some poems in response to the great ingenious poetry of Philip Larkin
image of the late great genius poet-author Philip Arthur Larkin (9 August 1922 – 2 December 1985)
These poems are dedicted to the utmost genius of the late great poet-author-broadcaster
Philip Larkin (full name: Philip Arthur Larkin)
(9 August 1922 - 2 December 1985)
note: all of the poems featured here have perfect urban rhythms.
note: james edward david bellamy was born in a storm 02/12/1972.
But if one night she brings us, as she yearns,
the secret of the photograph to learn,
she, as all others, should be wringed
by purses, hearses, acritudes of spring, or
by day-light's ecstasies, wrought beneath a slit
as any photostat may shake love by the hand,
or ravel down the shrillness of a torn trip
from grande guignols into the forgotten easy land.
Here is the staff, the massive music of the dawn;
the secret bringing pleasancies to hear,
how water burns, how blind rivers pass and yawn,
the ideal atom of a closing year -
who tinkles in to mind-palaces unsaved
must stop at these intimate exposures, or else play dead:
for here the screens of memory are graved,
as cold as mental earth knocked inside the head.
..
JDB 1997
ABOUT RECOVERING BEAUTY
(after Philip Larkin's 'Ambulances')
Proud and professional, these beds
thread proud blooms of mystery, give
back a long, lingering orb
to every schizoid smile. Bright,
glossy, fay, charms on their backs,
they come to rest on every ward:
all streeted slab minds are visited.
The nurses strewn midst warts and brogues
or children running from the trees
past cells and wimpled swingers seize
each wild and whitened face that tops
each champing blanket; momently,
as madness matters swathe and marry:
And sense now the rolling scentedness
that cries beneath all dreams made blue,
and for a second greet the high soul,
so healthful, mad and fucking true.
The patient wards conceive. 'My, My'
they whisper at their own dismay.
For formed away in some deep wound
may flow the insane yell of lust
round lonely living so near death's end,
and what was revered in its dead crust
amongst blind tears, the wrangled rend
of familial mummy dadas, there
At last time starts to heighten. Far
from the constraints of christs that lie
unreachable inside life's tombs
the doctors fart and let sex fry
through closer things than what has come,
and thrill to mind-mess all men are?
..
JDB 1997
..
'WE CANNOT HEAR THE SLEEP OF WORDS'
We cannot hear the sleep of words
Under the seas, under the flowers, under the tides of out lots
And the bustling over sheets in skies depleting
Or our infinite whispers unheard. How
Inevitable silence whisks us is the tune
That, like the spires of monks, grows tired with the trends
And, dreaming about the text,
Shies into the fire. Words
Are as remote as the stars and their staring dawn,
As perceived as God. Does
This quiet sleep of words hide schemes, hide fears?
Does the last lash of the wind and the failing wing
Outwardly spiel an end? Let us listen,
Open the mind and listen
For a sigh, a sign
Of speaking unadorned. There is
No cry, there is only
The one weathered night whose wakefulness stings and
Hoots the Word over and over
Until the speaking dies.
..
JDB 1997
..
..NATURALLY, THE WARD WILL DO
(after Philip Larkin)
hurrying to snap the tablet
one bad and maddened day,
which soon would snap me from it
to the hospital's decay,
i worked on wards of missives
not seven months since birds
had seized my working pittance
through the shivers of their spurs.
Voices, vast and volatile,
had sealed my poem's fate,
yet not till i was freed awhile
did is set down this idle slate -
this day when dean and doctor
and branded, bladdered souls
all acted on their splinters
and healed me with a call.
It used to me make me merry,
those ravished cursory flames:
ah! when will time unbury
this soaring mental game?
- but i complete my poem,
and sidle off down the wards
to greet the psychos roaming,
my one and only forge.
...
JDB 1997.
..
Choice of Youth (after Philip Larkin)
Choice of thought shuts up that doctor's hand
The medics held, in which the mental spread
All that confusion and the mad man can..
Laughless potential! But here contained
Only so long as time concedes us laughing;
Simply to lose slopped all ways but round,
And sent the maddened, whorling way contracting,
No sadness now. I and I now, stoned..
Hence for my race I must retain all races,
For your shrift baggage, barter and be rich
In other baggages; the mask-man's brood..
Now you malign my madness and what truths
Remain where glibness cuts the sensate down
And collars each and every manic word;
Another way to suffer is to drown,
To risk the final floating of the birds.
...
JDB 1997.
..
ABOUT A HUSBAND AND WIFE
The mind can hardly pick them out
From the cold wound they swelter in,
Till the wind distresses veil and vein;
One chops grass, one moves in doubt
-The Mother soothes their modesty -
And then the bridal brain.
Yet thirty years ago, or more,
Two cousins in their dirt sufficed
To cradle gems in vaunted peace
And instant, endless love,
Whereby the truth was made and sold
On instant hoof and instant road
But for the root of lust and boot
This was the wedded raging end.
But it must be a plague to youth
So vast, so wide in life and light,
(Silk at first, then sadly made,
This sovereign fate is all too crude).
But could it be, in just ten years time,
The curt perversion of the mind
Shall suckle on two eyes that speak
And trickle down and down
Oh,
we'll see next week?
..
JDB 1997
...
THE MADNESS MUMBLES
The madness mumbles away-
It is the same old madness as ever.
Only a mad thing leaps from my head -
A mad bubonic cat -
As I call to the maddening sun
For another glass of beer.
Mad cat, they would stroke you if they knew
Of these eccentric polities.
Now you have brushed this foaming brain
You will do the same to the mind -
Soon, no doubt, if it be allowed,
You shall cross the clouds and cry.
It seems you maniacally grin as you cast
Those mad eyes on haughty limbs;
Less chanced by life than changed,
You bear your fangs to the dawn.
Sprawled on the bowels of the brain,
These mindless fields of glass.
What do you see in my eyes
As these lines of floaming flame
Are hurled through arctic herons?
What quiver, what heath so vast
Now roots your poppied fur to the veins?
Or drops, and keeps on dropping,
As this sad, bad madness flows,
Flows and ferments tar? Is
It just a little while to the left
That you wield your tail and fly; or
Is the kiss on maddened mouths
Your only eerie space? Now,
This I ask, as you, defaced,
Spit on the fires and close.
..
JDB 1997
..
SONNET FOR NICKI
How lovely is the girl, who cannot look
Upon her rapid days without a smile,
Who kisses all the leaves of her life's book,
and rides along her fairest name beguiled;
How lovely is the girl, who shall not wane
In any rapid place but hers alone,
Who risks her all for times in places skeined
With curtsies, caring, pompidores and combs.
But should the lovely girl lose her calmed way,
Now parry, then extend her rhymes to wrong,
Or bury her blonde head in rhyme's decay,
I shall be there to charge her with my song,-
The girl who suffers must beget a name..
May she who suffers most be set aflame?
...
JDB 1997
...A SCHIZOID AWAKENING 2?
I looked down at the foaming and cortal shards
Once meant for thinking. Lithiums lay thick
But sent no light back from my guard,
Slunk as it was in mists and mimes.
Slain sites and wired mistakes climbed up
Past tombs, still gurning amidst corrective rites:
I thought: 'I am mad, i am wrought in long nights.'
Misconception: for my bones slept, and my wrists
Swaggered up their hands, absolving and touched,
And hung like a staved death; the mind burnt on,
A thin point of incitement; beneath its shards,
The pallorless dial of day flamingly spilled
My virtual world into the actual, my mad bad world
Like a dropping tear, slammed at my heels again,
Entombing my schizophrenic clutch. Turning, I wished for
Another time so easy, for a further happy time
But, rendered pivoting,
Buttoned as a coat on a mindless girl,
How could madness save me? Into its space
My mindscapes meet and lock and race like rivers,
But never never choose. Am I then jealous of it?
Will I forever confuse its rumours and ends
With sanity, with sane things? This important life
Is at once part invalid, part rebel, part saint:
O, madness is purely ethereal..
..
copyright jim bellamy 1997
..
VEIN OF FACT
One wants the choice where
To build, to select prayer;
One asks the poise of air
When, faulted, towns turn
Dreary, filled with fear
And one’s girl’s a dolt.
Having missed the skies
Bound, contained, lies
Call on an uncalled day
For personages spurned
Scruffy or else stayed
Yet wisdom creeps more.
Your person, your place,
Thinks on midnight spaced
By ways of blinking, traced
By mashing mindlessness;
And glibness interacts
With slick sickles borne
Above a vein of fact.
..
jdb 2000
..
PRECISELY HOW LIGHT LEFT IT?
I thought i would pass through time:
a sense that, against the town,
something more than night would yield
our sharing spirits underground
More, the supposition
was better than any life
fitted round the shrilled and bitter,
it meant more than Christ?
But now, what do i feel?
The pitted straits of time gone by?
Perhaps, something so strange
that nothing will reply
to exactly how our lives
are riven round the lies so strong,
bitten, taken down
like some antique, cold song?
Whatever, i am keen
to learn out spirits' names
Having grown in church and state,
I know that life remains
precisely how night left it
written down as strife goes on,
patterned, spited, smitten
as welled and dun as history's sun
are good men gunned?
.
JDB 1999
..
A KIND OF DECALOGUE
Item, an animal, and how it changes shape,
Now a slick leopard, then a white air
Of tigress, ape or lemur. The forms won't take
One simple pattern for long. Item, the crow
And then the simple blackbird, gathering up
Hunted petals. Item, a demesne of guns
Hotly presented to a potted face,
A shaft of holly leaves, darkness begun
And flapped astray. Item, motors without grace,
Churning the fair aside. Item, the bones
Of reservations, now Plot One, Plot Two
Purveyed by engineers.
The hunters are half-conscious of their Deeds
And cackle. Signs are made, sometimes honed,
And then the silent Blue?
..
JDB 1997
..
HOSPICE PART 1? (after Philip Larkin's 'Hospital Visits')
I do not think I was switched at the hospice
As an instinct. No,
There my bed went on
In endless tramelling down and
On into the Mind. So
I cannot say my bed was worth it. No,
I must reveal that I
Was altogether caught in transits
Of some long luminary phase. Where
The bed moved, I grasped a flower
And locked it to me. Like some spread
Saint of petals, I was lost
In true volition, like a bough. Then,
The matron spoke, said words
That could not be heard in the ear, like
'Suffrage', 'Marvel' and 'Sphere'. So, I
Met my bed full on, made signs
Of snickers and snippets at one with me;
Rode and styled my sheets into
An open fire, and lay
Full naked on the flames, alone
With reading lamp and stony book, steamed
To the riled corpus of my bone, spread
Like a monkey cruise..
..
jdb 1998
..
Closing-Time Elegy? (after Philip Larkin)
The poolroom sheds are empty now
And locked the drinking door,
The tallowed dregs are rimmed with rust
Where, slow across the moor,
A warden creeps behind the bare
Till the moon repines no more.
What major made his standard here?
What sergeant served his friends?
What parson took a beer of fears
One day one Sunday's end?
Who played this long piano
That leans against the wall?
Who was it left the meadows
To drink above the pall?
Ah, drunk days are taken down,
And snoring vagrants stayed,
And police-girls grow tomorrow
From the tipsies of today,
And even public crawls can fade,
Swan Inns grown pubic grey:
But for the rush of morning truths,
No kiss remains but graves.
..
JDB 1997
..
THE PRAYER?
I know the site of that hidden mind
It is sidling and empty, a farcical bent
Sliding up the clock. I ride minds behind
The towers, the towering wheel and flowers
Dropped in a vase of the heroine's smile.
My hypnotic illusion is not cowed.
Aligning my head, the skies, the one
Bay of the evening chorus, above
The serviette of gears I make my single
Shimmering of hand into hand. The
Sun moves below the eye, a
Beautiful rivering
Of a beautiful consternation.
Resentful of the world, the underglassed
Tauntening of jade, the mind
Tightens its grip on the reprobate
And moves sloanes out to sea.
Most beautiful is the singlet, the
Wondrous land of films and spheres;
Next, the spider spinning
Its gossamer voyage of praise.
The eye is unperfected; lies
Days deep beneath the dial. I
Kiss my girl, yet here the sense
is no-one's, nobody's, vile.
..
JDB 1997
...
AS I WEAVE MY EAGER BODY
as i weave my eager body up low stairs
i entertain a vision of a boy-
this boy is me when gone? O, stairs
lead to meagreness as self-joys
lam me aside my personal funeral.
as i weave a ladder, then i sew hair
to an edifice of academics... Air
comes in from outdoors & seers
laces lays with funereal tears
-the last i knew of my dead heirs
was about a sodden kid who
grew down in the colour True.
crows may welll wed blackbirds
oo, crowds might as well deserve
scalded hills where night-men move
rolled eyes to soft weeping
& the backs of the lost are sleeping?
as easy shadowers fawn to killing
then a rose of meadowers
must storm a mouth of spit-fillings
& a downy dodgy beard of nerves
wags under hosy lady lid-flava...
as the crowds of my grey life loosen
nipped tails & baggaged patients
then we will surely supper after
noosed teeth & evil mouth-laughter.
...
JDB 1997
...PIT-HEAD
At noon, there is a tremor; birds
Cease singing as the sun stirs
A heat-haze from the dimmed
Moon. Men cry at the pit-head.
Brothers, sisters, children, bent
On scarring from a sound.
The explosion of life defined
By the madness of love's
Implosion, dances against the
Shores of a sea that meets
The darkness of a smoothed
Pebble, smashed into the
Teeth of the void, constrained
Inside the fences of death's
Cornucopia. In the clouds
Life creeps into salience
Unborn. The pit-head burns.
A heat-haze redoubles and
The silence of thought cracks
The bones of a mind brought
Queasily into the beaches of
The muteness formed from
Lips pared back by these
Words, refined to change.
Penitent, the children gaze
Out at a strangled town.
Innocence lies bastardised
By eggs, broken in the
Hands of a spade-cock, cut up
Where its hands weep.
The pit-head is permafrozen.
Lust weeps from its hot chill.
The villagers are opened?
..
JDB 1998
...
AN AMPHETAMINE STUTTER
'It has to be said that you were young tonight-
That amphetamine a stutter you invoked was like
No other nearby to reference,
And I was cross to sense it happen;
Desperate to neck, to clock your age again
You were so young that I hated you:
Hated you as a mother might hate her son
Bathing as a man. I wanted you back.
Although you'd never leave me, you had gone.
It has to be said that you were young
And now the circus of alone has returned to us,
You are dissolving properly; out there and marauding
Right through, with the veined
And bicycled whispers of waning. Now that
The purpose of reserve and conservation has discerned
Out togetherness again, I shall turn to you and say,
'Sweetie, you're looking old, Sweetie, we both are.'
Though the chrome taps ahead shall tell me whose stunned
Forehead has the kindest cut'...
...
jdb 1991
....
I Could Spend Most of my Times
I could spend most of my times
Laughing at the shattered lies
Of life; but living bears
A strangeness man may never
Share. The softness of love
Aims to slumber where sex
Denotes no dreams, and time
Lives for its own self-gain.
My home has no facade
To own. The quietus made
By the colours of razed
Light bricks in the whole
Boiling of discontented lusts.
I could spend all of my times
Guffawing at the tamed
Trips of pitied women.
Windmills trip inside
The minds of the sullen
Solemnity of the dawn.
The softness of love
Aims to slumber as sex
Ignites the dance of death.
Awaiting veins, this soul
Trips the floor then dies.
..
JDB copyright 2002
..
RECUSANCY AND AFTER? (after Philip Larkin)
How recusant, the departure of good minds
down alleyways, or watching
the lean doors opening past the milk-white strain
of ashes, rising and falling.
Mad-man or soldier? both are fazed to dream;
and, oh, they simply get married
or content themselves with killers mourning...
Whipped beds of sex deem so explosive that
Men note melodeons appear praying, or
the tiny decks of water cloying and spraying,
or, on late evenings, watch
cross-hearted waders washed in lime?
Like new stored clothes,
the huge decisions spread out like feet
and invent a new way of treading;
this is the random wake of minds, the
Close call of the murderer running.
Here subventing each wade and rote,
the stolid brain suffuses
and closes right away.
..
JDB 1998
..
Psychos Dream of Nurses (after Philip Larkin's 'Breadfruit')
Psychos dream of nurses bearing needles,
Whatever their scars,
As idylls of the schizophrenic straddling
Timeless stars:
This makes the joins in the mind abrupt;
Jives at the Centre, uses words, and
On weekdays squires the voices out of luck
In recusant, heated public.
Such lingering long incisions end in
Hostel room or spar:
A raw and semi-comal lurch
Into God's seminar;
The Church; the hospice chapel; the
One and lasting Game; the
Mindwarp-factor-nine; the Apple
Crunching for a brain.
..
JDB 1997.
BROADCASTING 2
Giant whispering and coughing machines,
But the Quietus shaped by thieves
Broadcasts
from a churchyard sleeved
With coats that serve as muscle:
The wavebands glowing overpower
The rabid storms of chording where
Your child hands clap against the air.
Beautifully devout before a spent
Cascade of money pours from out
A vast resettling of drums. Thence
Begins the mental struggles of arcane
Girls, who may not dance upon a floor
Nor faces inside faces prick music.
Vast Sundays and
organ-frowned spaces
Leave dark emptied trees behind
Seas, where sotto voce tames the race
Of gaoled men; and the sureness of
Faith will dive into the bays and quays
Which seem too straight or still-born.
The light of rock attunes to sound
But this noise contests the altar-lit
Grounds of life’s lurch, groomed with
Minds which govern sadness from ground
Teas, but still the coffees of the earth
Grind to dust the magmas of bent birth.
Copyright JDB 1999.
