further speed-written songs...

work in progress..    title: as visual sleep kills live rest'

1st draft poem then poem-song


as visual sleep kills live rest,
as vital heat
cages body-fire,
i shall attend a party of death
and i will sunder

o a mattress on the top-floor
cannnot cause dreams for
anybody but Cain and Abel
as visual sleep kills lithe death
as viscal meat
pushes at sex jewels
i will attend the endless dark.

here, in the lunar mist, i scented
easy papers with stinker's news
here, under moon-mists, i rended
dizzy code with my crazy father

Darkness screams for curves
Madness shrieks under gold birds
and a flat in the moon
swallows jammed feathers
easy summers swim for nerves
divers of mummas
send dad to sleep
easy summers swing,
o old caverns crash

and the stars will look around
and blue space must end?

old bedrooms cry in the past
old bathrooms
hear ill old soap washing
grey wounded women.

the ilex of a dunny flower
shines like a burning tree; and arches
swell up
and faces suck
coiled muck
and a mind of filth cries and cries.

the iris under bright lives seizes
grey rain from factories
the parish of mental sight
cuts out
and faces suck
spoiled fuck
and a mind of thrills scissors for

hands, knees and plastic gal-war.

warders of mad sad heavens
heed silk as milky gardens
cry for cut grass
wardens of sad bad garlands
suck a sex sweetie
old fingers tap upon brigands
cold feelers
snap a cunt-cap
and we extemporise riders
and we murder baby.
warders of a mad sad haven
heed silk as milky ravens
caw until crows die
and we burn well up
and we storm cells as snides
shoot from a lung
cold heated killers arouse
old baddies
Sun-men pry for honeys.

the dabblers of my car-mind
drive a wooden van
the fathers of my tarred mind
ride under rodeos

schism-makers melt for wine
lock birds into heat
dabblers of old men hear sleep
rocking a bad cradle's
puling baby-angel
eyes enter dummies into mouths
scribes write books for
ideal nagging broads
and a bed of christ

glows when sleeping.

cloisters of hidden soupy women
hide a sea of sex-bells
riders of bitten lazy children
hide inside a wishing-well,
and the wives of saints
crap upon twinned hands, and
cloisters of hidden easy bawds
tread the chill earth.

windy seas of nothingness
roar against a chain. Lo, sex
lowers its knickers
and a hubby in a rooftop reads
dirty peoples loud tarots
cloisters of hidden soupy women
hide a peeing manger when
crapped out earrings pierce hens
and we ring a gold world
windy seas of emptiness swirl
dog-dayed bat-men
wntry leas cut headlessness
and a boat of earls
sails then heals the world

my favourite screen idol when young
had a mask across her face.
Deaths dumb us down with suns
and death shines like one billion suns

as we sail out to die, a sea of fathers
bears a mummy curse to
a baby family
o a house of memories hears truth
caging skulls under the bodies
and we stay behind blue bodies.
my favourite screen angel when young
had a mask across her face
Sex sets small deaths alight
December's dead bee hears de night,
and my mental shoe-lace
and causes slippers to shoe-displace
hands, heels, feet,

wideners of wild wool stich then darn
knitters with easy chants..

o-la where wind-wells dry
will not be known to summer's sky
falls to wiccan earth
o-la where wind-wells cry
will not be known until god's eyes
are crisscrossed inside
mien and cradles
and a babby in a beak listens for
easy widneners of female war

where wind-wells die will never
send a girl to level-pleasure
and the canny clay-cold lover
will admit a sun to a mumma
and the christeners of lovers
give rise to a baby's
green-eyed child genoa

the weavers of a wild wife
whips a torn holy donkey
and eyes under knives will strike
berry-bombs where
grey fingers push through air
mindless midday men messed me
deeply down inside
endless silent movie-men writhe
and we cry for evening
and we cry for screaming lies

a barn of sadness entertaisn us
Deaths suffer deadliness
Cells lock the back
and a baby in a kinema-seat heaps
coded film spawnography

mindless midday men messed me
deep down where woman burned
and i have seen the loveless dead
jamming all cinematics

screened worlds under fire tread
sex trade with woollen horse-thread
and we have loosened
all of our petting reeling minds.
whilst reeling, i saw a dummy of a dog
spinning where canines wreck
all poodlers and all feline stick;
and the maker of the Wall licks
cold sea-snouted body walls; and lips
press a dolly hanky to a soul
ah my sex is reddened and blue trips
corner me with moggy collonades
... as we glide and ride we heat clits
and leave the dummies to the snipped
mourning dawning flower

cunt crashes
junk flashes
eager eaten slingshots peal the hour
with decorous nips
and a gay money monk has crypts
crying for dirt's dolled lover
and we lead filthy dog-men where
easy cunny madams
sway and storm in a bag of hairs
ah ah

we snip a salty sucker as pears
feed aphrodisaics to mummy mares
and stallion bridlers
bang heated mule-men
beneath a crowd of evil pea-hens
meddled by monkies, i turned
into a gre-snared lift
meddled by mummmies, i turned
into a grey-signed tryst
and i have sacrificed to boys where
oglers of lady twists
lay special waste to coffee-fists

