Jim Bellamy 2001

work in progress  Title: The Dying Game       1st draft poem then song-poem...

my draggy dead legs
rot under shrubbage
my head is rotted whilst ties
tidalise a blouse of knives
and my bed is underwater
and my soul is led to slaughter.

the door beside me was like you
and the radiance of the meter was
escaping from evil Rome
and my draggy legs
rot under lovage
my head is ripped when eyes
suck a petrol plane from devs.
..
in this smokily ill-connected room
i dream of deaths and youths
and ald sneezers under hands move
echoers of engines
aside from tears when
you and me and Lady Brighton
bollock up eerie women.

it is the first day i used a toy?
..
*
do you know of the boy who selled dirt to men
have you taken down the knickers of the city
have you climbed lakes under Leander
will you cum at precisely midnight?

i am the son of ald worldwide night-light

you know the directions
o the hedons are in both ears
the interhearsing dolly of heated tears
eases echoes into language.

do you know of the girl who lost curves
have you removed the kickers of pities
have you climbed drakes with Pomander?

will you come back home for easy rites?

*

o hand in hand, we ran aside a wishbone
and eyes drawl under prisms
o hand in hand, we ran inside false prisons
and eyes drool under fiction

i am the dreamer of all poisons
o i am the ward of tall foisons
i am the doctor of galled mind-cisterns

o hand in hand we ran aside a wisher
and eyes drawl under missions
and benders of Saul sunder grey gems

*
it was the advent of pure wind
devising salty air,
up a sea-street where we ran
up a billy can
and down into closed prayer.

the windows below us appeared
like brighteners of shrilled hair
awaiting the faces in a nunnery.

do you know the kid who sold pornography
have you used candles under cities
have you come to tonight where sculleries
stop breathing?

Uh

*
the bad idle streets iced idly over
down a  great river of Sound;
silence came like rain as roped night
windily scattered venom-heights

it was the sweaty winds
reciting fever;
up inside meat, as we ran,
barefooted dinners heaped rites.

do you know of the Jew who knew everything
dare you sell swards to blue swings
do you own the son of Love
Will you come back home for swept God?

we dared to shatter reason when stone
hurled books at baby diamond...

*
the mind when shaping is a vagina seeing,
a sex organ of ghosts.
Light in an eye corrupts senstitives as ropes
stirr cavvies into killings.

how thunderous it is to seize the sight of a mad girl

the mind whilst aching is a vagina dreaming,
a sex orifice of drugs.
Night in a mine eyes a raising colours when
molluscs embroidered into old mens
suck a snaily fucker with baying gentlemen
..
sun! sun! sun!!!
o to be pelted by the slits in the wind at last
floods a gooser with eaten bitumen.
..
**
a honey nose inside five hands
sirens into insidious silence
rainy grey-nude eyes turn away
and sadness drops,
from a shaded cup with lots
ramming powders down.

the itch appearing against two lips
shines like planets
that eyes take and drizzle round
a shattering of gannets

a sunlit sea of sloanes hordes arrows
through which a wide bride
solders after whipped odd wives

and we exchange minds with queens
and we take a ticker-tape when dreams
dollop kicks underground
and we exchange mines for sounds
..
o made greyish, a sky-written screen
dies away..

*
shoulders are humped with
large headed magmamity;
with winged certainty made bare as bodies
a scuttering of lakes rides
deep, deep down
..
a sea-light of pure stone breaks after
baked buddy arrows
and shoulders are hunched here;
laden, fallen, left to shift barrows
..
a fugue of a nose is turned up
a vinegar of lobes burned up
..
a width of lies hears herons when
skirted meadow-colours season
rosebeds,
slumbered for daffodils,
left to rot under oceaned gemmed
refugees
..
a summer of washed stone wades
beneath cicada shade
and we exchange minds with queens.

*
no more no more for the dying game,
no more for mauds
no more for sheet pain
no more no more for the dying game.

one of us is a tugger cat made sane
and we will never look into midnight
we have our names by heart
we use our inner veins for sad light

no more no more for the dying game
ooo...

where a prisoner yells, fay loss
chains a chair to a blind blued cross,
and we have our names by heart;
we use our inner stains for a rocked
budder of blind bone

no more no more for the dying game
ooo..

and under my heap, a spot of flame
has come to thrill my head with trains,
and under dust, my bedhead moves
a shallow graveyard raised by stained
body-pictures.

no more no more for the dying game
no more for mauds
no more for sheet pain
and we swing for night when dames
swallow up mad sea-christs
..
it is the wind returns
to fog in a distant glass
Your widows are up high
looking outside a facial ride
and a dog of dreams bites a blithe
baby gem;
mown down, left to rend
a dying nameless past?

the streets unfurl to yesterday
recollecting loved
sniffy hands that  hold to cups
and we dance, dance
La

no more no more for the dying game
no more for dugs
no more for sheet rain

no more no more for the dying game?
..
and a wrist will uncurl and pass
donny danger fingers in an vast
comedy of divinities and gold casks
and a fist will blow hot veins
.
no more no more of the dying game
no more no more for the lips of Spain
no more no more

Uh..