...LUNAR LUSTRE (after Philip Larkin)
At death, you shatter: the bits that you are
Start wheedling away, and
Life means oblivion: true, you've had it all but
Where the dream lies smashed, you learn
That death is the all of you. Or else
Is it something bitten in obfuscation which
Snaps the long photos of a killed mind?
Life appears whole: you've made it good
At least, in a spiritual sense, or else, obscured,
Murder delves the seas of liveliness, tried
by a circus of a killed mind which out-cries
Soft skirts and pigs. O, the moon speaks out
Aside all mad fools;- a gibbeting shout
Layers Life and Sex with a family of spies.
At death, you matter: hot tides that shape you
Appear crashed by a continuity of hot souls.
Yet Love moves oblivion: sure, you had it made
And stone seems scattered- there is no space for
The fractionated but a real life and true soul
Signals swaggered stars under bum-rolls which
Hit four winds of dust. Loud Dying reaps trust?
..
JDB 1997
...
MUSICAL WHORL
Still going, all of it, still crowing!
(Ears to speakers,- that sound of
The sky when it meets the sea!)
Tamed by noise, enormous airs
Grasp at a strangled voce machine.
A final tune, rigidly bangs where
The pleasures of music burn.
Still going, all of it, still flowing-.
O, the groups, the skiffling bands!
I search for sands and find a
Seaside pearled with purple tones.
The clear water smooths pebbles
With proud tunes roving from
The tunes of a dune-moon. Is it
Sense to find a radio attuned
To the shrieking of jazz-rain?
Still going, all of it, still going!
(Ears to tweeters, the woofers
Of a sky which sings for crooning.)
Raised by tongue-fire, gigantic strains
Drum aside yelped drakes and break
Opened opuses at fragrant drains
O the pleasure of music storms
The buttons of pure pain. Ahhh...
....
JDB 1997
...
CHEETAH
This one is a grail within the world but also
shining above us through all growth, all seas-
hiding in the petals, in the details of the veins and
the dancing of the leaves, here the cheetah comes. Past
the four-quartered winds, more, the five-fingered sun,
in each diffidence of waves, each diverse groove,
and, in all eyes, the fist. Lion or tiger, or
a bold child outspread, this one is holy, is
a feline with gears. Its veil spotted, its
ultimate poising posed
through intimate instinct raved and unapproved
and dashed dowm the flowers. So we see
maturation, freedom, the means of home
sufficed in the turning of a weal.
They gather in groups and chant, others write
vast poems to the Nephalim, some
tap or pluck instruments, and, all prepared to roam,
peak upon paradise and dive into
further elysiums, further honeycombs. The
cheetah rides upon their backs and bribes
each of them to wave at the running surf. In
Idylls, bring the hunted era down
into threadbare, broken plains. Eyes
register on conformers; breathe
alike to a moving sloane: through
lynching revels, here the seas
rise and crash on the bones
that see. Coursed,
with dunes, plashed and skeined
with octaves, synergies and tides,
for the cheetah, time is all and all
an engine on the rise.
...
JDB 1997
...
All Sanity is Purple (after Philip Larkin)
The hash-pipe breathes, the cedars dourly sway
And so 'Dear schizoid darling, I am afraid?'.
Funny how bad the madness roams.
I could wend half of my brains, if I wanted,
Rolling in the bones unburied, canted
Over to catch the ribald of a fix
Which is bred and fled from a petri-dish;
Just think of all the rare minds that have flown
Direct into madness just by being drilled
With hawks and stasis, rather the fast thrills
of lamplight, or the noise of the moon
Looking up and up through the floes of the moon
Thinned to a prayer-harked praise.
This life, unspun, is madly instilled.
'All sanity is selfish.' No-one just now
Believes in the mind or the mental stash
Talking to God (who's mad too); the big lash
Is the maddening of people who are nice to you,
Which means doing nothing, but somehow
Saying, 'All sanity is purple.' Are
these bad lines, then, vying for madness?
Vying for steeples and chapels that dig
Deeply for the 'devil' (who's a mad bad ass)?
'But try to feel, because, however sanely
Madness tries to show us how we should be
Appear infectious. A chuckle, too. Oh!
Only the young can be sanely strewn.
Their minds are shorter, shall be tamed;
Theirs is a floatless time. Now, see!
Sitting on the Ward brings us no light,
Brings us instead to darkest night.
Beyond the bones stand sadness and remorse.
'This is the fucking truth, of course?..'
..
JDB 1997
..
Poetry for the Damned (after Philip Larkin)
sometimes you hear, ninth-hand,
as schizoid epitaph:
'he just sheared off his ears
and went far away..'
and forever the voices will sound,
contagious and disproved,
this sad madness, this
patronising groove
and voices are right, i guess.
we all go mad
at having to be here:
i detest this tune,
its manically frozen junk,
the mad looks, the old beds;
this poor life, raping, screaming:
so hear it said
'He just sheared off his ears
and went away'....Let
this voice see you stirred,
let things like women crawling,
or bastard babbies on the prowl
assure of you and your calling. 'If
He did, She did'
It's words like this that say
'Yes, swagger the slut-spooned roads,
crouch in sex follicles
proud with patent shaving'..If
it weren't so confidential,
such a considerate step back
would not dictate an object,
but would stay the course:
mad looks, bad beds; real Life made
comprehensively NORMAL.
..
JDB 1997
...
ABOUT A VALENTINE BRIDE
(after Philip Larkin's Wedding Wind)
Can it be borne, this bodying-forth by dreams
Of ploys my actions turn on, like a thread
Carrying beads? Shall I be let to weep
Now this contextual mourning snares my head?
And loves must go and shut me, stirred
Lewd in candle-lightning, drinking rain,
Searing my face in time's fisted fireplace
But knowing nothing..
And now, inside the day,
All’s ravelled under the sun, craned
By the craziness I had -
Rape’s wind is blowing.
God has gone to look at floods and I
Carry a chipped pail to its caged kiss
Set it down, and stare. All is
Ponies strode alone, and I am mad
That any man or beast at midnight should
Smash this mind which lied my wedding-day -
And my apron-strings derive their blood-stained line.
My wedding-night and the flight of time
Enable doors to open, shut and fast,
But passion furls its hands around the drum
Of faith; and nothing else needs said.
..
JDB 1997.
..
Side by Side, Their Mindscapes Stirred
(after Philip Larkin's 'An Arundel Tomb')
Side by side, their mindscapes stirred,
The doctors and the nurses lie atoned,
Their doctored habits vainly shown
As pointed grinning, stylised leap
And that mad glint of birds
The minute tablets underneath rude sleep.
Such glibness of the mental lock
Barely rolls an eye, until
It turns their laughing gauntlet, still
Rasped about mind-ether; and
One sees, with a gasp of schizoid shock,
Their fans outdrawn, raping through sand.
They do not think to live too long.
Such wakefulness in litany
Is just a detail pity sees:
A mad-man's massed and melted face
Shrugged off in helping to prolong
The cocking veins amidst old lace.
They do not guess how early on
In our tortured, wasted life-voyages
The prayers must change, or come to damage,
And burn the gold patients away;
How soon those giddy pleading eyes begin
To flit, but not see. Childishly, they
Resist, blink, through kicking kinkered breaths
Of time. Crows fly, berate. Night
Each winter, hordes the past. A bright
Pittance of healing screws slaps the insane
Groan-gridded ground; and up from masks,
Grey friendless maddened pupils flame,
Washing true identity away.
O, now, crawling in the gallows of
An emptied, endless grave, blue laughs
Star-sadden the eyries of a busted brain;
Above these traps of misery,
Only rectitude remains.
Minds have transposed sin into
Closed coops. Their aimless impropriety
Has barely come to mean anything;
And our most manic, utmost wish is
What will survive us is purely dust.
..
JDB 1997.
..
ABOUT A SCHIZOID GOING (after Philip Larkin's 'Going, Going')
I thought I would pass through time -
A sense that, against the crowds,
There would still be sanity in body-and-mind,
Where the nurses shout and climb
Such flowers as freedom shrouds;
I thought I would pass through time
Mid deaths and desks and side streets
And mind-revelled cloisters, but suns
Have always split Man's thoughts so far;
And when the sane mind retreats
And when the bleak insiders come
I can only rethink every easy car.
The mad are fuller than we are, just
As birth will always be gone
However we kiss it about;
Wrap the brain around trees, if you wish:
The foam will be smothered beyond.
- But, what should I think now? That
The sane are freed? Or that minds thrill?
Easy it is to be too young, but
This mind must seen aged, and doubt
Must cede away all sanity and Love -
More times, more bad rages filled,
More sadnesses, more mental cuts. These
Are the drafted spectacles of us all
That we, at odds with Life, will collate
As five per cent of our thoughts (and nine
Per cent more in the inner mind) move
Our grave works into spoiling veils
(More, contusions!) For minds
Are criers; o, to get nearby the hot sea
Interns a mad sail...
It seems, just here and now,
To be maddening all too fast;
Despite all the flexed thoughts left teased
At this teetering instant i feel somehow
That sense shall never really last,
That, before minds snuff it, wholeness
Will think aside a gallows in the heart -
First truths, then surely blind gurus:
This roll in minds is all to hard to win,
Now that thought is a softly foaming art.
And this is certainly our sanity gone,
The meadows, the spheres, hot veins,
Our furling and uncurling, the
Scented and sensibly cleaned. There shall
Be sane looks; but all that now remains
Shall be for all time shot and laid bare.
..
JDB 1997.
...
MENTAL NOCTURNE (after Philip Larkin)
Now bright tablets lie dead upon screamed air,
As digress foamed rivers in raping rolled grind,
And massing sleep-driven breath is vein-visual
Of all the folded doctor's wrinkled flowers
That arise in confuted fusing white-coats now.
As from some syringed border filled and rare:
And from the writhing objects of the spooned,
A gross and ghastly light spills from the moon
And filters through faces every hour
From the vast; this starless, swinging tower
Blown down, forlorn upon a Maylit breeze,
Must break as we sit in these harp-strung trees
And minds will stop;- the thread of hatred cast
Sun jittering, looming to its shended end:
Vain nippers are parodies, our looted pasts
Beshriven with the turning of bended waves,
And this dark night, enberried with the throng
Of bees that burn and endragon nude hair,
Must storm the child enbaubled in the grave;
Our leastmost world, a killer of lost years.
..
JDB 1997.
...
A BESTIARY (after Philip Larkin's 'Plymouth')
A box of claws, a box of skins,
An ivory ringed pendant in a case,
An egg, a hat wrought out from pelt,
A museum room of an extinct race,
Pleas lie about the tomb, and daily shine
Where deadly hunters set forth for the night.
If they had honey wings of a feline life,
A living scent, all this has come;-
They are no more than chemicals, or dyes,
No longer living or calling to the sun,
Burned museless;- shivers of players,
Shivers of sods, once shrouded them
But were no understood.
The planners that use them rise upon a slick
And turn within a bestiary of spades,
gun-noticed, fit with a seminary of sick
Listed lifeless glades. Let them seem
As heated as the jungles they forsook,
Ill and ridden as maternal killing trades,
Twisted, rifled, cold and stifled
As deep as the animals blood saves.
..
JDB 1996
..THRU A GLASS DARKLY?
And no-one can deny
That love is more tedious than lies
Seeing the mirror of the third
When fearing time's cries
Creates behaviour a mind can't stir
I have slowed in my swagger to find
That death cannot ever ride
The waves of its occidental sea
The nut-strewn road and its cavalry
Refine lust and its plans.
Coins in hands work for a life
And regal banks are sworn
Dead by a majesty of man-and-wife
This thurible holds intense
Incense; so too, starved tears
Weep from their command
A mute space sears the bent
Cities are altogether shent
And no-one can deny
That love is more tedious than lies
The blind fo'csle inside this brain
Must swear till death dies?..
..
JDB 2002
IN FACT..
-in
fact, we've a lot in common,- if one inquires...
One can't put off true being till retired.
I
learn from truth as the bank I opt to screw
Saves madam-money and buys a regal nude.
So I looked
at others. They certainly didn't
Keep their faiths upstairs. A car and a sharp wife
Clears sex.
No man may ever learn to move
Death's mind, or else a bended thought must slight
Electric fished
kissing with a modern vogue
Of woman-child, rasping at the chapel-doors.
O the slums, the
canals, the loud churches seem
Sun-toppled under air, and air must breathe delight?
As if fact
had truly stabbed watery tears, then Life
Leads men and girl and child from Christs. It is
Intensely
sad........
..
JDB 1999.
JDB 1998
...
THE GIFT
My wife was delivered to my home
thoroughly boxed-in, like
a baby....
i bare my love for the gift-wrapped note
(please care for me: I am one for saving)
then roll my fists into contradictory angles.
A seashore snaps at my feet and eyes;
like virginal plaster, it depletes and foams.
I blow my nose on a silk night-gown.
My wife asks to kiss me - but to kiss is
to pull the world awry. Raising my arms, I
tease her about her addictional charms
till she makes her excuses to leave and
burrows into her box once again.
I lay my head on my shoulder
and step back to see
the world's design-
wintry shades of black and blue
cleave my vision forwards into darkness.
Then alarm clocks ring and circuits are
made in ther rooms about me. Soon,
dizzier than a rumour, i shall know
just whose wife i am betrothed to...
My eyes sting as I fall. Just behind the mind,
amidst the pubis, the venusian whey,
nineteen fingernails dig deep into the bone.
Should i set my lover free, or should i wait?
But then, the gift lies broken like a tree.
..
JDB 1997.
THE SUN IS ASH (after Philip larkin)
The sun is ash: the early morning fire
Retails its solder on the curtains, drawn
The day before. The milk's been on the breast,
The baby in the letter-box, since dawn.
Inside, the thieves have not been touched, and so
Bibbed mysteries and mental clots are seen,
With Governors, newspapers, rented hopes,
And cots of lettuces set in between.
But the waiting room is closed: thereby
Patients
from Green Gables die and take,
About the floor, a cell of smoke and wine
And sit in seances
of sight and rape.
They stare about them: through the regent walls
(The living lost, their
pale gold locks mauled down)
Read books and cartoons: 'Ulysses'; 'Hard Times';
Tom and Jerry,
Asterix and the Clown.
Retched out beside them, doctors whirl and weave,
Thighs and lips apart,
their chances rilled
With matrial dichotomy; they smile,
As beasts smile on the praise of doctors
killed.
The marvellous watch has stopped. The curtained fire
Burns on: the womb goes pop.
There, it grows queer,
A cast of thousands spills, and spurts away.
The only sound remaining
is the tears.
..
JDB 1997
..
The mad bards
(‘what do they think has happened, the old fools?’
Philip Larkin The Old Fools)
What do they reckon on proving, the mad bards,
To be as mad as this? Do they maybe retard
Each adult, even gesture, that they might rule
The circumflex of wailing? Don’t they recall
That madness is a matter that’s enslaved?
Or is it more that they have been connived
On a mode of thinking which enclaves the law
Of thinking? Can it be that they really side
With the wankers and the loners; that they rise
Each evening from their beds into a maw
Of blinking? If so (and it must be) it is mad!
Why in hell’s name are words perplexing?
In times, rhymes diminish: the words you’ve had
Start weedling away into a rackish doom.
It is only oblivion that saves us from the flume
Of arid wordiness and all it gives.
The rhyme in youth is riled by moons; yes,
Mental corrosion takes its time to wind; but
The lack of knowing, the lack of regal tunes
Is
all that makes the composed rhymester
Briar into contagion; so, see it’s so
That the brink
of being mad is all that’s left
Between the eager ranter and the flow
Of rhymefulness
into a mind bereft.
Perhaps being mad is having a lathe within
Turning and turning the mind
into the dust
Of idle moving! Say then, that it I so
That the times we spend in meditation are
Just proof of madness in the long-run.
Each mind has its own distinction and
In loitering annals, mental woes to stave;
But instinctively, the turning of a hand
Is final and enough to paint the grave
With instant ends: setting down a chair,
Moving through the lamplight- how despair
Whisks the compos mentis through its trends
And into time; more, the endless regimens
Of hours, seconds, minutes, weeks and years
Is
where the axis is at: this has to be
What deception and perception’s all about:
The peaks
and troughs, the highs and lows; the tears
Are here conceived into a rink of rhyme
That cuts
the brain to pieces as it rears
And shaves away the spheres into quicklime!
These mad bards
are not so foolish now –
Their distinct ways of seeming mad are fine!
See how their cranked
and crazy lips sniff wine
And slip their eager girls the Golden Bough.
..
JDB 1997
..'I neglect nothing' (re.Philip Larkin)
I neglect nothing -
Your furled scent, the bitter
tea,
The merciless maxims spurting
Diamate into the fire.
I conclude us both, like a Will -
The one impressed is me,
And you are filigree wrought,
Your stare as kvetch as desire.
(Now you must own no
friends -
With your head howled back,
Like a sightless toy, like
A figurine, you must seem closed.
Childless, your mouth is contorted,
Splintered, epileptic - mine
Is an ovum, disposed
As an idol on a grave).
You placed a cigar to my lips -
I, laughing, put out the fire,
Congruous and calm. Yes,
I recollect babies and flowers:
A slap about the face of death..
And then you quietly rocked
From side to walled side
and moaned
Like a gale of sadness starting.
……...
..
jdb 1999
...
