these poems by James Edward David Bellamy are dedicated to the utmost poetical genius of T.S. Eliot, in full Thomas Stearns Eliot,(born September 26, 1888, St. Louis, Missouri, U.S.—died January 4, 1965, London, England), a great American-English poet, playwright, literary critic, and editor, T.S. Eliot is recognised as one of the greatest modernist authors.

 

Pugs & Britain (an extract)

Inside this bleak office, we were readied with
Melodious paperwork
O and the shied apple I hurl at hissed
Nude windows
Hits the dust and dies.
O, fierce tides pass. Then, one blurred day,
We see a desolate tattered sanded moon
And, never now until four winds
Have written poems for Genius
Will cold men share heinous claves with
Hot boards and bibbed bins.
*
The years yanked me westward
O, the tears rankled after yapping yobs
And the teeny tears of soft front-room
Heat hatred in a cocoa pan.
I will never escape bright peace, and I won’t
Ensupper dates with fruity dreams
And, when closed, a cool net of vans
Source skies with signal signums.
As a local soldier disappears, then hands
Must clasp together.
*
She swings had jammed bag. Local fathers swarm
Sotto spaces
And dweebs dig love’s banged storms.
This erse is born from children. Foetal fellas form
Undulating waves where
Xmas under Easter hangs silence from
Pugs and Britain.
*
Cheap, easy wandering lies hang around
Mad forgotten xmas towns
And, crept from candles, a stairway surrounds
A city’s Perspex
And a rose underneath shot rails must
Cut forgotten smiles with a skinned sussed
Tear-expansive reject.
Creased up butcheries crave meaty dust,
Deceased sluts
Die where simple whored lust
Raps on history’s knuckles.
Hatred for a killer gets up love’s faces
And keen dogs bark Amen!
*
O come under naked trains, we heard a loud girl
Succouring her own fast-travelled murder and
As an edible green law
Cuts vegetates from corridors, then rude worlds
May well doctor danged drugs and cat-crammed
Fierce bolts of hail.
Every single day, I always knew about us
And the sun against then rain cuts swelled dust
And the sadness of love lives in a
Poet’s tree where closed kind lust
Delves for naked sails.
Oh, let this be the swift and sotted answer
For laden dips and dogs
Lo, let the answer to the vacant dead
Run cities out of bed. Uh, false cred
Embitters gaoled gilt minds.
And we cum under naked trains.
*
O men in female minds must forever
Seek out hairy sex weather. The pinion in a fast pile
Drinks from debs as drooled dunned bad flavour
Sees things where more impassable city Lords
Awake, awake.
An agnostic daughter will dazzle after God,
A sex-vivid doctor will cut God
Where rain guts heaven’s impossible face.
I dare not expend a keen life, but I will shape
Sad deaths from idle waters; and the space I take
Digs daffodils for drunken vines.
This very night to come, eyes must city-cape
Dolled trains and careering buses
And, ah, we will travel under buses
And never dream again of god
Ah- god’s an Ape?
*
A crux of a funereal min star-lights roads to
Sex punishment-
A dolt in a dram shoots sexed sleuths
And, itemised by a glans, a penile fist
Knocks on heaven’s forever forgotten kiss.
Bad giant fields appear lost in dirt, and old mist
Mangles bad birds with
Naughty night-long shadowy sluicing scent
And the carriage in a timed cradle
Rocks a rose with sweetening kids.
As a nuance of verbal pepper pees on pigs
Then pugged petalled cunt trees
Will drag a net around an earth of red fleas.
Oh.
*
My true bared bald hands, when utterly incompetent
Cuts a crushy car from
Blorted vans and engine-spent
Fallen flyways where five eager guns
Feed twelve fairy thumbs
Inside blown bonnets and driven scent
…
A bluesy blithe lady lavender perfumes a son’s
Keen farewell to a lost baby, and, cock-spent,
Bruising avenues of senseless drums
Hires fierce thrummed inconsequent
Loaded labile toothed
Horsed humdrum haltered heebeejeebees.
A creepie countess in a city town snaps
Solvent urbane cruises, and eyes under bodies
Interfuse fast language with the diddies
Of pain-wards.
Outside, when I hear a hydrant crash, then daddies
Appear defective in dilating dreams,
Far down, when I peer into wept ash, then mammies
Star-bind bed things within
Prisoning pushing porn-cars. O see how the loaded dead
Marry whips to wynds.....
·....
jdb 1999
...
ISLE OFSIN (by jim Bellamy)
(after TS Eliot)

