot. I believe it’s his penis.

Somewhere beyond the never thinking lies flat through true utterances of iterations. Truth and beauty are married in fall. Dead leaves rustle past truth’s dress. Their paige boy has a withered arm. He looks to be around 7. The rings fall from their tumbleweed pillow. The moon rises.

My withered arm heard a withered ear approach. One cheek smiled.

Army.

Arm me.

Hair falls in clumps. Make a wig from the pubis collected over weeks in the Turkish Baths. It’s held together by a verb fucking a gerund. At least their collection is safe.

Tree bark soars through hemispherical arcs.

Awkward puns assemble themselves in front of the rifles.

Somewhere, a man sniffs a newborn and salivates. He can’t know why.

The rust on that piece of wood needs attention. Sheer savagery left it there. Innate time lost moments in her painting. Conceptual trust doesn’t connote conceptual longevity.

I’ve recorded the sound of ants building. My speakers are an aural shed next to the allotments. That’s the one … beside the path … lead me away from here for I am scared … it it it is sacred and I I I am no thing … a trifle … layered and creamy … I am intolerant of my own cream.

Much wellfully directed pre-distended post-playful longing has pinpricked my interest. A medley of indicted gentlemen paid for my facial tattoo. It reads “I AM YOURS” – – – I am considering renting out my skin. Surface defaults could vomit puss at any moment.

A bag of peach pits was left on the seat next to me on the train. The bag was made from rough canvas. The pits were all dry. I broke a tooth. I sucked one wet. I spat. The pile drank my spit gladly. A woman began to sing. I didn’t know the language but I hummed the tune. She heard me and stopped – I loved her for that.

One fit venue jumped hot across my step. In step with my instep the doors glowed, low, into the surrounding sounds. Expounds. The smell of the pound. Waiting. Waiting.

I flayed the skin on the back of my hand with a scalpel. The raw meat held the scent of violet for a time, then almond. I draped the skin on the peak of my hat and walked to work. My boss congratulated me, shaking the other hand.

Two nights ago the night died.

The limits of velvet mean nothing.

Action.

Stage Directions

“Every perception contains unconsciously conceptual elements, just as every judgement contains unclarified phenomenalistic components. Because truth implies imagination, it can happen that distorted personalities take the truth for fantasy and the illusion for truth.”

– Theodor W. Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment

Stage directions.

Flow of traffic.

Friends remind me of leaves falling from the bough of a rotting yew.

Double yew.

Aitch. Don’t pronounce the aitch.

Why.

Why does life insist upon its own transference?

Why does death insist upon its own necessity?

Why have our existences become the progenitors to a war between the unnatural and the natural?

I look at babies in the street and feel nothing.

I wonder sometimes how it must feel to be a pedophile. It must be exhausting, all that self-denial and guilt.

Luther-like.

My father stroked my head as a child to show me love, to build bonds, to teach the buoyant animal recesses of my brain that he could crush them. Fear and coercion are the only useful tools available to parents. I have observed. He doesn’t stroke my head any more, now that I’m taller and broader.

We cannot help but compete.

The bus stopped past the stop yesterday. An elderly lady had to walk another seven steps and was out of breath. Yes. Maybe she’ll die soon  – – her chin whiskers danced in the breeze – – maybe she’ll outlive the outstretched branch of that tree from which my childhood sweetheart swings, snaps and falls.

His eyes.

Look.

Stage directions.

I remember the feeling of your breast beneath the wire of your bra. You felt alien. You felt familiar.

The felt of your lower back stretched itself to me across the yawning room and tickled the underside of my sole.

They ran from me when I opened the door.

The car had moved an inch or two when I looked back.

Cats chased mice in the shadows.

Shadows crept from the shadows.

Darker shadows ate lighter shadows.

The shadows deepened.

The shadows became squalid.

The putrid shadows fought the darkness of death.

Death drank the darkness. Death eats the eastern light.

Friends caught in an eddy.

Edward Woodward with no consonants.

Constance shared her constant consistency with my tongue that night. That night. That night the darkness was soft for a time. That night. That night the leaves reversed the flow inside their xylem. That night. That night we milked each other. That night.

Stage directions.

A leaf is balanced on the brim of a trilby.

The trilby is balanced on a man’s head.

The man’s head is bare, except for the trilby.

The trilby is empty, except for the man’s head.

The telephone in the corner chimes 12.