1987
(After Philip Larkin's, MCMXIV)
and the knife-shops
and wynds
meandering to nowhere
the coins and pounds unsung
in pockets roaring under
sickness, as the day grows
greyer
than the Thames
that flows due north-
inside the skulls of men,
no answer is now heard
to questions passing under
funereal
mien, black as thunder.
burned by souls of children,
with the clarion heard outside,
each wedding, fluke must flow
from the mouths of women...
this is the word i heard
when god's man denounced
each
spurring bastard bird
the skies beyond the clouds
lay driven with the dead
and all i heard was real
tonight began to fall
and thrall whereat no fear
perfused the brightest eye.
never such itinerance
never before or since
has come to wipe away
the language of this mind,
nor in this barren place,
where terror slicks thick
around the tithes in heart,
might infancy concede
to charge the codes of love
whence life begins to find
the sliding
scale of rot
that burns inside the heads
of the hedons on the hills,
as the fields of london grow
crueller than the night
this
night beyond all seeing?
**
JDB 1996.
..
THE WARD
(After Larkin's
unfinished poem, The Dance)
Madness, sadness, scabs - all bad things, boy: far
too bad to be diluted by 'The Ward';
that simple, fiddle-browed pretence at each
atom of the thoughts that really....' But contusive speech
slows at my equally contusive brain,
that in the sharpened rivers sees
the games in maddened houses, maddened ruts.
Bright handles purr in the apple trees.
The sun is cold. The cities
are touch dry.
Syringe. Tablet. Needs.
All this, simply
to foam like a star?
Half-killed, half-companioned by the drill,
I
let myself by shambled spirit be haled
out across the skies and divots of the dawn.
No pretence now. Hard scars harp round the scorn
and man each reproach. The night has almost failed,
and the quaint rubbing pliancy -
some hand I have been mad enough to veil -
disclaims me from an upstairs window and comes
more than madly into my lure:
Mad, bad territory...
And, once more, the nurses, doctors, still
in their same old coats, charm-ballooned and chained,
the floors vibrating
with alarm, the
not you, not me on every lip. I edge amongst the boys
towards
a surface and, lacking lividity, poise
on its pledge - serviced, demured and calmed
by every tablet and injection,
emitting low squeaks and gleaning back to view
the whole melee of madness shifting, crowding -
and, with my peeple in the upper skies, lose.
Why cry? the scene is writing and loud.
Assemble socially, be entertained
by my sitting in this dress, in the rooms like these,
saying I cannot
think - saying more about when
I could Really drink stone, or, in bed,
listening
to the voices - be led
off into the shaking looks and stares, and then
beyond
the glistening hands, where glazed faces
swagger into violence at my sitting there,
and your lies greet me midst foreign spaces,
and your charms are disparate,
and I wish entirely for sanity
and moments on remand, by which the stacked
faces might move. Clumsily, though, as
something starts up, your look's embarrassing
and forever lustful: everything
I look for is deception - the red
ploys,
the clad-eyed girls, and through the doors,
the spinning
plates of dinners. Grown
less real than ever, this sudden place
strikes
me at once as a stage-name, or
a wasteground hard to tell truths by; I
feel
the impact, glib and raw,
of a tremendous yearning, answering back
as
if I had no questions. In the drugged
and snarled muse of the moment, beneath
cover after cover, I permit a few movements
of my head; you suggest eating, but
my chest is full of food, quickens and tightens
at the destinies of souls, at
each croft descrying of love. For
something acutely local - me
as I can only be - has taken you down
into something acutely transitory, like
the slightest touch, or impulse, or
deflection of the mind. Why
we act eternally,
why we snatch and cry, is
not the reason for the fingers, but
the reason we slacken together. I
am caught by your tears; they stand
effusive and lovely, where the band
strikes up another tune, and they,
midst tempos doffed, take small things
by the hand and fly. I wonder
whether this sudden place is all; I
wonder why we die. Then
I creel back to the stars, where they've
surmised that anyone thinking is dead, and
find you and a cup-of-tea shrinking and
casting off survival. Lost in music, then,
you look at me, as if bereft, and
outline me with sharpening altruisms, so
yearning, full and fine,
that I
cannot keep my step. This tense
elation is a turn-off,
though,
it means so little to the voices, and,
localised
in half-way houses, is
better of forgotten. Couples
now
arrive, leave gaps and cross
words with angry strangers, falter
and
cleave away. I lean forwards, lest
I go on swimming, and souse my throat
with
imminent smiles. How right
it is to look away, I do not know, yet
here
I stop and pray, and let
you have your innocent guilt bewrayed
to
switching partners in a stabbed, bad set:
how useless it is to invite
the
madman, how sad
to see my own life again! I ought to
go,
be gone, get going; instead
I let doctors tell me how they are
and
are going to be, and
sweep some coke from the kitchen, breathe,
and
lie in hectares of sand. You tread
heavily to The Ladies, and see
my
coat hanging subsistently, and
the chains and taps and basins falling,
falling
into the sun. Chuckle, please,
for now the doctors hum
a
merry, revelled tune, and go at once away.
See! they need pennies and pounds! I
ought to change when I see you waving, but,
until I have crossed your smile with a rumour,
I shall be first dark, then light. This
is the serious earth; its deep dark chill
is omen-laden and museless. Chuckle!
for now the wards lie, content and laughing,
down...
...
JDB 1997
...
HOSPICE
2 (after Larkin's 'Hospital Visits')
'One year to a hospice
This girl was conscripted,
where flowers hung on the wall
and skyless vases stung.
since she would soon be led
down to her father's bed,
they let her stay
where nothing was really said.
I don't know what was shared
in that hospice-hour; just
prittle-prattle,
i think.
then one day she vied
for a place among the screens
among the pictures of her mother; in
the dying place
she'd gleaned. for
moments, she spoke, but
nobody pried to see
how she had paused and tried
for a pew amidst
the dead. i sprang
five leagues from my chair. where
this girl chose to lie, her hand
starved a place in her father's bed and
stoked
a dread time along
each sheet of cancerous thread. so
summer had nearly ended and
the place where her father lay sponged
down
to the quick
summoned up the shoots of winter.
where the world lay wrapped in fists,
i sensed her childhood leave,
her
place of sleeping stunned
and her wedding dress conceived.'
...
JDB 1998.
...
LINES ON A MADDENING RECORD? (after Philip Larkin)
At last she yielded up the record which
once deflected, went into a yawn. All
rages, mad and glossy, all raves
were here constrained in one flit:
i must choke on such abrasive muses.
Your wicked eye hankers after a wicked pose-
in
ponytail, hatching out of sight and mind,
o for a fury, some sweet graduate girl,
or some heady, steely weight
beneath deep and breasted terraces, or
(Quaintly sucked aside, disturbed and cold)
you wish for control over rubric and coil,
not in the least disquietened by the loll
of
CD, tape, and veil, moreover,
the turning disc in its moil.
But, o, discography! as no art is,
sadness hears appoints and burns! each
vinyl cracks (like minds) and holds us
quietly in dismay, and when,
like fishing-lines, our schizoid temper
Shows the
ear to tangling terms, or
gives a wag to the old-aged centre
of music itself, we then shall learn
how needle and crackle are so much more
than simple, maddening things, but
Are in every sense empirically true!
or is it just the past that speaks, the
misty
parks and motor cavalcades;
the grief of Eden; the old-time bike;
the reef and sheath of heart and stave?
No. True, we go mad slowly, but,
sure of a present tense, we shan't
live in the passing of minds. This
is our seclusion - we must be crossed
with ageless manners
as we ail
And fuck into deadness. Without
a chance of consequence, we must go
and, balanced entirely, preach our doubts
against
life's breeze, against all odds:
if our one and only tune fills the time,
We must, cut short, be passed on surely,
no matter what, to whose future
beckons;
palmed and dry and holding our voracities
and listening to the record again,
that we may learn the truths behind complicity
And thereby tell all our friends.
..
In their bootless dreams among stuffed and angry sluices,
wet amid the tears and the cauls of timeless rage,
beneath the football coach and the sofa in residual,
haggling, bickering by, the Britons take the stage.
Theirs is as sleek as Cambridge, but obfuscates in France:
pompous as a polyglot, aggressively loud tongued,
welter-worn through suffrage, insufferably bad,
awkward on the terraces, they make their idle lunge.
Here, on foaming headlands, the mascot's drifting bruise,
lone in goalless eiders, runs the country down;
and the creeping bitterness, deathly cold and raw,
makes the world seem penitent and empty as a town.
It's said that they're the soul of every discotheque,
yet, like the troglodyted grave, their shag-n-lager fists,
as is the case with heroes, come charging dancing hard,
until, disdained by climbdowns, they eat up every kiss.
Buffetted and broken, these Britons shall not stay:
first cleaving then bereaving, their violent, parting swish
beholds no ties nor shoeshine: as pigeons in the park,
they know no place of permanence nor any eagled wish.
The mother and the father, contending with their vows,
in shirts and skirts of leather, contravene the grounds
of skittish, British motions; till soon, into the grey,
they step from the pavilion and out into the round
vanishing of children into the wicked maw
of those who're less a hooligan than idolated clown;
and, as the windows shatter in some subverted nave,
the Britons, scarred by smatter, regale a fascist crown.
From beneath us, the paint-stripping mind
Seemed to arc
A level screen across
Each wrack of mass. So much was down to time
That nothing, not even love, could please the boss.
That night, the nets were gathered in a line
Down seminary and cemetery plane:
But for the recent catch, no fish was mined
Nor hated shark enticed
To name the names.
But we were climbing, and, so sure of our sins,
Took solace in our scheming, working crimes:
It was beautiful: yes, much like our friends,
We followed truth down to
The seashore’s bend.
There were snapshots of our latest brother,
Madrigals, beginnings of timeless kings,
Harpsicords, bright litterings of mothers,
Maces, mitres, crowns;
All the regent trends.
The air was aerosol and, smitten, grinned
Round the arctic sun and on:
Unnoticed by the spheres, our earth was skinned
Down the tented town
And forever on.
Yet, later, when the spitted night grew old,
No law was found except in a rented grave:
Spiked, pointed down where fury tolled,
It was then that we
Found mad beauty crazed
And riven down a cold and buttoned aisle
Of hands, held out across a sea of green
And broken down into a sweated smile..
It was then that we
Forgot to dream?
..
JDB 1998
,..
LINES ON A HOT SEX RECORD
At last she yielded up the hot sex-record which
once deflected, went into a yawn. All
rages,
mad and glossy, all raves
were here constrained in one forced flit:
i must choke on such abrasive
muses...
Your wicked eye hankers after a wicked pose-
in ponytail, hatching out of sight and
mind,
o for a fury, some sweet soft graduate girl,
or some heady, steely weight
beneath deep and breasted terraces, or
(Quaintly sucked aside, disturbed and cold)
you wish for control over rubric and coil,
not in the least disquietened by the loll
of DVD, tape, and trap moreover,
the turning disc in its cunt-moil..
But, o, red discography! as no art is,-
Madness here anoints and burns! each
vinyl cracks
(like minds) and holds us
quietly in sucked dismay, and when,
like fishing-lines, our schizoid
rumpus
Shows the rear to wangling terms, or
gives a wag to the old-aged murmur
of music itself, we then shall learn
how needle and crackle are so much more
than simple, maddening things, but
Are in every sense empirically rude?
or is it just the past that speaks, the
misty parks and motor cavalcades;
the grief of Eden; the old-time trike;
the reef and sheath of cock and slave;
No. True,
we go mad slowly, but,
sure of a present tense, we shan't
live in the passing of minds. This
is our seclusion - we must be crossed
with ageless manners as we ail
And fuck into deadness. Without
a chance of consequence, we must go
and, balanced entirely, preach our doubts
against life's sleaze, against all odds:
if our one and only tune fills the time,
We must, cut short, be passed on surely,
no
matter what, to whose future beckons,
palmed and dry and holding our voracities
and listening
to the hot sex-record again,
that we may learn the truths behind felicity
And thereby thrill
all our friends?
..
JDB 2017
..
THE SCHIZOID SPREADING (after Philip Larkin's The Whitsun Weddings)
"That mad year, I was sectioned every day.
Not until around
Fifty percent of my mind had split and strayed
Did my contusive, empty heart turn round;
All
atriums drowned, all ventricles sacked, all sense
Of happy sanity in a rhapsody gone; and I ran
Beneath
the backs of wheels, stamped on the feet
Of grinding quagmires, felt the temples rock; thence
This
river’s revelled, drifting squelch began,
Where lies and blistering turpitude must beat.
All
year, through the sprawled minds that swept
For centuries inland,
A low and sloping word was
routward kept.
Loud skies went by, thought-straddled battles, and
Endless voices floating on
a cough;
A rattle smashed completely: pleasures dipped
And died; and now and then a spell of
sparks
Defaced each week of beauty, truth and wrath
Until the endless year, now crude and stripped,
Encroached upon a hospital of stars.
At first, I did not notice what a noise
The madness made
Each patient that I stopped at: time deploys
The dints of mental illness like a grave
And down the cold steeled wards, the groans and skirls
I took for porters hissing midst their veils,
And went by pleading. Once I’d slept there, though,
I heard them, grimacing and screaming; girls
In pastiche, torrid clothing, heels and nails,
All drugged completely, watching me flail,
As if out on the end of a scent
Raving
and complaining
To something that denied them. Lost, I bent
Backwardly and forwards, now defamed
And heard the horror once again and shrill:
The brain with bad welts beneath its boots
And furrowed foreheads; nurses proud and cracked;
An empire shouting Slut! And then the ferns,
The spitting gloves and tablets on the rack,
The cocoa, coffee, medicated flaps
Marked off from me, who was now all adrift.
Yes, from ward to ward
And whitecoats by the yard, and naked breasts
In the hands of detectives, the schizoid shores
Were bleating like a fiend. All down the mind
Fixed children danced abroad. My rest was ground,
My pale complexion lost and always blown,
And, as I moved, each waif seemed to define
Just what I saw contorting. Nurses frowned
At something killed; doctors had never known
A
madness so whole and purely chemical:
I shall not cry!
A million murmurs blasted up the way.
I killed the landscapes, splattered skies with sighs
A dinner then a brain-scan scuttered by,
And some dead baby drinking from a bowl – and none
Thought of the mothers they would meet
Or how their fathers would perceive the power
Of maddening fear. I thought of homeless suns,
The red-light districts and the milk in teats…
There I was trained. And as I raced across
Bright bolts of hail,
Past hang-manned bellmen, palls of mental loss
Flumed close, and I was nearly young, my frail
Unravelling plumescent; and what minds held
Stood ready to be shot with all the showers
That treatment gives. I slept again,
And as my brightened breathing furled, there swelled
A sense of seeing, like some sundering flower,
Sent past the night, somewhere becoming pain".
*
Copyright James
Bellamy 1997
*
INSIDE YOUTH
An assumption of a century
Ramifies endlessly
This thought of being young
Simply to get away
Would shift a night from day.
This pen strips paper
From totality..Tired
Words whimper from
radios
Petrified meadows
Darken death's mirror with
The Third Mind.
Eyes terrify aimlessly
This thought of
being closed
Inside Youth.
Here, there are feathers?
...
JDB 1998.
...
WEEPING FOR MADNESS
Weeping for madness, while time sat in prayer,
I looked down at the foaming and cortal shards
Once meant for thinking. Lithium lay thick,
But sent no light back through my guard,
Slunk as it was in mists and mimes.
Slain sites
and wired mistakes climbed up
Past tombs still gurning midst corrective rites:
I thought: 'I
am mad, I am wrought in lost night?'
Misconception: for my bones slept, and my wrists
Swaggered
up their hands, absolving and touched,
And hung like a starved breath; the mind burned on,
A
thin point of incitement; beneath its shards
The pallorless dial of day flamingly spilled
My
virtual world into the actual, my mad bad world
Like a dropping tear slammed at my heels again,
Entombing
my schizophrenic clutch. Turning, I wished for
Another time so easy, for a further happy time?
But,
rendered pivoting,
Buttoned as a coat of a mindless girl,
How could madness meet and lock and
race like rivers,
But never never choose. Am I jealous of it?
Will I forever confuse its rumours
and ends
With sanity, with sane things? This important life
Is at once part invalid, part rebel,
part saint -
Sadness is purely ethereal?
...
Copyright JDB 1997.
..
THE TIGER?
Behold the tiger in his torpor,
Who is all and all a world
To himself alone; whose anger
Stirs no more against Man's fold.
Nor
is ther tiger-trap and hunter
Quite enough to save the flat
Revolutions of feline thunder,
Who is namely distinctly 'Cat'.
Now let water spurt the ancthers
Of time's evolving urine-deeps:
Set a course for weedly anchors
And always despise the birds of sleep:
Then sail towards like a rider
Into torpid slaves
of palor brown
And, impelled by jungle-punker
Wear a lioness's torn crown?
..
Copyright JDB 1997.
...
ASIDE ALL THOUGHT
How lovely: the scenes that change and
The dreams of the young and old.
I should like to live alive where sex
Softens the sun, out of sight,
The colour of the moon. The fallen rain
Draws back the
incisors of night
To reveal a space where gladness cuts
Deep into the madness of the sworn
Fast fields of the dead.The foison pared
Reveals storm-delivered harvests.
With a magic scoop of this bad tongue
I must know the words that glower
Aside all thought; and words will kill
The salience of both man and child.
Walking
with deaths denies comment?
..
Copyright JDB 1997.
..
EASY RIDER
The rider in the rider's pit
I felled in the blink of an eye.
The revving engine is not slick
For more than a moment and,
As solid as family, each
Essence
of the rider's blood
Is whistled, wicked, rolled
Without much effervescence.
When I lay my teeth on tits
The hissing of the rider's rage
Are more affectionate than age,
More bitten than the rug of youth,
And,
accessed by the very young -
Reflected from a golden mind-
The rider eats his tongue,
The motorbike, the skies.
..
Copyright JDB 1997.
...