As my eyes turn to a fairy screen, then
Missing old lies burn like a dream
And, lo, lone night burns like women as veiled shows in a dial
Scream of Deadly Isle
And the boats should change when sickness heals the dead
And the spatial smile
Rocks, rocks, rocks….
as my eyes turn to a fairy screen, then
hissing cold lives storm kids and veined clocks
uh
I turn to go but my head hears sound
Lo, I summon snow but my minds burn, and a dilly wasteground
Dams dogs with rivers
O
Ivories drink from ebonies, and webbed drummers feel
Fast veins and bald bodies
Sss endless shrinks hear dromedaries cutting weals
And my love gives in to a
Colour mind
Sss
Aahh
Lahhh
As my eyes turn to a fairy screen
I learn just what the pharaohs mean, and sky sees cars
Collapsing
And sex cuts a spun wind
And gods crusade for pigs and hymns
I espy laden gardens crying for hot rain?
*
The day when I met a mad maid then I swam for
Amazing children
Lo, the night when I met cold graves then I span for
Impossible women
And the glib guise of god gobbles hallowed war
And the slid mind of god wobbles after
Rooms of pure laughter
And, ho,
In the moon the women come and go
Talking of Michael Miccalo
And this sunned stunned day where I hear a rose
Glowing, then
Bad cars will roar for rotted manacled gun-clothed
Dolly sirens
Pushing belly men drag dogs
Kissing scissor skin cuts robed loss, and blue orisons
Sweat for grinded teased loves
The high moon plays dead?
..
*
As I summon pealed water, then heels on the move
Dress up in purple skein
As I suffer enhearsed daughters
Then soft seals sunder bullets and hissed water
La
The dogs under fire cum for thunder, and trains
Trip, trip
Ah-hahhh
In the room, shawled alarms eat blued cars where
Starred spoons measure prayer
And the doctors of Dom Daniel dream upstairs
And the women speak of bulls and snares.
…
Budders bind cunt to coconuts
Ha, fathers find junk, and lidded soaped sluts
Suck, suck, suck
In a green sun, we will hear a fairy fuck
clowned
in dreamt guns, we hear lady smut
wedding whips to drowned
city eels
--
the dogs outdoors call for sealed drips
the kids in stores
spend lost pennies, and quaffed lips
strip hot slips
and in the room, the women come and go
speaking of Michael Indigo
…
------the pigs of time tickle god’s ribs
The kids of time fade for cribbed
City ashes
And ashes cry, cry,
And flashes reap wide wives, and, under a Sunday show
Glib crowds ride
Active Rome, and aromatic horsed guns shoot crows
Sss
The dolts of the livid dead
Dam drams with shaved heads – lo
The colts of the ridden dead
Dam clams with fished beds, and sentinels of mermen
Carry noosed clam-shells where
Ashes hoop despising mamma air
And sun gets in our hair
…
Where the embers of mermaids swell
Then insidious lovers will bury fish in seashells
Where the saviours of gold graves shut hell
Then insidious fathers will bury grey cells
And the hand hanged from the wall
Hammers skies into aviaries
The pealed pistoling palps of a dead hall
Suffer lips and flowers.
!!!
The droning spectres in a caul
Cut breasts and cunt
The seizing minute of an hour cuts bread dolls
And miniature scissor spunk
Digs veins where lanes burn
Sss
Under napes, a snickering neck hears the moon’s limit
Lashing lords to urns,
Under snakes, a sickening neck hears the sun’s planet
Crashing, crashing
Eh, where old samphire stews, the febrile sea weed
Will hear sex clashing for
Dolls and fathers
Ahhh?
*
Oh, we will suffer sex silk until the very end,
Laaa we shall lead light to laughter as mad gay friends
Telephone
Ahh we will suffer swirled milks as the sun’s rend
Radios droll skulls
Ahh
Filled with Dettol, a serial sun robber rubs pinned
Gabbed bodies
Lay shrilled, a settee in a red gun snubs sex limbed
Hocus babies
And in the room the women come and go
Speaking of Michael Buffalo.
-
The slain scathed stars of sex fail to fall, sss,
The veiny vast red cars of death concertina, and, under fists,
Fowled bobbies bug
Impossible fires
Sss
We measure our cries with curling tongs
We pleasure our lies with baking tongues, and, laaaa,
Eyes under plies piss for
Cocoas and milk wards.
*
As the veiled dolls of elves succour eyes
Then sailed wicked lies
Lam lyons with heated gardens as spread tides
Rage after blazed school-ties
And the bended molls of elves succour wide
Wizening purblind snow-drilled sea cries
And we treasure molten grass
-
In the rooms the children come and go
Weeping for saint Antonio
In the rooms, the chicken come and flow from
Pearled egged rain
…..
Rainbowed razors rasp!!!
,.
*
The daggering fasting father men I once saw in a
False hill has a female beard
O- sundering, as lisping grey tears ride, then old war
Whispers and whimpers
La the meadowings of crying lovers sire a green tear when
Crying members mocked
Old turnstiles,
Ahhh this isle of sin topples weird angular angels
Ahhh this smile of women
Trickles, and loaded nipples see
Draining seashores lamming droned drowned bees
In the wounded high trees
A banged bound blithe dolled city
Dreams of daisy pie, and mental molls plait hair as rabies
Rocks for dog Christ
..
In the tomb, sold men come and go
In a salt wound, cold hens lunge and crow for
Dilly demons.
*
In the bar, with elvis crying, I thought I saw death die
the rollocking romancers of the killed must
sweat rock as sexed coaxed dick dusts dribble after
body becks and blown lusts
and in the bar, with elvis dying, I thought I saw death writhe-
a feisty face of pigs grunts for nudes
a lacy saucerful hunts for keen dressed fools
and the cages under cunt
career where slapped sawn spunk spoons
dig for jelly dunes…
wounded wolverines weep for junk
endstopped salt tureens feed off hunched
notched sea ropers,
and a rude merman strides blanked blue tides
and we sail for lost mamma as flat earth
dies.
??....
...
jdb 2009
..
A SONG BY MYSELF:
THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK
(a pop-song rewrite of T.S. Eliot's
world-famous poem) by jim bellamy