.cunt craners crave after bulls
cock comfortors lap warted molls
and a gangster and his mould dulls
blued streets of purple pansy flower
and we sit when hissing in a midday tower
o i extended a masted occult
to find for me the dreamer of gulls
cunt crashes
junk flashes
eager eaten slingshots peal the hour
and spies know the hour
amd we will know the hour when
crapping cousins sweat for old gems
oo the wives of March have to send
illegal porn to coded church-men, ah,
oo the brides after dark have to send
incredible movies where coastal friends
abuse a teuton's sex-hem
hmm hmm hmm
brmm brmm moon
soon soon soon
death-wedded this very noon
god's lies will breach the moon
hmm hmm hmm
brmm brmm brmm



jdb 15/03/2020


work in progress      title: i have decided that there is horse manure on the moon?

1st draft poem then song-poem


i have decided that there is horse manure on the moon
i have decided that shit gives
a purple thumb to a dirty uterus
ahh, a bone of praise breaks.

as mad music dies,
as sad murmers writhe
as a bed of ice slides across cruel ice
we will wash our hands in lard,
and i have decied that there's horse manure inside
craters and tranquil seas

songs of silent men raise a fag from a fire
Open fires overheat
Shaken fires burn sleep,
and a boat of masks drowns beneath
endlessly burning radios

the shrapnel hear the coast harnesses
the anvil of the tears
abuses televisions
and a wake of glass cuts a bluebird
and fishy rockers
ram powders into coppers

songs of silent men raise a car from a tyre


instamatic razor-karma
hastens to a new week
Dark mallow rocks blurry sweets
and a sac of wine
dabs mint with brine
o a children's badge gets lost
o a woman's grab
cuts a handbag
and we clip flowers where loss
digs fingers into crab
instamatic razor-karma
drops love's panties, O, Mother
will come back home now
O, father will surely
leap up from his strong-cloud
...and weepers cry, cry, cry
and dreamers die
.Inside visual sleep.

a papery peppery takeaway dinner
serves fish to mother
a feeder of fish forces brother
to dine upon mist
and a cloud of fire
drops dead
o peppery easy eats cut bread
o salt-ready easy shelled nuts
aside a shopped moon, spoons
swirl teas into coffee
inside a shopped lobby, spoons
swirl cocoa into bodies
mmm we have to understand
almost everything is sweet?
weetabix on a broken table
slides a pudding under labelled
expensive shopping
shredded meat gets well-cooked
endless wheat
gets boiled then fried
and a bone in a liver
sells offal to fat men

aside of death, a buyer of dirt
leads streets to sudden
Eyes widen
Driven diamond drools for hurt
and an owl underglass
hoots till seamen
shed beautiful seed.
empty now, grey crowds
cover tits in proud cum-clouds
uh uh uh


riders of punched cold rain
raise river men from god's vein
riders of bunched soft rain
raid shivers
o a gun of rivers
has bullets for killers
o a drum of lovers

girls must run to the moon
gals will always listen
boys must sing love's tune
burnt hills must glisten

riders of punched cold rain
heap a mountain side
sidlers of pain suck eyes.
Easy father paint lies

we outstretch good hands
we ask for honey
we fall,
we crawl,
we snip shawls as money
pays for dolls

riders of punched cold rain
raise rider men from soft gain
raiders of lost silk
succours pushing bird-milk


these dizzy days, i tend to sleep all morning
these easy days
when killers arise at noon
hasten to blind midnight
and a shed of iron hides dangling graves
o a bonce of lions
roars against dark evening
and my use of perfume hits slaves
this late night when i cooked a lunch
opts to impose a hot drip
this dead night
i cook an old egg
and my wide body tries to strip
rinds from chops
but the rind is green and hard
these dizzy days, i tend to sleep well till
armies shoot a dreamt world
and because a sunday tea has been
raped and killed
we will moisten cake with keen
i admonish perhaps that i am dead
i astonish myself with slicers
o when a war in a hill shoots lead
o when a wall in a rill
shoots scotched bread
i will perhaps varnish my grey bed
and gods will paint it purple?!

the doctors of unhealthy mental deaths
use a bald steth to
heat up a dead heart
and we listen to screws..
o doctors of darkness
bedazzle swabs with mind-illness