AQUARIUM
in every way, it has stagnated; each glass
spectre in the pitted room has been
rathed with lichen. as an aquarium must,
the finrot has cast the dreams away.
i
stumbled past it the other evening;
fell badly where it had lain
recumbant in the wind. it seemed
so idle there, where fish had once swept.
i remember when we used to muse on them
and how they made swirls within swirls
where the eager rocks were anxious
and the anemones full of spheres.
some day i will watch the fish again
from the glint in my bedroom window:
leaving the lamplight on to guide
the winnows of
their fins, i shall
wade into the dark and see
the nectarous second of water overflow
and you must be there, too: intimately swathed
by algae amd weed and fractionated food,
together we will enter into the minds
of fish, and then shall be fish forever,
with our sexual manoeuvres but a moment behind
and our gyring contentments drowned.
..
Copyright JDB 1998
..
OF LUXURY, FAITH OR BONE?
This is a time i shall not save
Any of my blue abandonment and madness.
For passion and purpose I have been a slave -
The truth lives in a circus, or
In manacles and masters striving for the ring
In endlessness
star-staved. This is
A time when I shall not visit my cage
For any bloodied mind but my own.
Past
Villas and villages notion screams
A lone cantata to the hills. I sit
As one who has no spleen to shift
Of luxury, faith or bone. Not
Content with the pissing fugue, I nail
My wavy manners to cliffs and climb
Extantly with roguish made-up screws
Cloth-buried in a city's grind. This
Is a time
when I shall not cast away
Any of my jacking bones. This very day,
I will suck from soft mud-glasses.
Inside a
Spiller's nail, i will pray and parry myselves
with abandoment and sadnesses -
O, I will scrape my mind-lease and
bury my ashy wrists in a slicing seasand.
Now, listen, you bearers, fearers, illers.
Upon a stagy sea of lies, I am not
Salvaged by the gal nude on the high hill
And I am razed from ratted grainy flowers
That lead facial faults in lovely lost mirrors
To suddenly fascinated death.
I
want painted pharoahs for a father..
When rivers of old edged horses sweat milk
My ash of a
spent mind will see salt-silk
Come coiling on a table just like red gaga
and my levelled quest
in the sun
Gets graized from levvies of lesbian sagas
and as skinned swaying sin dies, then
blurriedeness of fled navels will surely end.
..
Copyright JDB 1998.
...
GEMIMA (after TS Eliot?)
'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 a 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.
..
A MARRIAGE OF LIES?
Cracked like a dial,
the vows of wedded bliss
Spring the hurdled guns of veils misspent.
Time, as sadness rising,
breaks fierce bones
Of string-led hills devising thrills from spent
Horsemen, and the caverns
of furling christs
Spill the foals of heaven as mad hope shines.
Down fall the maddened weathers
of smoothed
Suns, and birds of faith defend the soothed
Sport this summer because endless nap-night
Tends from dead the hallowedness of bright
Rites. Ah, when shall marriage tend its fright?
Walked down the aisles of bride-taken smiles,
The ministries of noise invade decrial's tears;
And the shies of the red game we name 'Life'
Defend the fools of veiler's bliss, winter-piped
By gull cries. O, this is the marriage of the skies
And the drapes of Love defame drakes and die.
..
Copyright JDB 1997
...
MARTYRS?
There are always thin pecked rails thick with rain
Tripping out of some small, infernal town
Where houses stand erect and crapped as if
It would be slightly wrong to stop and found
Each lily direction of the fat wheels that go
Into traps, and, further, down the oily grain
Of winnows cast into the giddy widow-gown
Of silk platforms held in heraldry and skein.
The patterns roll in ghosts, and, calling wrecks,
Fold lovers in the planes of Paris new,
So closely held in manias and specs
That
nothing but the grilled will follow through
Exactly how the mists trill out of the ground
And
take take the tallow-porter further in
To willow, blade and cortal hangered sound
In heavenly
designers star set deep within
Where waters pass and cast down to the bone
Precisely what shit-entendre
passes felons by
And takes the minnow-mortars to the homes
Of hands and knots in mortal fevers
tried.
Afterwards, there is time to stand quite alone,
Each portal of the wisdom bit and gun-glazed.
So many martyrs are cast before the stones
That nothing but fled daughters seem amazed?
..
Copyright jdb 1997.
..
CURTAIN CALL
Why do you work in that curtain mill? Perhaps it is a highly kinked
And carousing desire to marry a pair of venetian blinds, or
Maybe something distinctly more twisted and sad, like
A blind-folding obsession that has metamorphosed into a
Sexual belief that oriental swags are the only
thing to care for?
I say that you and your saleswoman's charm
Are inextricably linked to peddlers
and pimps, for you and that
Shutter-sundered smile, and your switchback, cul-de-sac'd
Crackerjack
of a sales pitch are enough
To make the most noxious beggar puke and the wildest of call-girls
Frown..
So now, sweet child, I am telling you to listen -
Remember that time when you and I went partying for
rubber
Tupperware? The time when we fell into a surbitonic trance,
And never quite managed to
peer above the sills
Of our very own two-bedroom flat in Finsbury Square?
Well, I've said
my piece now, and it's up to you
To dig down deep for your haberdasher's scruples.
Then perhaps
these curtains call heebeejeebees'll end?
Or perhaps not. Perhaps one day I'll meet you selling screws
Behind the counters in B&Q's.
..
Copyright JDB 1998.
..
TO A 1970s THROWBACK
Why do you wear those
flares? Is it because your hipster's brain
Is resolutely locked on joining druid heirs
Whos
lentil-leaded tears are fuelled by soulfood beards
Whose ascent to joss-stick veganism's fabled?
Or
is it perhaps that you're deceived by New Age dreamers
And their tarot-tongued faith-healing
In
suburban, tofu-dentured climates,
Who, as they smoke the loo-brush of a life,
Cause the latest
heart to fart like a tie-dyed angel?
Whatever your excuse, you do not fool me -
I can see
right through your patchwork hair and your
Open-toed dictation to that bitch in office time
Who
does nothing but read "Which" when she is off the line.
For you are one of those women who shall always come
To a crossroads in your life, when you shall grow
Overly fond of Ann Summer's dildo-parties and
All the paraphernalia of eating out
In high-class topless bars and naked restaurants.
Yes,
child,
I can assuredly go on, but the chickpea truth is that you and I
Go back a very long way;
Go back to a time when bell-bottomed ravers
Wore satchels and lived beyond the sun.
..
Copyright JDB 1998.
..
CHANEL NO. 5
Idly perusing the topmost shelf in my local newspaper store,
I came across an advert for "Chanel No. 5". The advert was
Positioned just above a picture of two double-jointed schoolgirls in a
Lesbotic pose; a pose that was coyly entitled , "Fanny by Gaslight."
Looking once more at the advert
for "Chanel No, 5" I began to feud in
my mind over the Karma Sutra and the way in which it obliges young
Men to tie their testicular fibre into knots
For Tantric penetration.
It was then that
I saw the light - that simple ad. for "Chanel No. 5"
Was nothing less than another example
Of
publicly sullied purity paraded on the walls of gentleman's lava-
Tories or in two-up, two-down bedrooms, or in double-sided, sticky
Back plastic wallets whose openings are multifarious and amazing.
So it is that I am seated in front of a 1960s Pirelli Calendar
With a conveniently positioned jumbo display bottle
Filched from a badly managed Boots in Saffron Walden,
And in this state I ask myself why, in search for a surge of Buddhist
Karma, I am compelled, like Monroe
before me,
To prostitute myself to a fraudulent scent sensation.
*
Copyright JDB 1998.
*
GLASS ELEVATOR
Just begin to see the differences between you and me:
you are a wholesome girl, all curls and navy-knickered
graces,
while i am simply some boxer-briefed candodler from the
flagging factory floor
whose beer intake is larger than the averagy Viking Father
and whose belly breeds insights into liposuction
history.
Don't you recall that night in the topmost world when
all the boys were ingesting
Enid Blyton, while I
was eagerly perusing a muddied copy of "Rifle Enthusiast
Weekly? Can't
you even try to see that, while you sip a hot
saucerful of silkcut semiskimmed, i get blotto on a flask of
hombrewed scrotum ale, and
Seldom awake in the morning without a fully detachable,
multisurfaced,
man-made patent hangover?
Christ, sweet child, it's time to get going, time to
play a Leonard
Cohen LP while devouring a dish of Death by
Chocolate. Don't you see that this glass elevator we now stand in
is just about ready to break the revolting rhymnes
of Roald Dahl's heart? Hell,
i doubt you'll ever really know just how different
our backgrounds are - even if you work in
the woolmills of medieval Stoke Newington,
doubtless
you'll never really know.
...
Copyright JDB 1998..
...
ODE TO A BRAVE NEW MAN
He lives in occult city with a yogurt for a wife
and as he does his duty, his weapons pay the price,
and when she needs attention, he sits with thighs apart
and mourns the death of Kennedy
as Lucia breaks apart.
His life is put together
by
a nymph from MFI; nor does his eye for pleasure
give up the ghost, as screens, sky-high,
sniff
cycle-seats in Oxford
that some boney bint left far behind
when shaving their legs for leisure
in the middle of a cystic grind.
So it is that the vows of giving
bleat blindly at a menstrual wall
and flop in a film of sperm-innings
that shrieks like a pair of balls;
and, as he takes His siesta
from the centre
of a school-girl's eye,
he showers like a star in Fiesta
whose wickedness hangs like spies.
And he lives in occult city with a yogurt for a wife,
and tomorrow he's flying to Paris
with a joker named Jesus Christ.
..
copyright jdb 1998.
..
TIME'S TRAIPSE IN TRAMELLING
Time's traipse lies in tramelling
The clicking hands of life's lead-clock;
And the dream-zones of the dead
Trip with the flcks of cinematic lochs.
The rills of death compound with bells
The lakes of faith and her funereal
Dancer -
Thus the clothes of the second-hand
Rave with cages midnight's girl-christ.
We lam with loaves the painted stage
Of blood spilt and the live graves
Of hands, and dust-bled furies
Darken sex with time's gay bird.
*
We ring like a hand-bell laughing
At the comet of time's wrist
And blacken crowds with chiming
Comets smashed by silver
Chimes.
Though what the stars are asking
Dusts the clouds
with tocsins,
Raised, the bells of chanting
Shelve music with decrial.
And the man of swinging sounds
Contentment with the ground
Songs of the illing fields
Whence, noosed, the blorted
Spiels across the murdered yields
Barring sex from a drinking hand.
Ah, here there flows the spires
Of steeples salved by fires
And burned religion dies.
*
This shore of flesh shapes theft
From birth and bad hunger while
Ghosts spill the veins of deft
Darkness, and sad night spills
Death across a hill of smiles.
Ah, the icy flame of damp fire
Flashes
when eyes raise high
Minds; and vast embers ride
Against blades of cuttings; and
Lovely, when the sea-sky
Rains, then desposers of wet hides
Slatter honey-pulsing rooms where
Lips impose a glue of cries
And lipids lemon-burn god's wife.
*
I heard her speak from the beaks
Of birds as floods of music reaped
The crazing seas of loved hair;
And i felt with life's rare fall
The killer denyers of the sprawled
Easy day
This time is a very long time and
The beaks of birds will rend and
The cheeks of birds will swallow a
Delver of a cage; and night's flower
Tomb-catches dodgy messes with
A hurried passive movie in ripped
Bunny burners; and i heard crypts
Crying in an appled pippy chapel.
Veins
of passion fuse with gables
And crimes of time and its bent
Limb now a curried wind which seals
The slides of rivers under lost kids
*
Copyright JDB 2007.
*
WISECRACKS FROM HONEY
Wisecracks from honey delve the streams
And the brows of murder dance the smelt pines
Of labial changes, and the soffits of
Death charge the lungs of parting stills
And the baker of rides denudes from sex
A selfish cry from the oceans and the waves
Of hosepipe eyes whilst the snouts of rogue
Torn tights inflame the boiling of loud graves
And
graves lam the coasts of sickliness
Razed from the bones of one billion lays
And see now,
my children, scarring days
Roasting happy sleep with blinding laves
And see now, old women,
scarred graves
Carrying toady brawls where senses sweep
Daddy and his separating cum-groove
from
Doggy dusts and the faeces of a city gun
In this firelit isle, ringed with bluesing snow,
The dunny snapped hills chill a cockcrow,
And the skulls of easter bite aside a rose
And a bladdery xmas whistler uses crows
To serenade blind men with visual murder;
And a toady rodeo scoops skins from old
Cumudgeon men who open riven rain-cold
Ah, my sine has no sun but sunshine rains
Deeply down when scarabs under blue skein
Chant a blithe blue mantra; and odal drains
Define dolly fluff as a body inside purdah
Bullies latent grime with doggers of stained
Hot scrolls that lead pigs to essex-trains.
Uhh..
..
JDB 1999.
..
UNDER THIS FED CLOUD (because of Philip Larkin)
Under this fed cloud
where love was caught and killed
In the dills of a kiss,
Of attendant days and our dark in folly
Gluts from the candles of a sexed life,
Never shall my mind chant
The words of guilt-loaned sleep.
Now, when time defames the furled
Flush of wheat, seized oceans pearl
Against the dead, and this poet buckets
Followers
from a dead-end spread
And my words grew lucky,
And the sun, as slick as silver, tamed
Communion between two hollow eyes.
Love, my faiths grew fucky;
Preaches Man the bibles of the breath
And this groan not owned by love's dressing
Nor with the sands of a mood-swung moon
Oh, The carve-eyed convent of the Westend
Gets killed...
I own a ceremony of solved
Miracles and the chained-in scowls
Of Woman stride a turning stair
Whence, devoured, a fleecy prayerbook snares
Lipid lusts and her all-forgiven tomb.
O past lake and loathesome revelries
The dodging parkers of ald gad's sticks
Prick up leaves and flail.
..
JDB 1999
..
AND THESE BAD WORDS I WRITE
And these bad words I write
Rout nerves and
fly against
Flying space where clocks strike
Twelve.
Inside, the vines of spent lace
Bind mouths to a sea of second
Gifted fabled hands.
Ah, boys, sent under coppice, crack
Faces with skin in a bulb;
Long dead, the spheres parry spat
Loaned lives while ticking the reined
Cathedral of a wasted harvest moon.
*
Copyright
JDB 1998.
*
'Sweet As the Madness'
Sweet as the madness's night-kissed spiel,
Mad faith, and darkness as a blind as a rat,
With an ease of surrogacy, here now falls,
As smooth and whistling as a drowning cat.
Irregular cries on the wind now mean
No more than whatever went before,
Chime
with the trees and the seeds of the grave,
Grave images, grave prosperities and,
Those gleaning
whispers of the briaring reeds,
The grave's exertions of this Man.
With rain's coming comes
the going,
Mania's faces stare out at the day;
Smiles on white teeth redoubt time's blowing
-
Coldstone to code-stone, night's kisses decay.
Unchanged by unmoving, unmoved by unchaining,
Sweet is the madness that warfs through the mind,
Mad voices drown the day's deep raving
And corner the cruise of time.
Companionship with madness has turned
Each flaring corpse into a friend,
And there are more friends if you shall look:
The maggots feeding off dead-ends -
The buzzards with abrasive beak,
The
red-necked cherub eating seraph-rhyme,
The skeleton in its naked heap,
Friends of night and
friends of time.
Mad spielling creeps through tunnels and
Through the arks of evil sleep;
The sounding fever of the hand
Curtails the minds of weather's leap -
Maimed by men and killed by smiles,
By the lifting of death's hand,
The madness comes as a foaming child
And snaps across England. This is
The
place where fever passes and,
Soft palmed, instates a place to bleed.
Now never may the mad
man span
The lunacy that bleeds. Wherefore
The eagle bites on eyrie wire;
Where metals mash the eyes of God,
No simple dream may end the fire,
No stream act as rhyme's red rod.
From empty shore to empty beach,
From acrid pageants in lazy sand,
This is the Law that time must keep,
Or never calm
or never hang?
*
Copyright JDB 1998
*
BUTT ON THE LAKE
O where once moist reluctance blooms, then old bloods at last
Begin to blossom in burgeoning hired glass.
Furred Christs spill fingers for the winters of a bible-past
Though mean snows are spun, and every single mask
Is seen to fellow old burrs and burials. Trees appear vast,
But on the lake, moonish flocks cry weirdly as gilt flasks
Decant summers where autumnal scissors cut girl grafts.
Soon, in brightened glades, swung palaces will be outcast
Under starwarmed sex masts: yet youth is no longer bright-
Timed, swelled youth once flared but now ignites
moon-life
With belled boards and beds and bird Christ.
Of weird noon-times, lilac milk will
bloom as strangled stripes
Dim to distance all sever-ending dogs when rosy rites
Exist for just
dumbness or else some baited bitter blight
Where wakeful wilful wept beauty encounters bellied bites
And, inside gold, we suffer song as soulless tree mites
Utilise city microphones.
Soon,
and for certain, a wood-enchanted crop of cold bones
Will serry skeined spires with beautiful gun-gloamed
Blorting blithe bubbling city cloned
Market-squares;
And we at first seem savoured but
now fed to drones…
We have had our shadowed times
We have held our mean lives to mind
mines…
Where first we awoke to beauty then cause and regret
Dulled us, - vast villas
under unencumbering blind debt
Ravel into serpent signs
And when we think of bodies, then closed
sex
Covers cunt in lashwide tits and wet death.
...
Copyright JDB 2005.
....
