cymru

naked vegans on trampolines...

andy warhol

We all knew something revolutionary was happening. We just felt it. Things couldn't look this strange and new without some barrier being broken. "It's like the Red Seeea," Nico said, standing next to me one night on the Dom balcony that looked out over all the action, "paaaaarting." andy warhol

words like wine on the tongue

closet prophet of the apocalypse
in strained/restrained fandom
effusive fiery death illuminati

stringent.arbitrary.confusion

murtelyze dehypnotized toothpaste

Priapism; the kissing bandit
in unwholesome relationships
of psychic larceny

avuncular twitching gel
complex panoramic paranoia
anarchic drunken slobs/persona non grata

the naïve romance/romancing naivety
dubious prolific urbane cachet didactic


indefatigable quandary

prescient-admonishment

enervated gutter poet


the sky’s electric gash
salient!
apoplectic anguish, basic and permanent
subterranean wisecrack, erratic unorthodox cinders of
demonic ferocity
symbolic nightmares, eminently drinkable
and champagne cork thoughts
besmirched

your back

as absurd as the wise resolution of Scholasticus,
not to venture into the water until he had learned to swim

I am watching your back
sleeping.
and wondering the dream your back is whirling through:
against the wall, blindfold, waiting for the final
gunshot
tangled in rapeseed fields, buttercups, daisy imaginations
harsh and insistent carpet burn, back
on the bedroom floor
swooping through dusty skies and firework illuminati
as you learn to fly.

I am waiting to touch your back
waiting for some mole twitched sign which would allow
my fingers to resurrect the alcohol courage,
and begin a tentative invasion
- which by 3am will have set up flags and instigated governments, councils, entire religions
to the crotch.

a month in bed will be unleashed by this first touch:
an extinguished match of a touch,
Jacuzzi bubble through tight swimwear,
ice cube dripping from lips
- kind of touch

which would set up the tripwire on the clifftop
and let us plunge mercilessly into
that sublime realm
where everything is permitted
and fingers expected.

where your back is facing the window
with the freckles
grinning

last night, wine, ribs and hipbones

you are stroking my hair with a salient paranoia
burying tiny sugarcoated land mines
among the split ends and unwashed roots
without asking the questions which are vibrating around your tongue
about last night, wine, ribs and hipbones
and the taste of my lips in the morning.

you are weaving future traps
of unutterable suspicions tucked in the back of bookcases
and under newspapers
which one day we will trip over and watch sever the limbs
from these months
strew the happiness moments in bloody clumps
across muddy gutters

I am waiting for you to ask me
where I spent the evening
so I can explain, tarnishing but salvaging
something?
with some cowardly honesty
and discount excuse

but you continue to stroke my hair
in silence
picturing his skin on mine
in whispered bliss
planting an endless fission of uranium thoughts
and waiting
for the bomb

I am tired of listening to you wasting your precious breath

your thoughts are wasted
on her
they are reference flotsam to bob around her mind for weeks
until a pubside patter resurrects them
and those ideas can be flung out knowledgably
ideas pillaged from long
wine afternoons of psychic larceny

she will prostitute lines of poetic magnitude for a newspaper caption
to underline the grainy pout.
curate an art form of casting aside the backbeat
in favour of aimless lyrics
and of trading sentiments
for words

a smoker wasting the fiery dust
of the centre of the sun
and the cosmic cinders
of the sky’s electric gash

this is time which would be better spent reminiscing with people you have never met;
reading Chinese tea leaf foam patterns in the ale glasses of alcoholics
or collecting foreign health warnings
from the half-smoked packets
of Spanish cigarettes.

rain

the rain is ferreting at the windows, waiting to be let in
long arguments with doormen invoking lost keys in paperweight excuses
pleas for shelter from the harsh, wet outdoors.

it is rasping like a stuck-needle record end
a detuned television
wheezing promises of dances in puddles, in gumboots
soggy mattresses to bounce on the pavements
begs for hair to drench and foreheads to trample

rain does not like to be ignored
if the rain falls in the desert, and there is no one there to get wet,
is it still raining?
the rain cannot tell.

so it splatters on the windowsill, cracking electrical volts
teasing monsoon thoughts
waiting for the doors to open, the pipes to burst
and the world to come out and get wet