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against a winter's sky,
Like a patient etherised upon a table,
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering hectoring retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap motels
Let us go then, you and I,
When evening is spread in a winter's eye.
Let us go through half-deserted streets,
The muttering hectoring retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap motels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells.
Let us go, let us go
ohhhh.
And indeed there will be times
For the yellow smoke that slides the streets
Rubs its backs upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time,
To bare a face to the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a plastic plate:
Time for you and time for me;
Time for you and time to see
And time yet for one hundred indecisions,
And for one hundred visions and televisions
Before the scaling of a gallow tree
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald-spot in the middle of my hair
(They will say: ‘How his hair is grown from air"
All the women say: ‘How his hair is grown from air"
Do I dare or do i dare
Do I dare to care
do i dare to climb the stair?!
* O
My car
Exhales
sex dust
-i am on the bust
Laa
my keen car rusts
and mean kinema sweats lust,.
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse
In a minute, there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will enhearse
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
Do I dare disturb a lunatic hearse?
ohhh, Viol?!.
For I have known them all already, known them all,
Have known the ev'nings, mornings, afternoons,
And I have known the eyes already, known them all,
The eyes that fix you in a formulated grave
And when I am formed, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Sex writhes
And lightning entertains
Violation's zimmer-frame
aha...
aha
O
My car
Exhales
sex dust
i am on the bust
Laa
my keen car rusts
and mean kinema sweats lust
*
Arms that lie along a table or wrap around a shawl
Are not here at all
And how should I presume?
And how should I begin to forgive?
Alabaster moonshine
Soothes my sprig
ah, ooo,
Do I dare or do i dare
Do I dare to care
do i dare to climb the stair?!
Shall I say I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the sleep
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves,
Oh, Goodbye sweet love
laid God, help me?
uh ho...
*
And the afternoon, the ev'ning, sleep so peacefully
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep…tired…Death malingers
Stretched on the floor, aside you and me
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force a rape to Isis
And, in short, I am afraid:
And, in short, I am sun-laid
Fuck Fuck Fuck
Kill Kill Kill
Thrill Thrill Thrill
OOOOOOO!
and rides live for
Viol
OOOOOOO.
* aha
O
My car
Exhales
sex dust
-i am on the bust
Laa
my keen car rusts
and mean kinema sweats lust
Would it have been worth while
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, Lo!
’
Othello was
Masked Mario
`Ohh?
`Marello was a pumis
O.
My car
Exhales
sex dust
- i am on the bust
Laa
my keen car rusts
and mean kinema sweats lust,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me,
Should I, after cakes and scalding tea
Have the strength to force the moment to its aces
I am no prophet - and here’s no great matter
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And in short, I am
gun-raised
and in short i am afraid
zzzzz
ssss
Othello snipes
Darkness
And the seas burn, burn, burn *
I grow old…I grow old…
yes, yes, i grow cold
uh i grow old..i grow cold
Here there are sausage thumbs
And surrealist pictures
Hanging from four walls
Here there are sausage sons
And woman painting dentures
Inside the daughter of a wax scroll
*
Lightning delves for
A thunderflash
Galileo
Seeks space
Oh! come see the sleeve around Christ's face?
Oh, do cum
O- do use a staplegun?
*
I do not think that mermen will sing for me
I have seen them riding seawards on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown black
When the wind blows the water...
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweeds red and brown
Till human voices wake us,-
la let's get out of here and raid the town,
.
lahh
We drive christ back home?
...
O!!!!
Ohhhh
My car
Exhales
sex dust
-i am on the bus
Laa
my keen car rusts
and mean kinema sweats lust
Dolls drool, drool, drool
skulls rule, rule, rule
DID ALADDIN FEED ME
THE END?.