HOSPICE 3
At an instant. No, no,
Where my bed slept on
In endless tramelling, down and down,
I fell into my mind. So,
I cannot say my bed was mournful. No,
I must reveal that I
Was somehow caught in transits under
Some long luminary phase. Where
My bed moved, I gasped about a flower
And held it to me. Just like the dead,
I was sainted with petals; and I was lost
Under blurred cognition, like a cross. Then
The Sister spoke, said some horrid words
That could not be heard in the ear, like
'Suffrage', 'Marble', 'Fear'. So I
Wet my bed full on, made rude signs
Under stickers and frontal snippets, at one with
All of me..
and Christ rode and spied on my sunken sheets
Under opened hospice-fire; and I laid
Fully clothed upon the flames, alone
With reading lamp and stormy book, screened
By a rolling corpus of terminal bone, stoned
Like a junking baby drug-trade.
...
PENETRATION
Slouched about the shoulders with my father
coming through the door, i heard the bell;
'Enter in. No-one can care much what you do
just as long as you penetrate from behind.'
Falling
through the floor, i had to snigger
at my father as he blushed and grandma cried.
Yet, three
or four years later, when the rain
came charging from the skies into the eaves,
i heard the
selfsame thing said once again
from out the wind; 'Just put it up me now....''
And so I'd slide
into my girl
amd pace the floor for fear of falling down.
See how the minute matter of sex
writhes:
last evening, slouched again, i wrote these lines;
i felt as though the world was set
to suck
the whole of me into penetration. What
a prodigy it is to think the world
against the sea and time through sensual thought:
the muttter of lithe voices, the body's sighs,
the patch of breath that mists around the limbs
of loving courses. Should the shy
innuendo of it all collide, the utter truth
would prize into the ground...
'Come in, my boy, come in.' But i am almost drowned.
© JDB 1998
the muddy hands that gripped the nail
flopped in splendour on the latch
and opened like a tail.
A whistle blew along the spheres;
next door but one the nursery flew
down through strangenesses endeared
to those who sire the blue.
Treaded neat in tiny skies,
amid the museum's bloodied news,
so much excitement was revised
and sidled into view.
Large hands lift him from the nail;
incited music holds him there;
the eyes that open note the sail
that cleaves away his scaly air.
Now see his puzzled head grow long
in mazes of a miracle
by notions of prehistory's song
revere the reptile's pistol.
In those empty, silent hours
a scarring panic was foresworn,
with furry cowls and lotus flowers
in nitric hatred stormed.
And all of you who ever knew
or prayed to christ at all,
now meet the sleeping reptile
whose sprawling ways appall.
*
Copyright JDB 1998.
Takes sweating in the antiseptic dark,
Nothing to do but read the news,
Before and after, with nothing spared, and,
Of course, it takes needles, syringes, thread
To hold the melee together.
Like Tracey, who confessed she'd eaten cum
One legless night when her 'Ex'
Fired arrow, even the bastards get belittled
And campaign for that bright pane
Of glass overlooking the canal. 'Riverside!'
Snaps the soldier. 'Riverside!' snap the guns.
For this selfsame mark of hatred
Is flayed for things like love and fate,
More, for the sludging waters of
The sea..In tangled, eerie paint
The fool on the hill goes forwards and
The fool on the hill goes back.
..
Copyright JDB 1998.
THE SCHIZOID SPREADING 2 (after Philip Larkin's 'The Whitsun Weddings')
'All
year, through the sprawled minds that swept
For centuries inland,
A low and sloping word was
routward kept.
Loud skies went by, thought-straddled battles, and
Endless voices floating on
a cough;
A rattle smashed completely: pleasures dipped
And died; and now and then a spell of
sparks
Defaced each week of beauty, truth and wrath
Until the endless year, now crude and stripped,
Encroached upon a hospital of stars.
At first, I did not notice what a noise
The madness made
Each patient that I stopped at: time deploys
The dints of mental illness like a grave
And down the cold steeled wards, the groans and skirls
I took for porters hissing midst their veils,
And went by pleading. Once I’d slept there, though,
I heard them, grimacing and screaming; girls
In pastiche, torrid clothing, heels and nails,
All drugged completely, watching me flail,
As if out on the end of a scent
Raving
and complaining
To something that denied them. Lost, I bent
Backwardly and forwards, now defamed
And heard the horror once again and shrill:
The brain with bad welts beneath its boots
And furrowed foreheads; nurses proud and cracked;
An empire shouting Slut! And then the ferns,
The spitting gloves and tablets on the rack,
The cocoa, coffee, medicated flaps
Marked off from me, who was now all adrift.
Yes, from ward to ward
And whitecoats by the yard, and naked breasts
In the hands of detectives, the schizoid shores
Were bleating like a fiend. All down the mind
Fixed children danced abroad. My rest was ground,
My pale complexion lost and always blown,
And, as I moved, each waif seemed to define
Just what I saw contorting. Nurses frowned
At something killed; doctors assumed the real?'
....
Copyright JDB 2004.
....
'I BLOW MY NOSE ON A SILK NIGHT-GOWN'
I blow my nose on a silk night-gown.
My wife asks to kiss me - but to kiss is
To pull the world awry. Raising my arms, I
Tease her about her addictional charms
Till she makes her excuses to leave and
Burrows
into her box once again.
I lay my head on my shoulder
And step back to see the world's design-
Wintry shades of black and blue
Cleave my vision forwards into darkness.
Then alarm clocks ring and circuits are
Made in ther rooms about me. Soon,
Dizzier than a rumour, i shall know
Just whose wife i am betrothed to...
My eyes sting as I fall. Just behind the mind,
Amidst the pubis, the venusian whey,
Nineteen
fingernails dig deep into the bone.
Should i set my lover free, or should i wait?
But then,
love's gift lies broken like a tree.
..
Copyright JDB 1999.
...
..
DIRECTLY FROM ABOVE
'One wants the choice where
To build, to select prayer;
One asks the poise of air
When, faulted, towns turn
Dreary, filled with fear
And one’s girl’s a dolt.
Having missed the skies
Bound, contained, lies
Call on an uncalled day
For personages spurned
Scruffy or else stayed
Yet wisdom creeps more.
Your person, your place,
Thinks on midnight spaced
By ways of blinking, traced
By mashing mindlessness;
And glibness interacts
With slick sickles borne
Above a vein of fact.'
..
jdb 2000
..
QUEASILY SAID
The silence of thought cracks
The bones of a mind brought
Queasily into the beaches of
The muteness formed from
Lips pared back by these
Words, refined to change.
Penitent, the children gaze
Out at a strangled town.
Innocence lies bastardised
By eggs, broken in the
Hands of a spade-cock, cut up
Where its hands weep.
The pit-head is permafrozen.
Lust weeps from its hot chill.
The villagers are opened?
..
JDB 1998
...
I Could Spend Most of my Times
I could spend most of my times
Laughing at the shattered lies
Of life; but living bears
A strangeness man may never
Share. The softness of love
Aims to slumber where sex
Denotes no dreams, and time
Lives for its own self-gain.
My home has no facade
To own. The quietus made
By the colours of razed
Light bricks in the whole
Boiling of discontented lusts.
I could spend all of my times
Guffawing at the tamed
Trips of pitied women.
Windmills trip inside
The minds of the sullen
Solemnity of the dawn.
The softness of love
Aims to slumber as sex
Ignites the dance of death.
Awaiting veins, this soul
Trips the floor then dies.
..
JDB copyright 2002
..
The mad are fuller than we are, just
As birth will always be gone
However we kiss it about;
Wrap the brain around trees, if you wish:
The foam will be smothered beyond.
- But, what should I think now? That
The sane are freed? Or that minds thrill?
Easy it is to be too young, but
This mind must seen aged, and doubt
Must cede away all sanity and Love -
More times, more bad rages filled,
More sadnesses, more mental cuts. These
Are the drafted spectacles of us all
That we, at odds with Life, will collate
As five per cent of our thoughts (and nine
Per cent more in the inner mind) move
Our grave works into spoiling veils
(More, contusions!) For minds
Are criers; o, to get nearby the hot sea
Interns a mad sail...
It seems, just here and now,
To be maddening all too fast;
Despite all the flexed thoughts left teased
At this teetering instant i feel somehow
That sense shall never really last,
That, before minds snuff it, wholeness
Will shrink aside a gallows in the heart -
First truths, then surely blind gurus:
This roll in minds is all to hard to win,
Now that thought is a softly foaming art.
And this is certainly our sanity gone,
The meadows, the spheres, hot veins,
Our furling and uncurling, the
Scented and sensibly cleaned. There shall
Be sane looks; but all that now remains
Shall be for all time shot and laid bare.
BROADCASTING 1
But the Quietus shaped by thieves
Broadcasts from a churchyard sleeved
With coats that serve as muscle.
The wavebands glowing overpower
The rabid storms of chording where
Your child hands clap against the air.
Beautifully devout before a spent
Cascade of money pours from out
A vast resettling of drums. Thence
Begins the mental struggles of arcane
Girls, who may not dance upon a floor
Nor faces inside faces prick music.
Vast Sundays and organ-frowned spaces
Leave dark emptied trees behind
Seas, where sotto voce tames the race
Of gaoled men; and the sureness of
Faith will dive into the bays and quays
Which seem too straight or still-born.
The light of rock attunes to sound
But this noise contests the altar-lit
Grounds of life’s lurch, groomed with
Minds which govern sadness from ground
Teas, but still the coffees of the earth
Grind to dust the magmas of bent birth.
All but the outlines of the web-stilled
Withering plaudits of this world
Meet gloves dropped by shone shoes.
We listen to a raving violin as
A voice of crooning applauds wind
And then the sadness of decrial.
*
Copyright © JED Bellamy, 2006
TODAY, IN THIS GARDEN
Today, in this garden, lives swing
From
apple-boughs and strung
Wings that beat the air without
A sense of pure air;
Thus, when sick, veins snare
Blood from a face of drought
O, magical wheat drowns hair
And a red-bedded bone-gun
Shoots
soft blinds with suns
and a waker of waxed lungs
Reproach, with grief, old prayer
Today, this earth and its lays
Storms a petrol kiss where graves
Hollow into blind tits; and laves
Loosen lissoms into old hair
The scars of light drown us in
Never-to-be-forgotten hot skin
And, in this garden, lives
spin for
Indigo men who dance like wars
.
Starlets, shrunken, scissor slaves
And a bulb of violence cuts trades
And, O, a bony bladder-blade
Brawls for adders; and slayers
Snip Dom Daniel with creators..
Inside god's tavern, razored from
Jacked Judeans who stun gunners,
I see a clicking mind made old
and me and Isis folds under gold
.
Today, in this garden, lovers roll a
Candy for a neck as mothers toll
A daisy easer Mind with cold molls
..
uhhhh
*
Copyright JDB 2007.
*
I LEARNED THE WORDS OF ILL
I learned the words of ill
And my tongue held a secret;
The show of arms and rubies;
What had been alive was ground
Down, to entirety's chase.
Now,
the declension of
Sex must sound from a sun-forced
Light, that snaps
Bays from the rays of night.
Thus, forewarned, the morbid
Words of this earth
Lams with rides the strange
Fields of killers where
Time harvests fuck's empery.
I saw my words stand tall?
*
Copyright JDB 2007
*
THE WORMS OF TRUTH
I hear the lover's bait
And
fed lust's woes
And the love of late
Aex defames the crows
Seen outside my window.
Ah, when shall the seized
Boys
of passion speed
Down, where birth sprees?
I heard a brother's bait
And fled lust's clothes
And, shrouded, late
Worlds
had children or
The worms of truth
Get bombed by rills
The sense of enamoured
Waves...
*
Copyright JDB 2007.
*
EYE-LIGHTS
Deploy the red sun nor rate the moon
Nor sunder back our blue-razed face.
Neither let the mad refine the trees
Which fail, nor find the gold void with
This Man who gropes after leaves.
That the world be done, ravel cars
Inside
the mind of roadways scarred
And flail with wheels the trainyards
Of coffins driven by three
hands.
As to the space of woman's frown
And her burning stricken sound
The Christ of deaths will tame death
And let this be verse made emptied
By eye-lights and smashed grey hell.
*
Copyright JDB 2007.
*
AND THESE BAD WORDS I WRITE
And
these bad words I write
Rout nerves and cry against
Flying space where cocks strike
Twelve..
Inside, the vines of spent lace
Bind mouths to a sea of second
Washed hands.
Ah, boys, sent under coppice,
crack
Faces with skin in its bulb;
Long dead, mean spheres parry spat
Lines and ticking tamesd the rained
Vile hairnets of a fat harvest moon.
*
Copyright JDB 2007
*
LIES BREAK WHERE NO MEN GRIND
Lies break where no men grind.
The shallow faces of this red mind
Derive fled faiths from love's blinds
And lies break
where no men whine.
Ploughshares snare loud prayers with
Lines of lime and time's green crib
Drives from the vitreol beast snapt ribs
And infants will dazzle deaths with rain.
Oh, here there are geegaws spat
Down in a drowned pool that flays
Sweat-dance in the arse of tar-stains
and the lovelorn in killed devise
Sex jerkered loaves then go die.
*
Copyright JDB 2007
*
STARS, REPROACHED BY SULLEN GRIEF
Stars,
reproached by sullen grief,
Doped by sadness, reap the veined
Fields of the forgotten killed.
Meadows, spanning fled words
And the stream of birds, devout
With aped dust, declaims swerved
Sperm; and faith planed nudes.
Eyes appear vacant and midlife
Foams under fields of the maimed -
Also, the sickness
of the stilled
Lays down with the horse-slaved
Whirring birds and show is flayed
In the face of a tremulous void.
*
Copyright JDB 2007.
*
A MOTHER WRITES TO MISCARRIAGE
cupboardised, my dear, before and after, to date,
cherries have communed among the tired
windfalls; each scarce, each a kind awoken before
their abrupt stalks have lightened to survival.
demands are rosaries in them, who, had they sought religion,
would only have heard the huge between here and
nebula, squeezing tight beneath their
seats. as prayers for monsoons in Mongolia,
they answer the earth with a rigid sanctity
restless to grin and spread a dumb marshland,
outward, idiot, aborted. how we think of them
does nothing to slow their immensity. they shall descend
in every weather. slack with aching jaws. slack with dwelt
meditations of incompetence. hoarse thinking voices,
stiff through pictures that persuade that Absolute Feeling
which unknowingly stems from a brother or a cousin
pushing swings in the dark a hate you ago.
for a few, life is not sensed. but most live in life
and most sing the few
to lift and lighten as a life, so writing
that you are is no betrayal of a decalogue
nor a libel in the Common Law of Man. but, remember,
dropping, communed among the tired, before birth
is unripe to unripeness, and must distress in man
the warrior who seeks out the scarce and immense
as the winds scour the cupboards
springcleaned amd shore-accorded
to the strickenings of female loves.
And thereon the difference done by you
is unique and fitful my heart,
for you must choose
to flourish in trees
as nativity's forgiven martyr.
*
jdb 1991...the above poem achieved a poetry award c/o
The George Macbeth Youth Poetry Prize 1992/1993.
*
...
'THIS POOL HAS SADNESS'
This pool has sadness where the peoples' tides
Tame their waters with mad currents when
A verse of rivers dams the rills of brides
Ravished
with their own blood-heated-drain.
(We hear the brooks of darkness spend away
The silky dawning
of death's droning prey)
And the Quietus shaped by sail-clad rapes
Lams the teas of bays defined
inside the grey
Waters. And we ride love's oceans for the
Rude purpose of a circling wed-mad-war.
The travellers of cakes coast inside coves
Lamed by deadness; and bald bulrushes bare
The crowded waves of bitten men consoled
Within blue lanes of urine where the sun's stare
Bothers into bleedingness lust's defaming chair.
O, death, this simple man who rows from lead
Has an aimlesss dampened whisper in His Head.
The clock ticks for the price of a bound moon's
Mad shakers- thence, the privates of the bright
Night-campaigns for madness under soft tanked
Winter-sunshine-believers
And from sunshine to the roaring Norfolk Broads,
Loss speaks eyes where music has receivers.
Lo, as ambrosia seeps into sweets then killers
Moisten a swiftness of Christs who dare not roar
.
This side of an egmail,
we spend secateurs
Down and up a hill where loonies under birds
Harden and die for rest...................END?
*
'IT SEEMS RIGHT NOW' (1st draft)
it seems right now that everything i do is fiction-
when once i trod true life
then it seems to me that all life has lost to
impassable dramas
o a bed of dreams has
me sweated. Odes
swing for lies
& i realise now that everything i do is
as false as the life i led
when dying in a kitchen.
bad dramaturgy has no hand on me - La
grandads of grandmothers flail to
shoot
a faking target
as i walked the queasy stairwell to the attic,
i found a giddy dead girl
son-hidden somehow.... Coded pearls
squirted gold about my dead worlds
& it appears now to a mind perhaps
that everything men do is hot hard fiction.
sad dianetics have sweated under us
- as we lean inside midlife, then dust
gasps for a rammed rose
o a stabby sauce road uses car-crusts
to run a dead
man down.
the guilty orchids in life's garden moves
soft flowers to green tears
&, naped, a triller of sweet fears soothes
dragglers of baby-shapes
, eyelids hear
visual banisters scaling a nihl-fear
&
we romancer for bumpers as dudes
drop life's stitch.
we have woven a woolly past for
silver lilly men
, we are never chosen for whores
o as we are bred on wards
keen death is forever opened?