*
some deleterous vinegars have repainted my bedroom
- and a caviar of ministers has fed a sainted bathroom

some deleterous strapped fingers have used a balloon
to bend my home with eighty carat glassrooms.

the streets of feeling dirty unroll under yesterday's
wishful hands of eating
-and a caviar of banisters has fallen under schools
and a bone of sloanes scatters
blonde pricks of blood that don a pissproud warper of
warming cats and bruised ermine.

inside death's house, the blinds have never been raised;
we float to the silver imagings of banishing graves
and the crowds in minds brazier after downy trades
..,

,,
no more no more of the dying game
no more for mauds
no more for sweet rain.

eh ...eh    this is the end...


…
jdb 5/1/2020

....

Title: A BELL OF THUNDER     1st draft poem then song-poem...

having being hanged by pockets,
all of my clothes have been
cycled furiously through a hat's dream.
soon, red polish will rock for tussocks
and a bell of thunder must cry.

ah, by the sweat of a son, mammas
will surely sing loud vegetate hosannas
and, like a pickled wind, clouds of eyes
must stop.
,.
we may well froth with fruited rot
we may well darken a sea of cots
we may well harken a lea of socks
but we are dressing too well now

uh?

*
birdies drink for trees.
The moon is a little mind
over here, were hills
fill a secret flagon.

The air is as old patience,
the flyways melt for wagons
and streetlights burn.

i played dead when i wanted
ultimate peace.

*
i was fuelled by keen dust and i wanted fear to
wipe peaceful feet on a chair yet
then i was closed in robes
and i took them off and then saw troves
caning love with deaths
and night fell
and i chatted with dolly cells.

i am in deeply love with everything,
inside of me, a beautiful grave must spin
dizzy death's dimples.
.
i was fuelled by mean dust and i wanted tears to
swipe midlife from a bent candle?

?

*
babies drip from blue reeds.
The sun is a fingertip
drawn over a naked sea;
dawn, as fast as hot milk,
files guns with the sky's trip.
.
the prayer of air is touch-cold.
gassed hair burns like an ice-cubed
street of ice-dreams.
..
when the water is turned off
bright cars will bang like moths.

*
one keen girl in a compress leads the sunned souls where
a drop of blinde blood pays for t rex as a simmer's mister
moves, just like the moon, between slot machines and Easter
and a vast distorted handy creature becomes
alike to a burthened butterfly
but the skies snips winged cloud
but the slips of slapped slits cream behind buildings
..
birds drop dead. the air is so cold it is almost breeding.
and a keen girl in a head-press leads the carparks under
fazy ferime pedestrianised dolly fingers

one keen girl in a compress heads Medusa as worm-hair
succours cellves from a glassy dust-room...


*
each and every sandal in the lud-heat is bearded
wandering after
shoe-searchers

somewhere under mites, a blued bad father
appears stabbed to death
by shoe-corners

have we forgottem the paled plans we made for
our own dreamy sky-ward
o have the falons of footsteps hollow walks for
darkness and the loaves of hoards?

each and every sandal in the blood-seat is bearded
sundering after
shoe-slashers

somewhere, we will find ourcellves atoned by a
radio in a radiant classroom.

*
tawny swansongs cycle furiously around rain
among crowed clouds turned hideously back
against cupped legs and dolly humans.

ah all of my faces
having haplessly crammed down a song
now froth and floam just like visual ponds
ah ah ah;

when we clap a glove about a son then
one billion lives may well soften after
a polish unfound in a feline virgin;
old walls rail
old stalls wail
o.

tawny swansongs cycle furiously around rain
amongst crowded towers turned from paned
windowed sally widowers.
..
sooner or later, hair will rinse sunlife and
giddy bulbous suds will cusp a river-hand
..
Uhh.

*
my limbs may well launch armies,
my mouths, screwed, may eat hot
acres of rotted summer families.

o once fish on the side has shops
drilling in a seaside raised from copped
drivellers where red loss
ends alone.

i hated my childhood head,
my rotting head blew away cheeks
o my limbs may well launch armies
my mien, moved, lunched by rabies.
..
when i'll play very old, decent hair
may well cut a conference pear with
nostrilled dementia made cruel as
camaled scatty grime and hit glass?

*

we exchanged minds with a dove queen

the cellar of our faces crashes under space and
bursts into chemical fog
all over the city, where a masser for an island
hissed across red ice, just like the woken moon

we exchanged minds with a dove queen

the colours up ahead revolve under compress
i lash a bed to wine
and only gold remains naked underwaters
and a cellar of faces crashes for bright warders
..
i hate my bed
my filthy rocking bed
which may never easily fall
like any regent caul.
..
harshness of mooneyed mad drawls ignites
a wheel of pashing pushing King Dervishes
..
ahh one body feeds scandals
ahh one lady feeds off night
& a babby hushes for extortionate bright

candly weddings,,

Oh

*
my draggy dead legs
rot under shrubbage
my head is rotted whilst ties
tidalise a blouse of knives
and my bed is underwater
and my soul is led to slaughter.

the door beside me was like you
and the radiance of the meter was
escaping from evil Rome
and my draggy legs
rot under loveage
my head is ripped when eyes
suck a petrol plane from spies
..
in this smokily ill-connected room
i dream of deaths and youths
and a sneezers under hands move
echoers of engines
aside from tears when
you and me and Lady Brighton
bollock up eerie women,
..
it is the first day i used a toy!
..
*
jdb 4/1/2020

*

TITLE: NUDE TRIGGERS             work in progress  1st draft poem then song-poem