....
jdb 2009
..

WHAT WITH WINDMILLS

What with windmills flowing under bivouacs of prayer,
We will surely notice grey houses under fear;
And true roads cure cars with caravans and, o,
When once we consider our true English martyrs
Then genoas under feathers will
Suffer a slighted sea of punches
… and eyes glow like killed
clever illness.
Ah, what with pulsed peeled tentacles
Avulsing passion and pain, you and I will
Lean inside a spoiled street
And counter-attract
Giddy tarmac.
*
O we searched under moonlight, clambering too high
And, sundered, our ocean kite died.
The mean blast of wind-slipped pools found our eyes
Eager to bleed and writhe.
Through shunted sired blue fields, we caught out
All well-read lovers who kissed for drought
And none of us, even if dead, understood the drive
For dills and diamonds.
O music scantified our sanctified allegiance to thought
And then skifflers scythed
Cut ritualised teacher wives
…
*
O and we curled up inside an abandoned dreaming suicide,
Corn-yellowed, ghosted by rapes and fierce forced skies,
Just like a pewter tree, we axed taught iron when
Ebonies strike ivories from
Rivers and guns.
Curled deep down inside a snotty knotted night-dress, I
Will summon a sound of sexy water
To swing under drips and clasped eyes
..
O, when once inside a mind, a trilled tale was told
Old men supped snappers from
huts and larders.
*
And an ionic shirking bed of beads
Bangs clamorous catted corn dolls from fields of reeds
And, when one wretching for closed keys,
Then jeerily joking by, a night-lit killer rides from
Cited eagerly eaten spot-lipped salt guns
Where the silence of the local church gabs from
Renascence darts, then shabbiness under teas
Broil fished baits where Ponte Vecchio butters
A tawny teased tubed tongue,
And, o, as blown apart as true witches,
Male venuses vaunt after Florence and old suns.
O, underneath a Chinese sky, the sold saviour
Bustles after beer and star-layers
You and me.

*
jdb 2015

*

A MOONY SHREDDING

Inside an obsidian mind,
Outside my bed, inconsequential cunt keeps
Sex-experiment with seeds and candy wheat
And, o, there is an experience of death’s spine
And, lo, a sea of kids pokes tongues inside
Swung sleep.
Why should I claim to own me; death’s bride
Sweats for walloped weddings
And, singed by wards, as blown sky spies
Espy a moony shredding
Then motorising malachite metes webs to
Woven scissor nudes.