*
STARE AT THE BARD
Stare at the bard: compare
his difficult poise with that which
reposes in concavity and spares
no notice of the ordinary. this simple glitch
is no heir apparent to the stars,
and
the corporol flare
that hereby spars - say it is a louse
that crawls an umber skin and
achetypes the diamond in its house-
signals no reason.
firstly, sense the hands
that whisk across the eyes: here is
the
empathy of the seasons: nearby,
a half-finished apathy constrains and spires
deep where womankind
is rejoinder.
is it his sense that sires alone
along the rhythms of his sullen death?
or is it more the music in his breath
that cascades roundly down
into the neckties of his glory?
no, the hatchet truth is
that, with all his drapery and spine,
like a great hellhound, his is
the inchoate revelry
of a time
that has gone to seed
and on into vacillation,
the automotive stigma of his style,
together with the whistling of his lungs,
has herein communicated with a wild
deceptivity. now sense the child
that has held him open: there
the widening and stammering of he
who was once a lord and
lore unto himself,
helters by and vanishes
sweetly where musing must despair.
mastiff is he who has less
writer than autoclave: bastard is his name
who, when born, was furiously blessed
and stamped with a jonquilled flame
that flinches at the sight of a breast.
*
THE RECUSANT GIFT
Of all the gifts i found myself giving -
Giving in anger, joy, or grief,
Waking in a daze to find the Xmas tree
Adorned with plates of mouldered silver -
The one that finally cast my friend aside
And,
perhaps, made my lady leave me,
Was the gift I gave from out of my heart;
The recusant gift,
the gift without a soul.
Fifty years old, cold and lacking presence;
Then was the time I wished
to be wanted:
Natural phobias in ageing patterns -
Such things were mine to make, and
Such things were mine to make my own -
Hardbacked in my coffin, better known as bed,
The recusant gift was all I seemed to muster.
And yet, I feel there was some satisfaction -
Satisfaction being coded by
What fears were mine to cherish and acquire -
In giving the recusant gift, I knew
That, at last, the Man within
Had been subvented; indeed, made to seem
At least as something beyond death's comprehension.
So, as I wake now in some background stranger's room
And listen to my dotage
Come
whistling at my baby's window,
With these tall words, (or are they more veiled tales?),
I make
my way into the sea of souls,
Once more desiring to give a heartless toy,
To give my one and
only anecdotage -
My purse of a body and its recusant presence.
.........jdb 1998
....
They Do Not Guess (About Mental Illness)
"They do not guess how early on
In our tortured,
wasted life-voyages
The prayers must change, or come to damage,
And burn the gold patients away;
How soon those giddy pleading eyes begin
To flit, but not see. Childishly, they
Resist, blink, through kicking kinkered breaths
Of time. Crows fly, berate. Night
Each winter, hordes the past. A bright
Pittance of healing screws slaps the insane
Groan-gridded ground; and up from masks,
Grey friendless maddened pupils flame,
Washing
true identity away.
O, now, crawling in the gallows of
An emptied, endless grave, blue laughs
Star-sadden the eyries of a busted brain;
Above these traps of misery,
Only rectitude remains.
Minds have transposed sin into
Closed coops. Their aimless impropriety
Has barely come to mean anything;
And our most
manic, utmost wish is
What will survive us is purely dust."
*
copyright jdb 2021
*
CITY OPTICS
Clad in stacks, blurred beneath the sun, they were
Blinking along the new street's mind-opus
With lashes raving, red pupils eerily pressed;
And they strobed before them carp-lidded dreams
Of consternative skatings, they were
Busted, bludgeoned out over a viscous slit-ocean
They were headed groundwards, for the mind's pledge,
Then back to Oedipus, with a heliocoptic tit-a-tet.
Beside the sea-front, hard and granite-angular,
Bled jaws broke easy as a loan-drawn movie-scream;
And out beyond our endless collidescopic law,
Like a sex-diamond, flashed behind swift vaseline lenses.
Out on the verge, skein-veins, in pulled spastic trucks,
Lanced at the ebb of a swift vitreal noose,
Shimmeyed into divermen, wealed and made ope
As a lovely blood-disease, man-mutable as cancer,
Glowering their stalined graft-cells underneath
Akimboed telescopes and thighed-in matchstick chasms.
Which, like a shimmering bullet, nose-flared up
Far through the slitted head-skies and glue-glassed
Eaten anxieties in a hot ditch inside a firework pedestal,
Spuming into cut rosettes of haggling car-powders,
Stained at the utmost tip of an intimate, farther reaching
For red gas and sweetening entrenching heart-gloom.
Beneath it all, the brainpiece dromed and fumbled,
Lithe sprawlings from thought-plasts, the scum baths bang
Of bone-gangs, rattling under pissed eye-wrangles;
The peekling, peering vole-tramps seen behind soldier-sheds,
Scrawling isotopes against a god-mind's grinders, just like
A plaintiff sod effigy come from cunt-drained
pipings. O, the
Eyes, skating, slathering into intimate recusance,
Holding to a permafrozen
blink until the darkness of the masked
Squeal from third-sights that lay etherised and swollen as
A
weekend enactment of glaucomic pornsex bed-monoxides.
And two blind mutilatos, raping sadness with evil Irises,
Puling under onion-sockets, slyly deriding mother's easy flare.
Copyright JDB 1997.
*
THE YEARLING
The garden, circular in its mute approval of growing,
Stormed beneath the moon, reflected night, dying.
The lawn-drawn heroes of the sun gone to dust.
Red as a star-rise, combing flowers, dreaming long,
Each bud, each bulb, each of bob of vehicles beyond,
Screaming, droning, bearing news to city cremators,
The cold-frames of buried evening, astonishing, bright blue.
Beneath the roses, the yearling lay, serried and facedown,
Its grey legs sprawled, its coat in drowned flux, spastic,
Each reminder of all sex-infancy, a proof of
porn graffiti,
The white-walls, all around, imprisoned in a woman's mind.
Each childhood impulse,
burnt to siren-death, dementive.
So the cruel customs of evil men who rape their women,
Deadened
at vein, digging after vegetates, defective,
Each fruit-spray from a nose-hose, a menstrual waterfall, flailing,
Each cul-de-sac of dun fertilities, a cage of phallic soil.
Beneath the roses, the mute yearling lies, buried, face-up,
Its grey legs shawled, its coat of domed muck flux, moiling,
Each shuck of living skin, dug deep as any cool graveyard,
The muscle china tombs beyond, as ancient as an active pithead,
Proving the house on her recusant whore-hill,
phantasmal, old,
The mesmeric mimesis of a kid woman, while bewitching sadness.
As mean as any
true meadow, schizoid, contusive, shining.
Copyright JDB 1998.
OUT OF THE TIMES
Out of the times, the loving comes,
But not in relief, for relief is something that
Before a angled fire and sweet mum,
Regrets for something but cries away,
O, sweet loving comes, is furnished with its own blood:
All that is not love could not seem so rare;
There must be, sure, some certain state,
If not for loving, then for extractive sex-prayer;
And that is the lesser truth behind all gods.
And after such sightings as the dearest throw,
There is much more than hiss and tat;
O,
looseners, tyred, will racket down demure hair
And, when bunched, sex-cigarettes seem smoked alone while
The expleted cunt under sweet neglect entreats a soldier of men
And, hollowed now, the murderer whose heap cremates gold hens
Must sire romantic lesions across gardens and chickens.
And were that enough, then love should rove to seem a lie,
As she coils and foams, aside gnomes and a wasted female-gift;
But, O, by completing love, a summery slowed vagury of wrists
Comes cutted decent with hollow birds that cheep after piss-lifts;
And a curler of mind-pig comes home with a violent rush
And, whence idlers swig figs, a holy molder of
mush shapes ribs.
For bone and blurry blood with spiney sinews shall,
With twisted suffrage, speak for the cruel hearts that vote to mime;
These groping poem-matters of crows who dare
not lug
Their groping scented fucky grammar of those who speak to death
Shall not appear to
find the seeds of milk and souring tit-tests
O, in the relief of a manic woman-child, passioners and red signs
Will, all without crime and wives, summon up peace then
Sodomise every single madam mind while hot words cut reason.
Copyright JDB 1998.
*
ABOUT ABANDONMENT AND MADNESS
"This is the time I shall not save
Any of my abandonment and madness.
In passion
for mute purpose, I have been a knave -
O, the truth lies in a circus, rather,
In circuses and
crazy martyrs, wrangling for the sweet spring.
This is the time when I shall not pillage or rave
After
any bended burnt mind rather than my own.
Dead in city villages, emotional summer screams after
A bone cantata to the westend wind. And I sit
As one who has no spleen, no cruel pancreas, no swift body
And no sweep of unearthly bitterness.
O, not content with some renal foods, I nail my manners
To charmers of marital neurones and the dirt lovage found deep within.
And this is the time when I shall never pass away
Any of my bitten dreams. This is the nightlong lunacy that uses wits
To brag down prayer-weals;
But I tarry for a time when I shall sit swelterig for a blue better life
O, a cyprian elderly head-ocean has riven beds for signs
And the painters of self appear loaded with tabs of tameless sea-sky
Listen, you wave-farriers,
come now for me in the styles of pariahs:
I am not married yet and have not been savaged by dramatic criers.
O, this is the time when I will not sweat for a better christ
But shall tarry instead to the murderers found beneath bled rites.
And I desire cock-pharoahs
And I will desire to swim the blorted oceans of endlessness.
I need for a corn-beef devil-hero who raises strangers from killers
And, while fueders sink teeth, a red-deadener of stranglers will
Bind daisies to a naked gal-world
And I have seen Galbraith in twixed beds whilst killer pigeons Stopped."
Copyright JDB 1998.
ABOUT THE FISH IN THE CITY
Plenty more fish in the city;
Plenty more
fists for youth and time to see -
But we aren't dainty, no, a tall alice-lady,
We walk into
the trees. Our
Honey seems deadly; thereby, the sunny
Heart-spectre of us gets dreamed. O,
we
Are weaned from money, waters and inside bees
Clashers shout out aloud about denters of calllow
seas. Now
What smile should be opt to dial? What spooned file
Should be wrangle down from wild Heaven?
And the crouched answer takes hearteners from dizzy wiles
O, our knolly bluffed rape-book takes guiles from river stiles
And our Nation bobs for uncle God and Christ's best mate
As for the mind we ought to take, which of us seems strangely aroused
Must weep for the sun
And, without whores, magical toad-men stir cauliflower inside denouncers
Of giddy smells and the sinking taste of daddies under coffees and pronouncers
O, we must swing for gob
And should our instant receivers stroke porny chat, the moteliers inside rivers
May appear to fall from digital sex-deceivers,
And, mused forvermore, cervical heart-popes bless, with Pisa, a naked flame when killers
Come running from daytime
O, should our bowering fanny extollations get easily sex-exfoliative, a body
of sliders
May marry to a cool tooth-tomb.
And we shall mask us as we huff cum. And see now the statemented bodies of the hour
Come sharpening a parrier of drinkable paraffins;
And deep inside the gizzard bones, tonguers of lazy vitamins kiss for a strawberry flower;
And
we shall mask us as we huff gum; and we will attend invisible watches
And we will shaft gusts with muff-mumblers;
O, come see our merriments shoutdown to murderers.
But a cunt-coner
enlitters sprayers of pavingstones; and, mind-withering, masters of flour
Gets all of the godamned fucking fats and the flours
And a daffodil chaser seen wanking will encase semen in radio; and Cakers of sex-mowers
Gash across dead sex fields, here and now.
Copyright JDB 1998.
MEADOWED
And death implodes the veins.
Mother-naked, strapped at tongue, the pulled plates of yearning
Garnish sugar with city hens and losell
children;
And, marched till rape breaks, a rider from twinned seas summon rejoining Herods under
Cruelties
come snapping a lashwide widow from spind salt-teas
And a slate of keen sex-swirls
sermonise baits then swell up, up for a river that seems to number
A collonade of screens;
And,
marched till snails quake, a damseller of drakes leads pus to pinners; and, bumped thunder
Gets punching easy olfactory cunny-towers;
And, as a buddy to cementeries rams down all of the fats and the flowers
A sweeper at the bodies sucks across sex-Downs
And the entertainers of dowdy prison-stuffs wash rotted whelks in dead wine; and killers cut Mamma.
*
Copyright JDB 1999.
*
..
ABOUT CHANGE
Impudent bended clothes
One cannot care to tend
That flake inside these lines -
Madness, anger, bemusement
Forbid verboten signs
Of rot, laid days thick
Where sanded birches rave
For time, roughly snared
In the bags of
This parched, fled earth
And forgive me, that I
Should find no new lies
Nor accoutrements to fear,
For I would waste away
Till fashions change.
Copyright jdb 1998.
This Sentry Street
Now reflects the promise of an hour
And, like reflections, pushes out all grates
Till favour shows within an empty city-lake.
But, equally, each trend is scarved within
Each thunder-clap of musak shaked springs -
Now down the devilled nucleus of flowers
There flows a brevilled tiredness of towers:
Hot-headed nonsense, riven in the scathe
Of jaded parents set in wardened graves
And never, ever traded but inside the styles
Of wicked women fading through red smiles.
So, down the lanes of liquid music made,
One sickening reminder of the farce-waylaid
Chafens all in silos and in fatal eying lips
Till all who listen carefully get self-tricked.
From Autumnal City-Fears
And chestnuts sauntered like a star
And sadness lay enautumed from rivers,-
And the melodies of birds
Inclined to seek the horse-nut hours
Of fallen heels with oaks made bare from
Each locus of the heroed conker-world.
When
autumn succoured sycamore-meats
The stars were yearning in the skies
As womanhood reclined in
fallen leafers
And softness whispered in the tears
And sound imposed a thralling fear
Which fell from autumnal city-tears
Oh
Glib stoved dreams
Sand-spooned screens scream
The end of names
Swells inside where trains
Shatter under concrete sea veins
radios drop as mines fall out of graves
And lost sex reason
Sleeps to try
O, let men die
for
Chimney stacks and haloed
Suburban witch-fellowed
Truth, and love’s fled wars
Stand weeping
‘you
need a blonde friend
La, you suffer old friends
And ached aping strangers?’
Solidify.
Beneath these accidental marbles
Can we dare tread for a city?
Muffled dragged bone
Releases
easy prey
O, do you hear the restless mad
Or dare you pay?
Outside a dilly clash of fears,
From a romantic tree
Underneath
us,
Olympic dogs drag under
Waved boat and lumber.
I remember the fast tears we chose to shed,
Raised bows on sedges
Cold suns
And we have our closed mouths
Giving scent to village drought
.
I remember the pits coaled men
Dug, to satisfy a coaxing coked drought
The patience in the sky
Has a stalled star inside
Brilliant pinions, and the excited sun
Tenders green nudes
…
Beauty beholds such ageing lords that
We will
die now.
AND MADNESS SAUNTERED LIKE A STAR
And madness sauntered like a star;-
And sadness lay ensteeled there
Whence
gladness tottered and inflamed
Each world of heaven's bitch-word
And the glibness of bed-birds
Declined to seek the preaching hours
Of death, as fusion here empowered
Each locus of the heroed bird
Of men who could not foam or speak.
The softness of the noonday meek
Were darkened by a month in June
When autumn
succoured face
And wrote the poetry of race-rape while
The stars were yearning in the sky
As womanhood reclined to cry
And softness whispered in this ears
And sound imposed a thralling sphere
Which fell from rivered tides.
Oh
What now "Pall Walls"?
Pall walls around me seek to find security: locked in
A cage, the bird outside me sings: inveigal my territory as if it were
Sanity, strike at my history, sever my wings.
As if I ever knew the
Gunshine of moving, as if I ever knew the bullet laid bare: as if I ever
Knew the riflers at my pocket: seldom knowing any, no grog on high answers
My players.
Pall walls, or is it something close to recusance; something
Close to subvention that makes my soul decry? To search for passion's
Sentence is all and all love's presence: pall walls, or is it fury;
more,
The devil in love's eye? Never finding thunder, just stalking after
Ravens: setting no
light to harvest, this song of ether reaps the poor:-
Lying backwards in a chamber, seeking moons in wells of night, the life I
Lead is seldom waking, its breastmost way, a cloven spite..
What now "Pall Walls"?
.
THE CLUCKING HEADS OF KEEN CURVES
the chucking heads of keen curves
lay waste
to gallowed heavens
o the sun's wet heat burns..& cold burrs
bollock for optical raisins
..
when once we dream of tyburns
then we bake a sweet-eyed prison, oh
once upon a jack, we danced for clothes
& we
hear hirelings
draggling for seers &false ceilings
...
the chucklings beds of tentative reason
have no true meanings
& we swiften for creamings as odes
cut seizure-ships from county lobes.
*
nurses of curing hate heal over
headed cut lovers
o, a horse in racing seals after
doctors of healed laughter
when once we chant, then ghosts
collonise a body-stain
& men & kids will always host
dizzy evil parties
...
nurses of curing rapes peer inside
woven beaks when
slayed
grained miction rams
dollars for pursing tribes
.
oh we must hear a solid moon
crying, crying, dying
..
ooo
*
as
we part fishy tips then we hiss for
guilty feline mermen
o as we gut fishy nips then we lisp
for
openings under peahens
.
when once we go inside, then doors
may have to open on the meek
& i have
learnt about deaths..Wards
warp a nave as an altar reaps
mental dead gourdes.
as we part fishy flips, then we dish for
eaters of wide wetted church-crawls
& we must pray for prayer
& we must cry for lost air
..
once we enter in to dust then we
saunter when a bowl of naves cross
mad men & old history.
*
bowels of flowers fix a flashed life to
chapels of truths
& we study truth when holy
nudes
mess us with bad boys & dilly snoops
& a nuke of loops
sinks a coil into mushed ground
& we swagger after humming coops
..
washing men haggle for rolled newts
o, as blue earths wed an eft to suits
then we suffer glan's fever
..
bowels of flowers fix a fast christ to
mettlers of mess & money
uh...
we will study heat as we hear truths
cutting pretty liars.