Because hospitals are nearby
the veins of the face-syringed try
to dig a drip into love's cry
and a latent old nurse
nips a nipple from a dead-hearse

doctors of an incubated baby
listen to an infant brain-stem
and a vein of hearts
hears grey dreamers
ramming down easy flowers
Because hospitals are found
dead close to everything
i will wash my hands and feed
all day and every single night
these coded roads of Eden
slap a city pony
these disabled roads are lovely
but we are dead lonely now
and the sun at night
veers within burning headlights
and a vase of rosess

weeders of expensive gardens
dig a trowel inside
deepening birds
Failiure paves a way for lives
Seizures pay for epilepsy
and the stars of pure lies
look fiercely down.
these coded roads where dust
appears as strange as lust
will strut a bald hill
Because a hymen quakes
because a woman shakes
these neon valleys
must turn, spin, and break

weavers of sacred city wool
weep for needles.

umbilical endless country castles
have come to use again
umber, made brick, - we see rain
crying under crenatures
and a nasty urban mill hears candles
igniting kings and queens
the palace where i made my mess
has dangerous gardens
the mute parasols i used for sex
stride stately homes when
an eager postmodern portculis
sweeps ghosts from death-parish
umbilical endless country castles
have come to use again
empty national protected ruins

o i trust in the trusted
o i enjoy reflective county flour
and i shall use some flour
to make a good hot power
of wheat and cake and thread

Because i am fed to Isis
i will dip my fingers into stasis
because i fear closed spaces
i will fix a flask of tea
because i am always alone,
ideas about sanity will cede
insanity to a sea of stone
we ride the snaking river for
a dose of bitter waves
we contact the sea-killed and
weep, weep
O, what now for islands
but a vagrant in forgotten hands?

umbilical endless country castles
whoop for protected cradles
ancient emptiness
jacks tudor wine
and i saddle a star of timed
buzzy busy deadliness


when dreaming about the death of men
eyes reel up in a foreign space
when screaming, a doll with a glass face
drops to a dumbed wax floor
and the guns of Man
arise from a cell where eaten dawgs
drag dagger gems down
ashen towns where throats in rivers mete
cold gems to Pan
ah easy lessons in god heal the killed
ah early missions believe in the frilled
iced old eye of the fast asleep
and a banner of grass
waves a weepy hand at stars in masks
o a bosom in a brain
has to titty-feed the empty thousand
a bed of bullets drags a kite from Mars
and men and eaten women
crusade for a murder in a forced car


JDB 14/03/2020


Comment about my writings (received some years ago)


"I can have a go at expressing my opinion of your writing, but it won't do the job entirely well...Your poetry is overwhelming, images collecting in the mind until it has to stop and take stock of what it is creating - I find it very hard to just read through your poems in sequence as I usually do, they demand careful attention through the sheer accumulation of imagery, which makes a small world around itself - it pretends nothing, it draws attention to itself through the indirect, compulsive narrative which seems to pick up on images like eyes following a speeding landscape and picking out details which it is innately attracted to or repulsed by - it is poetry which envelops itself, sustains itself, each line reliant on the last and its place in the piece rather than any meaning it's trying to convey or rhyme or theme it's trying to carry on. It doesn't rely on anything but itself to exist: alliteration, assonance, the way words relate to each other - it's almost brain speak, and there comes a point when I'm reading it when I have to stop because it's hard to believe that there's so much of it, that I can scroll down to any point in any poem and find the same standard has been maintained - it seems to have come so easily to you, as though it were as simple as writing a letter of complaint to the council - this is the main quality that most gets to me - it seems the ultimate in poetry because it seems as though the subconscious flow of the work is truly and innately poetic - not a learned skill, but an inherent part of the mind, something irrepressible, and to read this at normal pace seems to trigger off an empathy in the brain which reminds it that it is capable of so much more - in a way, it's a homage to the power of human creativity. Furthermore, you assume no responsibility towards your audience - your work seems entirely self-sufficient, as though it existed entirely for its own beauty and if anyone else wants to watch it they're welcome...It's basically too much to handle, almost hard to accept that anyone living in this society could create such a body of work of this standard - I would call it genius, and it's the only poetry I've read on the web, the only contemporary poetry in fact, that comes close to interesting me - there's so much shite, acclaimed empty plastic shite circulating around that it seems ridiculous they're getting away with it when poets like you are writing...I would honesty cite it next to Dylan Thomas, it's everything I believe poetry should be, and will undoubtedly be read and adulated well into the next century. There are a lot of jealous and malicious people surfing the net, let anyone who criticises your work send you theirs and it'll speak for itself. I'm saying this without having taken the time to study your work properly - although I've read it over the past year or so sporadically - like I said it's just too much!..."