Here, where we lived, a siege of carnations
Gallops after bled weed
And the strewn spies of God greet sleeved
Pursy paled receptors of telephonic
Radio sleaze.

O we are cut from the death of us
Ah we are shut within
Darlings and female prison-pus
Sss

*
This city’s concrete union saws lemons from
Sun-toothed green graves
O a mean nave drags beards and guns
Shoot moon-tided blurred lays
And this side of a swine, a ravaged seat of boys
Sets fire to wasps-
A dullard of a son-lode laps prickled
Rotund prison cloths
And the dunged noisy nostalgia of loss
Enchants the purple ghosts of one billion crossed
Blind farm..

An apple’s sour father hurls huge cores when
Rusting rotted plum men
Rot for sweet xmas
And, oh, as a dog in a dram toasts men
Then dollies
Dream of human women.

*
Underneath an ice-cream crown, we lead kids where
Home is fuelled by sweet ice
O, a sexy sunny sorbet points at viscous pain where
Loaded caned carts carry thrushes inside
Mental sausage vans and whippy wolfed life.

As sparks of seed stab an innocent bloom, light
Fills a brightened sea sky with white midnight’s
Bar of blades
And as windfallen wares
War against a sea of wine
Then penuries of Venus extend armed snares
To caved cunny vaginal
Salt smears.

As proud larks sing for a savage penis paw
And where lobs listen to society’s stone store
Then a line of monkeys
Will surely lend dogs to moneys
O

I champ lips of grass - fierceness
Fallows a wet clitoris when a piling penis
Chops apses
Into tall tearing rivery corpses
.,.
*
While wrapping celled stars in blind wind,
Claw-toothed ravaging sperm swine
Cut smouldering screws where old wind
Farts under caned nuts
And, nude as lust, we stab a bloomed
City’s killed garden where the lips of glasses
Don snow-blind babies.

Playing for scrapped sleep, we hear celestials
Ramming city slightness
And the blue grey orbs of a city’s sadness
Rends hot whored tears from stone madness.

We will play cast and marooned for death’s
Multi-basked bound scissor chest
And eyes flow like drinking-fountains?

*
And if I were tripped up by mental sisters
Would I understand
Fractious bound women, and if I suffered
What should I intend for
Nylon knickers and love’s sex-war?

Down pilled nets, we hear a soft score
Bagging flowers within openings
But openings appear stored
Deep, deep down
Where pistils under budded Downs
Dream of natal clowns.

Your wound achieved in my town
Lead rocky reeves aside a blued browned
Pall of pears and dummies-

Appled seizuring plum-red biddies
Neck a gem-glued spark-
Gibed goddesses lend bodies
To old-fingered buttoned haversacks
And you and I will answer back
To all patted parental heat-attack
.

Staled pikes lend lenses to circled
Synergies when the Osiris of bled sacs
Scissor dames from caked sine clapped
Beeches of bones.

Uh

*
Inside an aftermath of hipped heap hedges
A keen night sleeps between the veins’
Bright green granaries of dark and light: mean sedges
Feed Keat’s to father,

Eyed sleep speaks poems under versing
Swirled grey manna
And, o, when Indian angels season
Keen henna nights, then a blithe city’s saviour
Leads chalked car-cunted swum cadillacs
To passing passion’s castled flowered
Pressed rooms where we shape our failures.

Foals, it is true, canter when far too young,
Picked ponies, with maned horsed plumage, thrum
After gabbling green stable-scrummed
Untidy shackled sops.

O, the lovely sides of a febrile city
Vanish into prayer
And, rogued, afterwords for beckoning pity
Piece forever
The wind-wells of a flower’s
Withering endless garden
And the scar-lit urbane life of leisure
Stops dead.

*
Old youth and I squat beside a splendid moon
And the dreams we expand on
Can asexual wintry loss-
Bad boys brag as babes stun
Ditties of dolour and languid crossed cum
-
Sheltered closed men pay to feel alone,
Ideal roads crackle
And, led to smoothed lenient bones
A crabby courier of cemented apples
Pop chopped cherries with
Fulcrums of felonies and gaoled drips.