*
if those pretty lies come near me then i shall
summon death for skies
o if coded cities end me, then i will writhe
&
a bay of bone brawls after celled minds?
..
once aside a stave, i sweated after swine
ah, a peach of plum pealed lemon & times
dolloped tape on crossed eyes
& i heard heroes jeering at fast mines
.
eager
eaters of Japan cry for sun-grimed
evil God...& god is freed & god is slimed
*
the dogdayed dolor of a dune-man drugs
easy liars with eaten lugs
o as faces think of a swung jam then
old clogs click where dolly women
stop dead
ahh
we have the names
by heart.. Old men
sweat cold glass as
we summon dollars from british glass
& we are dodged under mills
& we are swabbed under hills
& we will listen out for windmills
ahh
the
digger of dangers drops the past
underneath graded killer cadavers...Masks
melt for pillars
& we arouse rivers when seas of flasks
drown no more..... Eaters of sadness
starve..
*
we wallop when we wallow
ah we gallop under trees & a widow
funnels for
sheer bells where dark shadow
drops sex inside a tank
what with biscuits in
cisterns
& what with silk-lips in a u-bend, then
hot grey wank has never had it so good...
we wallop when we wallow
la we dollop dirty soups inside shallowed
dogdazzlers
& we rob a rolling smile from meadows
&
we glance aside the mirrors
& our mirror stands upon a hill
...
native ladies to pain trap Isis as rills
swarm up for a storm of fishy frilled
winos whose ginny body appears filled
with u-bends & candy pistons
...
what with hens on fire, we will iron
love's pluperfect face
& Aaron suppers space as old Zion
must shield whores from Israel
.. & we draggle for loaned space
..
.
Ah
*
limey loathed
trees that weep under widows
hears a heated mind-cat
mewling after droned wives of sex-bats
& we suffer wine when a glass of rats
capture collies with five hands
...
when once a sea of minds drops, then
a star-dyed
transfer of spined chicken
must rock a glass bar
...
limey loathed leaves sleep under mallows
& we heed snapped stairs
& we fall down a fatal snared
blown british body?
when once a bine
of sparks fuels prisms
then we see arise a feline-moon
& we suffer trippers of titty prisons
when
dogdazzlers walk wavy digger dunes,
.,.
i have seen the death of day dreaming for
faceless dolly iron... & as we snapper rooms
then we stride down emptied hallways!
*
O as the empty
binaries of Britain bend
endless nuked balloons
then we study strippers as we die..
odes to rivals suck tit cartoons & lies
loop a dancy dressers down blind tides
.
once, when we lost night, then cocoons
daubed
a doggy prancy chin-hen
slopping vavoom where a sea of gems
ginned after dolors of deathly runes
..
eyes inside eyes will terminate wives
lo, a stall of scribes sells mess to tides
& olden odals anoint a urine-bride's
cat-depressing sauna of bread-bites
..
O as the families of England end
then pushers ply after guilty gin
/
*
o what with biscuits in the cisterns &
silk-lips down the u-bends
we will suffer as we penetrate sand
& a bone of necks must don men
& a sea of punches must seize slammed
dizzy blamed bodies.
...
a screwed sown summer ledge heals
giddy buttered toddies
& a we will pull life's reins as weals
whips a genius pony
& we shall incend riders with lonely
bacca babblies
oo what with
biscuits in the cisterns &
sylvan slitties down the fans
then we must supper for easy hands
..
lo as we force a face under clams
then we suffer cakes beneath scram
& we yearn after gilded clit-canned
cagey westend
groupies?
canine catty riders eat aside smoothies
& an easy brother loosens
bruised bonds where lonely ladies
chant a blonded mantra...
o what with buns down the mean road
old kids will halt when slow-crows
caw at a bendy beard...Oh Oh Oh...
ehhhh
Ahhh men..
..
..... OUT OUT OUT!
there was no terror felt that Saturday night
Because we felt pain, we had to sleep till
midnight ended
and eyes must shut
and
skies must send clouds to sleep.
the rider selling papers posts flags to
mad boys who like junk-mail
and there was no terror that Sunday night;
and eyes must shut
and skies must cover clouds with light
./
because we like
cake and because nuts
can cause a fatal allergy
because wheat is capable of killing
when cooking, we
must surely bake resins; and ceilings
fall from afar
and bakers bake for mirrors
..
there was no terror felt that Monday
there was no error in the light on day
and a car of iron
crashes, crashes..
wide
of the city mark, sad men pray.
,
ONCE, LOST, I LEAPT FROM A CITY WALL
once, lost, i leapt from a city wall
and the roads were ridden with drawl
and easy bikes hit me
oa car of killers crushed me;
and once, while chopped, i heard need
begging at death's doors
ideal
women wed excellent men and
ideal children are devoid of sex hands
and a wetted weeping old
boy
shops for little infant toys
.
the crying in the church of Love has
dead eyes for Gods
o a marvelous communion
of Loves
listens to j christ's cross when drugs
poison chapels with iron dogs.
./
weeping, i saw my favourite boy
dying for God
and i know that God was an evil God
and the sadness of man Man raises sods
and a sea of bananas uses lost
wagons; and fruit and veg swab
green grocers with two pealed bananas
and eyes glow for mown
pure
pineapples. o-la!!FINITO?
I WENT TO THE SHOPS
TO BUY SOME SCREWS
i went to the shops to buy some screws
i carried the right money
The fingers of paid money dons shoes
and we paint fine footed city pictures
oh a lemon meringue dessert features
good tv chefs where coooking mixtures
serve cruel food.
i went to the
shops to purchase glues
o i carried the correct small change
The riders of the rain suffer hot
moods
and we cry, cry,
outed, an outelbowed sea of violence
heeds blue films
and ice cracks for sex screens and
odes to sexy silence
stop stone dead..
i went to the shops
to buy some screws
i had my right-wing money stolen;
and reapers of night bear suede shoes
and sadness pushes through
after corn-scapes and easy devil-tubes
*
THE RAZORS IN MY HOME
the razors in my home are never stored in the bathrooms
Because blades slip,
i have decided to cut my lips
and there is a woven mouth which wanks in schoolrooms
and
de razors in my home
cut a keen cheek and run dry.
these lost days where i count
on day-time sleep have
endlessness for an urban dream
and eyes in my head tend to glow like
the dead and
i am surely deafened by sinned easy spies
the razors in my home
are always stored in the bath
oh, sun-shining bathroom mirrors
drop in the tub
and easy-turning taps trickle, trickle, trickle;
o, bed and board ends in fatal sex?
there is to be found, underneath a typical road,
tarry pipes chock-full of toads
and there is to be found, inside a main road,
a sewer filled with rats, bats and rogues
o is it more that the idiot words i speak
send all clean gutters into deepening sleep?
i raise an eager hand to the moon where
old lovely stars look down
and a river of sand flows from hands where
the afternoon moon falls like a saint
and saints are always painted?
there is to be found, beneath a radial road,
dirty pipeworks, chock-filled with clothes
and these clothes have been chucked down
a
filthy coprotic city of drains
and a river of sand flows like veins
and banana butters must
feed lost rain
BECAUSE THE DYING WORLD
because the dying world hears old pain
desiring the same old plasters as usual
because the crying world hears cold pain
requring the same old doctos as usual
we must raise the real Titanic and rain
down
down
down..
Out Out endlessness-
come
drink some wine when feeling death
o out, out, out
.. dustiness always need sweeping
sadness always causes weeping;
Out Out endlessness
come drink some wine when fearing deaths
the tablets i own are always stored inside
a kitchen cabinet
and i seldom use medicines, but lies
have been
using paracetamols now- ..
the daughter of my grandfather uses
self-abusive
kiddy toys
and the tops Mum knits makes soft-toys
and because children grow
and because women glow
we have to snuff out all human angels
Out Out aimlessness: Out Out endlessness
come brew sex brine whilst stealing sex
o out, out, out
out, out out
always
...
AN EXPECTORANT OF OLD GRAVES
an expectorant of old graves shoots some doodoo phlegms
and odes to sold naves hoot upon daddy moods and skin
ah a boat under gold suppers for nudes; and odes to sins
slapper for skied silly skirt; and menfolk pee under hymns
la la, expectorants of grey slaves shoot sick from spind
body winds; and a coastal cave carries dirt under wynds
uh uh, a weaver of roasted lays sinks a cock into limbs
and, once aside a mad smile, we learned about
widows
edgers of sullen swine slit aside cheese-dirt then close
adown in a little town where
city bodies make no sound
and wiveners of fast air exhales dusts from a grey rose
lo, a mazy
mind-weir drowns scribblers under sweets
lo, a crazy spine-tear drowns crabblers under meats
lo,
a lazy hazy vine-sphere
appears lagged to crapped mind-memories
and eager warvers of wading
wallers will use keeps
to surrender couplers to slaving pulers
La La La, an accidental evil
cocoa-dream must reap
swarthy handlers from seagulling coca-scenes
Uh Uh Uh... THE END IS NOT PREPARED FOR?
*
YOYO RIDERS
yoyo riders use ald kiddy toys with cut fingers and hands
lo lo, poncho sidlers sunder boys; and a bald girly rams
heated flour around a cakey tower; O, jarry junder-jams
daddy after mammies; and my twinned eyes close drams
ah ah. I will sidle after herpes as i sweep after edams and
me and madam mind-moon must think about sweet sand
ah ah, yoyo users season eggs in cups with wooden cans
an expectorant of gold graves shoots some pooled phlegms
and an acid bout boots judas out as lady jesus
cuts gems
a candifier collapses into wives and a tiger of a torn stem
sucks a bleeder's butt
where a mad lady riders uses men
to station a body cat upon grey sines and female egg-men
and
we appear death-expectant with fingers under hens
..
yoyo riders abuse sweeties. Kiddy selves
shoot horn-clans
and a rooter of ropy doobies sucks on nutted bone-bands.
*
CABLERS OF CANDLE-WAX
cablers of candle-wax sweeten chapel halls with edams
o room-raisers ram sugar apple when coded mind-plans
melt after dolts whose wallah of a toad-cold spine-slams
doctorors of dunny beacons when a stupid light in bands
sinks a falllowed face in an egg-bowl; and mental
Man
has a diner for his own place; and eyes sunder remands
easy expectorants under milners
smile after big brands
and we tailored after mother to find a lover's lot sofas
come digging
apple chairs into dawners of closed fevers
cables of candy craps cast a rotted teether across a
rude
nude of cat-trap; and eyes beneath feathers scar
dunny tides with openers of grey lies; O, my dead car
never existed but still i drive due West where rose rivers
sea-knock a salty harness in five huge baring bed-slivers
.
highnesses of dirty sex-thrones cry for blued bloods
and, ah
ah, we sealed a dummy monarch in bum blood
and, uh uh, we ravel for mummy as fathered fish mud
stops
dead. O, weavers of whiteness kill all sane Man
O, bleaters may well beep as meteors burn England
OOOO..
*
PETTY
PETROLLED MARY MAN
petty petrolled mary Man used a rifle with false hands
la la, a baby monkey danced in faked trees; and trams
travelled down town where a woman in a hot wigwam
rotated round a sad mound of children; and grey grans
grasper after gitted towns where a city under a glans
dollops french nudes upon greying bakers of soft glam
cablers of candy crap casts a paper cab across muds
and, ah ah, eyes weave death and, uh uh, loser's love
loosens applers inside peared mess O, we eat Gods?
petty petrolled Pan played pipes for a secret soft brain;
Uh, a sea of masks drowns itself as a secret sex-train
star-ravels into burned minds; and we hit upon rain
and, ah ah la, we sit down upon hair as we use pain
..
a dummy of a bedspread links dreams to champagnes
and, ah, we ride from iced kinks then we must rock
a daisy of a fast mind with liced shrimps; and we rot
and we rot as we roll and we ride aside citied cock
.
petty
petrolled mary Man used a rifle with falseness
and, eyed, me and a lost land writhes for deadness as
a hiker of whoring wide tides walk wanky tiredness.
Ahh
*
ABUSERS OF DODOS
abusers
of dodos have to shoot ten parakeets stoned dead
ah udderers under crab have to cast cold meat into bread
and a whipperer of wolven wands casts magic under beds
ah ah, abusers of dodos have to shoot ten burny heads
and a licer of lewd sucky porny winking hen-hit-lead has
a bolster for a dreamer and a coffee cake inside ald gas
and i will certainly need use of a disabled car; O, hurt ash
may well sell me to endless high tar cigarettes; and mash
melts inside long dead soldiers whose easy sex hit lush
sun-strippled warring flavas. Sex sends a freeby SAE
la la, Deaths heed entrances when a killer in a postal reed
lollies after pinnered pig-pens and the
cafes of cut greed
and, la la, i ease a mental dig inside sand alleys: mung seeds
scatter hollowed
tomatoes across a living world of dick trees
and we will reel inside the East when gathering up the teas
and we will shed buttock tears and we will weep forever.
abusers of dodos have to shoot ten parakeets stoned dead
ah ah, a video of crabs crashes down and Digital Telly-teds
show inchoate screens to disablers of dangly easy plebs
and we shutter a shitty sky inside wide-women's piss-pegs
and, uh uh uh, when weeders of Ides spy on salt-legs then
menfolks will have to learn of looters of lives and ribbons
.
lollies after pinioned piggy pens push oinkers under slides
La La: ideal infirmal dashy hens push cockers inside eyes
La La: evil inspiral daisy gems push diamate from scribes
Uhhhhhhh
we idolised the rigid dead as we hid brains under spies.
*
THE LOTUSES OF A CROCUS FLOWER
the lotuses of a crocus flower feed dumb
enemies to water
o a fastness of dad's tower treats a dun cake with porter
and a bren in a sesame
seed bun rides a steeder into lungs
la la, eyes may well widen as we buy a disabled car. Guns
shoot
a hollah of a blind owl with dairy lips; and coded sun
gun-shine upon a weal when a wettener of clits sucks cum
the lotuses of a crocus flower feed dummies to gas-garters
and we weepy-weave a wanky sheety winker with gafters
and a dumber of a bee stings a brain with honeying doctors
and, la la, we weep for locust seed while crying for robbers
abusers of dodos have to loot one zillion bodying piss-parrots
and the wives of March harden to autumnal sleep.
Carrots
cut a cuppy nut-slut inside a bugs bunny brigand; and mammas
kneel upon slappers of
wives; and a cat-headed gazy river
rams a fairy thumb deep within coffee cakes and rizlas
;
o we may well have to buy an actual disabled car; and we
may well have to buy true high-tar cigarettes
for mind-seas
and, uh uh, eynes swallow puffs with hallowers of sleeved
lycra pissy pecks that
rim madam rimmer with cold greed
the pocuses of crocus eaters lead bald wheels to fathers
and
we may well jack our fathers and leave mums behind.
*
WHAT WITH DISABLED CARS
what with disabled chairs being star-raised from high tar fags
what with disabled hairs being car-crazed by old male slags
we will surely eat a broken coffee and walnut cake; O, stags
supper after sleep where disabled trainyards on their knees
creel into city caves; O, a sea of figs frigs
a vegetable when
dragglers of pity-graves sink a cabbage of a mind into gems
and, la la ah,
wildernesses under stinking baggage sea-rends
darkening dolly-heads from gingery dirt berries and u-bends.
o we may well have to buy an old-timed crippled van with
filthier dreams that have ever noticed man; and mental pig
urniates inside dulled pants when a stinker of a menstrual pig
damages eyes with soft moggy hens and smokers of dead kids
what with disabled chairs being star-raised from evil maps
what with disabled prayer being Mar-mazed under cold straps
we will surely eat a broken coffee and tawny breaded dun mac
and a diver after plective vege urine has to sink
aside macadam
ah ah ah; and sun-assaulted widows weep for mencapped Adam
and a doctor on its
disabler's feed flashes aside naked crabs
,
eyes have to melt under pulleyed shit-wrecks as
we cry for
easy kissers of pelt tundra and pissers of slits and dippy wards
..
END
*
O A STEADY BURNER OF A BLED MIND
o a steady burner of a bled mind smell-spills doggers into canine christs
o an easy yearner after blue spine swell-swills scarers from cold spice
and a desperate user of my disabled car cuts a coffee cake where lice
sink full tar cigarettes under sex when a bladderer inside walrus life
interfusess dromedaries with a vegetable
stink that laps aside cabbage white
and men and skin dolor opens up death's peasy ward when a sea of mice
summer-strap a coded killer's blue disabled car which ravels under dice
and a menial macadam filler hits blood feeds with ashen dodder-mikes
and a driller of a vegetable head shows dilly screens to scenes of spiked
body-burning anal angelical baby-bikes; and naked bruised
sirens swipe
a bad bald true blue disabled car. O, we will cut a dirtied coffee slice
O, we
will shut toffee-coffin dykes beneath heated full tar woodlice.
ah i abused a static killer radio just one sad time of all; and de angelus
creeps inside a puker's shadow; and my scenic spleen opened under dusts
ah i abused a static river radio just one more time very late
last year
and me and disabled cars carry mencapped mallows inside stained fear
la la la, my
dippy deviller dips a dunny boy for Mrs Jones; and ald tears
reason after maws where a draper of mummy joys cuts down grey gear
ah ah odes to naked kissers drive a mangler of a sex-toy down to years
and we ravel into time when a tonsured bag of farms swallows shears
ooo laconic birded heart-dead boney macaroni will use drinking tears
to shelter lust inside bone-bread
ooo iconic buried soul-wheat slashes after baronesses and grey fears
La La La La..... we kept clothes in a snake-basket and died out
A BELL OF THUNDER
1,
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?
2.
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.
oooo
3.
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?
4.
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.
5.