Water seeps under the door.

The door swings open.

The shadows silently announce themselves.

Sweet wine drips from the eyes of the audience.

The actors break character and sip from the audience’s cheeks.

The blushes commingle.

Violins.

Violas.

Cellos.

A bo-diddly.

Musicians.

Anaesthetic injections are administered by stage-hands.

Steadily, the music becomes cacophony.

Steadily, life beckons death.

Steadily, fruit rots.

Steadily, string knots.

Stage directions.

Axiom

I screwed an axiom in the ass in the far corner of the second bathroom stall in a “Hardee’s Charbroiled Double-Sausage Maple-Bacon Pepperjack-Cheese Texas-Toast Thickburger” joint off Route 99.

Southbound.

Tulsa beckoned.

Hardly worth the bother as it couldn’t change its mind.

Automatically received.

Displacing what’s perceived.

Seminal truth.

Bulletproof.

.

.

.

Eternal.

After the enlightenment

After the Enlightenment has thrust its covetous paws

into the pot we’ve been saving for rent and social whores

We’ll still be fighting to see

what apogee

might be

the next reality.

//

Half of my brain expects an apology

from science and math for the creation, see?

of this new order, new age mythology

TO WHICH WE MUST ALL BOW

TO WHICH WE MUST ALL BOW

//

Bow

Arrow

Shoot the firmament for lying fallow

while we toil

under a broken sky

to swap misery for oil

sucked from the earth like blood by a flea

to be burned – incinerated – the energy set free

in front of it as an example

like a hanging-tree

//

like a flaming father that burns his diktats and states,

“I AM THEREFORE I AM!”

before he wakes

then learns

from the sheepish first-born son

that it serves no use to run and run

from a sound

a hummmmm

the thrum of the universe –

telling us in no uncertain terms that we are

but a verse in an infinite song

about infinite NOTHINGS

//

but THINGS have a pervasive control

from the very first toy,

from the very first doll

we’re shown how to be “boy-toys”

and how to be pretty “dolls”

dole out a punishment, cruel and severe,

no rules – nothing to which it must adhere –

and there’s little chance it will instil as much fear

as that of expectation

//

we’re told we’re given a station

and that to think outside of it is sin

for if, for a single moment, you’re not “in”

you are the embodiment of OTHER –

no matter what height, age, creed or colour –

“you are not of this earth, this specific reality –

we’ve been enlightened so that we may see

a path laid down by the decisions of old

that leads to the treasures those prophets foretold.

MY VIRGINS …

I’LL TAKE MY VIRGINS TO GO, PLEASE –

… AND A SODA – THE ONE I SAW ON TV.

MAKE IT A LARGE

YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE.”

//

Why ensconce

your higher faculties on

the premise that your reason

can solve maladies

when the nature that created us is being forced to tremble,

share in our fears,

that our entire existence can be counted in the years

that we invented

just for it to be expected

when we’re going to die.

//

A fear of death drives mankind

to comfort, distraction, safety, stagnation

what if, just for one glorious moment,

this notion of a nation

threw off the shackles of fear with which we’ve bound ourselves

to ourselves

everlasting –

death would be the last thing

on our collective mind

//

we’d find

a million answers to a thousand questions

no-one ever thought to ask –

to create the mental framework for the existence of this altered reality is a collective task –

all I ask

is that you communicate,

clearly, passionately and honestly –

try to wake

something within you that prompts you to take

,openly,

action against the money-led

non-consciousness of this;

our fetid, proud, current iteration of “NOW”.

Haiku after a hiatus …

1.

Walk into the room

The smell of marijuana

I see her face grey

2.

Walk along the tracks

Pick up the heels of those boots

You’ll owe me for scuffs

3.

Tight’ning of the wrist

Jab it with a needle ’til

It bleeds purple blood

4.

Jets spew pink trails ‘cross

The sunset and maudlin sky

Her hair glints at me

5.

Chrysanthemum pot

Smashed under a carpet of

Sleet and fine dust-balls

6.

Pornographic nights

Right eye staring at the screen

Left holding back tears

7.

Enlightenment thought

Held up as the pinnacle

New mythology

8.

Liquid delusion

Stroke, lick and fondle a pint

Social acceptance

9.

Spot of jam on the

Tip of her nose under lights

So mercurial

10.

I can’t remember

What she tasted like but that

Her hair smelt like wine