*
As we see febrile noses drip, then we lose
Mean city snots to melded nail-files, and closed dudes
Becalm the seven seas of
Escaping exits under drawling esplanades where
A slappy soldier gets killed at peace-time.

Hot pelmets of impassioned guns and wine
Rock a gunned mind’s
Clacking salt grenade of shot bell-blind
Fay beauties who died for England’s eyne.

Never a keen word or an entrenched whisper
May clarify the mad clarion of soldiered
Lamed lives
Never again for a mean world or a sister’s
Wren sea-gate where bombing misters
Drop,
As dead as a body…

As early warring squaddies suck up
Vast avowed seats of naped necks and cuts
Then we will cleave us a caged
Imprisoned bell-starred hacking
Home coming murdered warred men.

God lies in keen wait where women
Welcome deaths back home?

*
A deranging dotty girl has walked
Into the fast rivers of my life,
O, she has shown pain under me as
She bolts proud shame to love’s door
And she has become obsessed
With weaving wedded wind where
Naped necklaces
Cut tragic sylvan bodies from
Another time, a further sea of air.

Too much keen life has been done,
All too many maimed lights have been
Torn from hands and heights
And the entombed barn where suns
Struck guns from giddy cock-screens.

Oh, I can still overhear my dunged
Badly beaten bared body, and, hung,
We will surely hang scores with dreamed
Neon bitten sex-scum
And the bad word I breathe jumps
Bled boys and slashed cunt-rumped
Penile sawn streams.

Baulked by riders , I will arise
And dirty pigs will live at my side.
*
O if only god could abuse a human telephone
Then Genuity would surely
Speak for a dialled mind? Muddy microphones
Serve holy schizophrenic overtones
To forged hands and pursed lips against
Surly stripped receivers, and rayed life
Sups shortening loose connections as Christ
Dawdles for forged trips and celled
Bladdering wired men who summon wiped
Wetted answerphones: when shaken tree life
Axes herself, then green boughs bewrayed

To dark starkly dunging drones, then
Rebuffs caused by coked ringed huge men
Snuffle after a kindness of friendships which
Lift a cell-phone
And salt sex stickles down the deadline
And hoaxes, heeled, seal raped lipped wine
O

Invidious slit-minded cranial cunt-climes
Slacken
And rippled mentalis sees mines
Cutting schemes of guilty grimed
Hard hauled plastic ships
And hard hauled mastics rend cold shit

The impassionate flower of fed dead men
Drools with jonquil stems
And mad hands give in?

*
Copyright JDB 2018.

...

DEAD THOUGHTS FOR AN APENECK THINKER?

I

Because I cannot hope to think again
Because all thought deludes me
Because I cannot hope to think again
Knowing no fear nor any place for idea
I cannot fear nor make any thought my own
Because the thought is dead and all thought is real
Because I cannot hope to ever know
The ideals of the sutlers who sleep next-door
Because all thought is first transitive then neutral
Knowing no terror nor any fear to mind
Because I cannot fear and because all fear is predication
Knowing no art of mind nor any thought to feel
Because I cannot feel and because man cannot come
To rend away such thought prophesies predication
The ideals of the sutlers who live next-door
Can never come to idealise the rain
And the rain in this dead place is delighted by
No thought as the thought is philophrengenitive
Because the nuance of the moon retains no thought
And as much as the thoughts of the moon are dead
In this room of white where curtains trangress modesty
The revelation of the soul lies hidden in the mind
Because thought cannot dare to think the silent thoughts
Of the arcane lords who whisper at my window
Because all thought is curated by a lunar shadow
And the eyes within eyes cannot dare to conceive
Of revelation nor the brain in its transitive modesty
Can sharpen thought, the searing of the brain
Must shend to dust all nihilism and promise
For this is the land where the indolents wail
And the banshees in the towns divurge from screaming
To shackle the thoughts of the children in the schools
And the schools are grammarians who teach bad words
And the grammar of the mind transgresses all truth
Because uncouth thought is the mentor to the sun
And the sun is denied by transmutative modesty
(As much as light must whip all thought to neural ecstasy)
In this coiled heart where ideas rit to nothing
All forms of thought as sapient sutlers groove
The wildness of the mind is ritten and each rit thought
Recants on its fables and discourses on denial
Under the penitential stairs where all thought lies raped
Because all thought is superfetation and because all thought is burned
Black by superfetation and because all ideas are forfeit
For the sutlers who live next-door and the cliff where thought is made
No excess of ideas may shut the words of thought away
Nor any thought in enervation may lift the latch on life
To reveal good thought: devaluation of the mind
Must come to speak aloud about the apeneck thoughts
And the mind inside a mind must mutate to transverse fearing
Because all thought is live so long as death permits it
Because all deaths are holograms with no real thought
As the wildness of the mind is ritten by its death
So the end of the word must be ritten by the mind
And the mind inside a mind must strip all sapience bare.

 

II

Because the sutlers next-door are sapient lords
Because the shade of thought is philophrengenitive
Because all fear is thought without motion
Because I do not care for transmutative notion
And the idylls at rest are the idylls of the queans
And the idylls at rest are the thoughts of the dreams
That state their claim to power as power must fade
Because the sutlers next-door are spaient lovers
Because all sense is reliant on mutation
In this red room where thought is transmutative
As the moon glows red all thought is dreamt decrial
And the day when thought defines a mind in mind
And the day when thought defines a mind in wynd
For the children and the dearth of the mind divined
As the dying mind defines a broken place to find
With the loss of the soul and the spirit in the pont
And the christ on the cross of the ideal mind
As the dawn of the day gives way to idle thought
Ideology must found a home for infant fear
Because fear is the tides in the seas of ideal pain
And the seas of the mind are full of transmutation
And the night of the mind is the night of the soul
Because dead man is as old as winter's terror
And the death of the mind proves the mind inside the mind
As the battle in the brain mutates to divurge
From black to white, as the dream inside the flower
Of the brain must wilt and reveal the silent power
Of the light that grows in the life of infant rain
Because the sun is dead must the moon inflame
Or is the earth around us as cruel as thought begun
In the subtle scent of girls who wander aimless on
To seek the stars of death in the void that does not speak
Because all thought is dead shall the stars above us wreak
Havoc, where the soul is out to burn away
All thought: this word is as thoughtless as the day.

 

III

Polyphrengentive, the christ of thought cannot fail
To piss away the heart of thought
Because I cannot find the thoughts inside the mind
Of god, must I weep to share my fears with men
Or else descry the times when the ideal pen
Will write down the thoughts of the ideal child
Who weeps for the pains of the ideal wild
Because there is no end to the shame of thought
And because there is no end to transmutative thought
What for this earth but the empty mind of grief
And the analeptic fear that rends away the thief
Of the mind, or is it more a search for darkness made
That shends away the thoughts of the second grade
Because the dawn is cold and the thought that freezes
Is as old as the mind, must the son of man deceive
All thought? In this quiet place, where fears become
A beshrewment to the moon, why should the sun
Deem to glow where the lunar plane inside
Warps the storm in the transmutative tide?
Surely all thought is as open as a mind
But a mind in a mind is all the children find
Because the death of thought is always bought
Because the thought of death deludes mad breath
Because mutation denies the ideal place
And because the dawn of thought is never bought
For the dream in the dream and the mind in the mind
The thought inside the thought cannot find
Any of god's ideals. The word is worded not.
Dead thoughts for an apeneck thinker?..

*

jdbellamy, 2001
Crust!

...

re. THE STREATHAM AND CLAPHAM GUARDIAN

 

The perusers of the Streatham and Clapham Guardian
Weigh down the wind like a Lord.

When morning sickens, faithful in the streets,
Lively come the corridors of hung
Parliaments in the shelters of the wheat
And rubric in the gourde. For

Moments of equidistance; past
Mutinies and shells of kissed
Deers in fields of corrals, now
Down the tides men flow.

And the perusers of the Streatham and Clapham Guardian
Weigh down the wind like a Lord,
Bringing us copies of the Croydon News
And Nation States of the Word.

...

jdb 1998

...

WHEN MR. SLINGBACK (after TS Eliot)

 

When Mr. Slingback travelled through the western way
His trousers paddled in the slink of their turn-ups
I met him at Tombstone, that wry place amidst the flowers,
Taking off my clothes by the sea.
In the palace of promenades, at the place of many pieces,
He paddled like an old-time toad.--
His paddling was pitted, skulled and unfound
Like the cowboy under the sea, or
Like the tea-boy in blue waves
Whence parried babies freeze yet drift
Far into Old Quay.

I looked for a bed in Mr Slingback's hair -
Under the rushes, his earrings cried
Like prostitutes and then felt the cold.
I found the heaps of his trousers midst the sun
As his wry and rotten paddling rolled on
'This must be Tombstone' - 'But what of His game?' -
'His eerie face is unbalanced.' -
'There is something to Him which seems insane.'

Through palace and pit and penny-eyed gourdes,
I remember nothing but a Human Penance.

..

jdb 1998

...

Gemima (inspired by T.S Eliot's 'Gerontion')

'There I was, an old girl in the shade,
Being prayed for by the boys on the train.
I was neither spared by the cold lake
Nor fought for by the sun
Nor shoe-deep in the coarse ark, waving an atlas,
Broken by spies, undone.
My home is an old home,
And the truth sits on my doorstep, atoned,
Borne on some epithet of blue England,
Picked upon by Ireland, reared upon by Spain.
The moat flies at night like a wheel overhead;
Pike, roach, salmon, carps, finned birds.
The Father keeps my bedroom, spreads old sheets,
Stays awake each evening, hoping for a butler.
I, an old girl,
A bloodied rake beneath the wind.
Veins are shaked by thunder. 'We shall hear the thunder!'
The curs inside stir, unable to sleep,
Bandaged like the gaolered dark. In the tumescence of a tear
Along came Thomas the Doubter
With engraved slaves, pig-washed in lumber, showering Midas,
To be beaten, to be divided, to seem slumped
Amongst easy fens; by Vicar Bolero
With confessing fangs, at seances
Who walk the walls all day:
By tutelage, howling for an curtain;
By mystery tour and spare-roomed shards
That kiss the angel; Madam Merd
Who burned down the Manse, one hand inside. Latent,
Gluttons
Cleave the skin. I have no breasts,
An old girl in the shade
Under boyish plumed prayer.
After such hatred, now for the ridiculous. See now
Mystery has so many flames, unchained morals
And tissues, festivities and hammers,
Guides who pass for rain. See now
Man lives when its death has contracted
And how he lives is livid with rain
That famishes, craves and garbles, gives
Too late for us, who seldom believe, or,
In memory only, travel
Alike to a dying son. See
Neither tears nor marriage save us. Man
Is mothered by a plane. Virtue
Forces up from cracks and relieves
A hot tree from a closed nut.
The Doubter swims in a blue weir. See him dive. See that
We have relived our contusions, have
Broken the houses down. See at last
I have not died for any purpose and
It is not for the dying that I lived
Or swim like a daughter down
And roundly from the tears. I
Would not meet you upon my charity.
I that was youthful is removed from therefrom;
To lose beauty as a peril, o, peril in nobility.
I have died alive. What should I sweep
Beneath me? Which long edifice should
I scarve about me? Which
Place should I fly? I
Have lost my sense of light -
Bells, clearings, churches do not give;
How should I die alive?
These with a billion gnarled perfidiums
Contract an office from my snarled pavillions,
Incite blind proctors, when the stench has failed,
With filigree petals, multiple organs,
Pupils, slides and drains. What shall the Doubter do?
Prefix His observations? Will the Cross
Decay? Vicar, slicker, Cavvy, Shitter,
Whorled down a dream, the deacons smile
Beyond the cervix of an animal veil
In stretchered ivory. Bull against the skin, in the wind
Jackets pass the nails, or run
Like eyries down my doorstep, stop
Where Nobaddy sits. Past
Sleepy corners, ovens, wimples,
Dug-out gourdes and theorised stains,
Here, the Pleiads snack on oats.
I
An old girl on a a boyish train..'

..
Copyright JDB 1997.
...

 

...more posted soon!!