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...
uhhh...
*
SHOE-SEARCHERS
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
..
I HATED MY CHILDHOOD HEAD
...
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 mad queen
we
surrendered hearts to illness
we contained vines aside pig as dreams
came crying for tangerines
and a sweetie maiden
loosens hides with whores;
O O
ooo
once a dizzy day, we wage city was
aside walls and sealed flat-gauze
and
men and hens must use force
to silence mamma moonshine.
*
END..
*
AS VISUAL SLEEP KILLS LIVE REST
as visual sleep kills live rest,
as vital heat
cages body-fire,
i shall attend a party of deaths
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
and i shall die for masques
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
o, the midday sun gets screwed,-
Darkness screams for curves
Madness shrieks under gold bird
and a flat in the moon
swallows jammy 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?
and the cars will feed sound
and naked atomic Mars-men
will sunder bed and board
old bedrooms cry in the past
old bathrooms
hear ill old soap washing
grey wounded women
ah, the livid dead raise chickens
Ohm, a cobra-coma stiffens
THE ILEX OF A DUNNY
FLOWER
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 sightS
cuts out
and faces suck
spoiled fuck
and a mind of thrills scissors for
hands, knees and plastic gal-wards.
warders of mad sad heavens
heed silk as milky gardens
cry for cut glass
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.
and we snip cool writhers
and
we strip cruel waters
o, old ringers stun sex-slams
.
and warders of mad sad havens
heed silk as milky ravens
caw until crow-cuts 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
and death seems endless.
*
THE DABBLERS OF
MY CAR-MIND
the dabblers of my car-mind
drive a wooden van
the fathers of my tarred mind
ride under rodeos
schism-makers melt for wine
prison-creators
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
..
Uhhh
OUT OUT OUT 2
there was no terror felt that Saturday night
Because we felt pain, we had to sleep till
midnight ended
and
eyes must shut
and skies must send clouds to sleep
the rider selling papers posts flags to
mad boys who like junk-mail
and there was no terror that Sunday night
and eyes must shut
and skies must
cover clouds with lights
because we like cake and because nuts
can cause a fatal allergy
because wheat is capable of killing
we when cooking
must surely bake resins; and ceilings
fall from
afar
and bakers bake for bobbins
..
there was no terror felt that Monday
there was no error in the light on day
and a car of iron
crashes, crashes
uh
wide of the city mark, sad men pray
once, lost, i leapt
from a city wall
and the roads were ridden with walls
and easy bikes hit me
oa car of killers crushed me;
and once, while chopped, i heard need
begging at death's doors
ideal women wed
excellent men and
ideal children are devoid of sex hands
and a wetted weeping old boy
shops for little infant toys
.
o, the crying in the church of Love has
dead eyes for Gods
o, a marvelous communion of
Loves
listens to j christ's cross when drugs
poison chapels with iron dogs.
o, the applers of altars eat hot dogs
weeping, i saw my favourite boy
dying for good
and i know that God is an evil
God
and the sadness of man Man raises sods
and a sea of bananas uses lost
wagons; and fruit and veg swab
green grocers with two pealed bananas
and eyes glow for mown
pure pineapples.
and decorous demure demons get
stabbed, just like a funny toy pet
THESE ACRID NIGHT-LONG DAYS
these acrid night-long
days that plead after cardial penitence will hereby wilt
O, acid sight-spawned blind days will cover lovers with inconsequence while milk
appears pummelling mind-clays with sealers
O, a painter of elbowings will affix beds to killers and saviours will murder chalk-silks
and, once aside heated moaning, a bruiser in mirrors gets defied by murder
and, once inside
wheated groanings, a user of killers gets certified; and, sss, swift ilks
dare not shed god's antlers;
O, we will come to a small eye-space when devisers of wet issue becks from failures
and these flacid head-long days that ensteed a nuclear flower get sotted
with human tears
and, sss, a spaceless song-slave will hereby grease flowers with roasting dog-spheres
O, we shall accuse men-folks of using ills for feet
O, we shall abuse child-folks no more while envented city christ sucks on sleep
and, oo, after a nut-raid de bad boys must nut and nut all the harder
and, oo, after a milk-raid de sad boys must swirl steredent
inside thunder-meats
and, when pies get slaved, a pusher of toy-joys
hereby gets withering for
jumblers of suffolk sales that feel for fetes when tears
chop cake-deaths.
*
these massive magic mantra that feel after prayer will come teeming with fathers
La,
as mumblers enwed some rats to seals, a star-painter must fuse pig with ginger
O, i espy some naked scar-breads huffing crusts from minters
and, sss, once along minds, car-plebs use grey mush for pintas while we gotta finger
evil cellar rodeo-cellphones
O, i espy some fatalism come hissing across skinned ice; ahh, a whistler of bones
may well, eternally
now and always and forever, blow a secret pipe thence enstone
easily haunted sea-crowds
O, we
will come back from the madding trees as leaves cry for pruning; and, ooo,
weepies, stilled, will suck on milk-raids and nuts
and, when once grey bird-bills supper for cut-raids then bellers, bust, must enfool
birded ensidlers with mulled fairy suns
and distancing cherry-coats career into midnight dinner
Uh
*
THESE MYSTICAL EUPHESIANS
*
these mystical euphesians of the egyptian graves will shout out aloud for a broken eagle
La, as musical dead moon-mien swings for a human lunar crouch, a blaster of seagulls
must, as circling red sun-pain swings and writhes
O, when we sail out to seed, a city warden must sky-slight deniers with tawny head-dolls
La,
as musical fled star-mien wrings swung song-dives, a breaker of evil molls must
giddily devise blonde terror from gold spind sins
and, sss, once across sex errors, summery autumn-winters-spring tides will cut skins from
some dervisher that affixes meddlers to mad mod
streets that are skirty
and, sss, as timelessness topples under walls, a deafener of blind beer gets winky for lovers
and, sss, as trendlessness encouples mamma-walls, our latest nut-raid will nut and nut fever
O, while pissers with no use of hands sits on
loo-seats all year, a milk-raid must maim rivers
and, sss, as motel-passions come swinging for dude-meats, growler radios will get murdered
Uhh The matrix of the cunt is a bagged bell-pit and i will sink my old man cock under guns
Uhh The magnets of
real spunk is a slagged hell-spit; and, sss, where children sunder suns
a pooler of gannets interfuses junkers with craggy lip; and, sss, where chickens get stunned, quills
will scrape, with fleeing vase-muses, all knees while a neon jacked tear enhymens dongers.
Uhh:
dukedoms, once decrowned, enfinger dustives with pleats; and, oo, when vaginal sheets
become mummy-wound, an enmasoner of burstives with pleats will don satchels; O, meats
appear made gentle now; and, sss, we must enhearse pig-keeps with diners
Uhh: dukedoms, once enpillared,
will enmission enhorsing dig-deeps with sky-failures
Ohm, we shall come within sperm-plastics
Ohm, we will thrum for some pedantic spermatozoa; and, when once semeners teeter
then, with some sad beard wagging, a dirtying spy-troubadour will use fists
for sugar.
Ohm, and we shall forever cry as madam macadam rapes greying kills
and,
easily blathered, wishy-cousiners to mad Pan will get enpipering summer killers
and, with enemies riding, kissy enchewers will ram down dils when mumma's millers
appear forcibly fed to canny hissy mind-pulers
O, what with ensireners come shitting in loud wind, a parent to
movers must shudder for
dilly dragoning dumb stink; and weary world-whoopers accuse lovers of killing whores
La, La, La... These hot dead skies break open and, once endomed, a nazi piss-boar
appears easily killed then left to play
oo, once across a lemon-quest, hissifiers will encosmos drivellers with neutron-wards
La, La, La...These hot bled eyes break open
and, once ensloaned, a nazi shit-war
appears peasily murdered and left to pray
and
once along a child in his/her favourite manger makes everybody happy, paws
come stroking lazy wildness till heavenly men and women will live forevermore.
Oh Oh Oh..the mocking bird of my microphone enchamber dippy weds with scores
Oh Oh Oh..the cocking birds
inside my sky affix facelessness to haloed moors; La!
when once a piercer of nerves uses a mental lie for endlessness, home-baked rivers stir
cardiacs underneath blue slacks where empirical whores envein bone-butchered sex-curds
O, i will idolise some new and naked lost day-long
cum-chemicals while beds in plaits must
sonar-interweave earrings and faded crossed night-long dumb cunt-tentacles
and we must enblossom dusts with holy swirling dusk when heroines cause unearthly lust
to moon-shape birthdays and happy hapless times when
lovers led lionesses to cool musk.
O, DO
BE AWARE OF ALL YOUR DUMBFOUNDED DICKING
o do be aware of all of your dumbfounded dicking because
cabinets of demure hair tend to castrate all good gods
and an endless hemped piano lives where drunk pig-Love
angel-demands a sugary sheath from buddy bath-muds
and a dairy adjourner tries jazzlers for souless shoe-tugs
la la la. Vocalisers in the jaffa juices of shoed rent-blood
sickle-age for accidental dicker sluices and, ohhhhhhh.
funny funnellers of dipper dames fuck-up shutted loaves
o dotty dairy flyers suck aside ghosts as pearled
brogues
piss in a fire-clock; and merchant men christs crow-slow
down, down, down where a bitter
grapefruited pin-rogue
peals a purple pickled onion from greying action pogues
burled Moosy
Master Mice will trap voles in lost clothes
and a dragooner of eggy spice seasons jammy bedclothes
and a marina in a toilet-wipe warms washed pillow-plugs.
when once this statued hand smiles under camal drugs
then a granite piper may well ravel under shooting bugs
and, loo loo, me and a caustic rubberband tauten drugs
and, oo oo, men and mastic rubby rodeo drams tug for
natalisers of day, night, and latent pooled virginity when
painters of poxy boxes trash volts with shivering gardens
..
Uhh weavers of brooches block a canal lavvy with a star
deviller of seizures made-up from grand mal MaMa
and we may well have to sing goodbye to dread MaMa
and, caned in spreeing wet cunt, we may well prefer a
daddy of a dun dreamer to a bottler of aphonal cards.
...
TRANSITIVE AND INTRANSITIVE
transitive and intransitive, they shall fail: it is
to no purpose that they party with death, nor can
their ultimate sadness pair they guns with show:
down the rain, their killings whine. In
meters of fortune, the animals run;
round valleys and caverns they hurry well:
for mediums, people with spirit and taste,
the bestiary shines and stuns. Not hewn
from any single belly; not trained
on
any single eye, God's creatures skim
their stone across the water: they do not die
except through
natural choices. So the hunter's hews
are fated, filed with the train and the car:
in them,
no future staves or beckons, nor
any Idyll in them made. Past care now, idols
whose statues
foam, out intimate places make bad friends
from every beast, from every shoal. Now see
the angel
rise from every book; now
sense the bestial shackles prise and tear. For
golden meadows run
us agog, and,
killing as we are killed, the neutered tiger sees,
beyond each loft and aviary,
Man
scuttering in his sadness on the frozen sea..
*
these raven days where i abuse my cellves
come rocking at hell's cunt-door
and an ideal mask yields sex to elves
and a dotty car that concertinas into wards
loosens lays with eagle-pills
and we suck on bulgered sleep
and
we fuck guns with sperm-heels
and we arouse us with
tawny buzzy lippies
and dingo men don donkeys when weals
cum pealing burning skin from
daddy moon,-
o, a filthy wound rots aside pearlers
and
a mummy bed arises from seizures
and a dummy room
uses faiths to find deaths anointing gloom
these raven days where i abuse my cellves
comes rocking at hell's dark cell
and dewy drawlers use veins for bells
..
the dead get well again
abed, deadly nests arise for rain
and, lo, mad kids grind sex
from dells
and a dilly gaga child
uses masted larders to store spills
and a kitchen on a hill
dies for jesus-Allah;
O,
a digger after gold devils rivers
with mindless filmic specs
.
these raven days where i abus my cellves
dangles underwaters
and cry forever..
*
tardy teenaged tawny tills serve free money to the
moon
la la, easy veiny buzzy hills serve free honey to rooms
and a raided rainbow's blind ebb
cashes dunes for spoons
and a tardy feathered rill shines for lashes as cocoons are
fed to foxes
in dog-minds
oo shouters of de cock roar across urban tac; and cars
cascaded
from old shops that closed down long ago
and rapists of gold cops radio-tag a bastard's ego
with
happeners of cold
oo shouters of de cock roar across urban macs; and
easers
who feed a lady cunt with false regrets ram a
bouncer of a dweeb with scizzler hands and brigands
and tardy teeners trill forever when porn-plans slam a
necky pickler of a lesbian feather under robber bands
..
Oh.
*
modellers of mind-shafts sup a cut from a blue nut
modellers of cunt-casts snap a scatty blenched slut;
a foreign flashed fool forces friendships under cloakers
a sovereign chest-course
craps across saddeners of horsed sauce when ropers
radio a moony of sonar skulls and lonely car-chokers
and bright radio is moaning about stoners of soapers
and, brewed, blind mallow sheds bright fires with soakers
and, brewed, mind-tallow sends knife-fires to slept smokers
and, noosed, bright radio is moaning just like loud trees
and, ladied, midnight voices cum clinging to dopers
.
a tongue in a mooted city sees the roads between us
made cold as fools:
dunny
sweet fiends spool aside a planet of pure dust
and, capped, fazers of stools
see infant failures
grinding closed pools across lust;
and an army of hands rams jarred jams as gold pus
sirens
for easy islands
and bloody dreary islands float off downstream
and, opened, masy eerie sirens
cast clammers to easter serums inside xmas-blood
a gassed castaway in a lost jail hears God-Gob..
THE RADIO DARKNESS SENDS TV DIGITALIS
The radio darkness sends tv digitalis to fast visual sleep
Ah, meadowers under
gems fuse mentalis with vicious beats; and
oo, a crazy mazy father atomises dudes with viscous moaners: O, brigands get
empirical while hasteners to daddy-fathers interfuses droners to oozing sky-pets
and, sss, the radio dead affix sounds to molten wasteground while diviners
of sand
come fissuring after blenchers of drowned cruisers;
and, uh, when we awake the easy
dead, beckoners to losers loosen life with islands that
enmarry sleek mind-hostesses whose dress gets risen from dickers and salted girl-glams
O, an empire of demure skirts will come starring for pigeons while turtlers become dammed
with halterers of wards and surgeons
o, at the wild sides of a beltane body, smackers of some child-kid must, here and now,
summerise
wild eyes;
o, at the wild slides, a kodak on an enpictured babby drum comes oozing midnight cloud;
and, sss, the helterer of an emptied sun rushes on its solar sum when an ode to lost crowds
appears, when once lost, enchanting mums with rushes
and, once along a heart-mind, enplastering, pig flushes will hereby murderise aged babby bushes
o, at
de nice side, a babbler, inside lost laughter, flushes hills
directly down a dippy bridal father
Uh
*
o, as the wild scribes of a tree of poetry endragglers
some genius mind-child, here and now,
woollen wolving winterised wide wives
o, when once eyes
sniff lies, a painter of some engunned seadowner must affix rots to mouths;
and, sss, we will come with sex-spaces while wickedness citifies crusts with dreamers of mouthed
eagerly broken daddy windows
o, at the wild pies getting old, some regal poke-cry will
die for hisser-husks while greyers resound
directly underground, with pursers and devil cunt-lies
o,
when i overtook some dirty street, i came engarlanding granite guys with god's salt-stare
Uh
*
oo as a silly deadener of some witches brew intermarries incesters with blinds, a citadel of dark thieves
will, forever and eternally now, come routing de cock while easy eaters of minds fizzes up for lost beads
oo as a dilly destructor
enmissions us, then a cocking horse becomes enthundered with slitters inside weed
and, sss, once along a crashed heart-lover-mind, a neon sauce appears unencumbered
and, ss, once, with talons drawn, some female face-painter licks up founts then accuses meat of screaming for
ladeners of cunt, and, lo as a silly weeviler whose filthy house of petted maggots gets seagulled, a sea-hand seen beneath gauze will
hereby enwrite haloers
with dizzy mouthers of pitted carrots; and, sss, we will enfight dreams;
and the wards of gods have shafted a mind-manxer with twixers of islands when drillers come caning old
hills will
encomet us with scraplets seen aside swine-fingers
and, oo, wideners of parrots scream
and scream while wrinklers come crying deeply down venal snaring blortedness; O, as we
supper for our five and country minds, missioners to smiles die then spiral for the easily
drowned; and i will track me down with
witherers of flowers
Uh
THE NAKED NITRATES OF A SAD AND SLEEPING TOWN
the naked nitrates of a sad and sleeping town
will now inject knives with clowns
o eyes enter into nudes
o spies enter under lubes
and cappers of thunder lease a rat to drowned
soldier wars.
the
naked nitrates of a sad and sleeping town
will now infect eyes with clouds
o skies slide into
roods
o wives widen under foods
and a bed of nuts
falls apart.
where a bell of ash breaks,
then
men may well learn about green lakes and
cellars under drapes
must widen fathers with coaxers
of seasands
and we who watch seasands
will supper for woven whipped capes
o,
the lippers of the dead carry cashiers unto
big dippers
the riders of the spread a heart where dudes
drag
doggy lakes for rippers
and we track green lobbies down
and we snap dreams
and we suffer screens
,.
Ideal
men and women hit on hell-flame and
Ideal hens and children
jostle bones with bombed flowers
oh
JOCKEY
Not looking back, not looking back –
For the jockey this is all. He has,
All of him, stamped out, some when, some time
In a trice, on horseback or beyond,
Where he must lose. So our trysts later
Construct us, and our beliefs, whether in
Odds or evens or oblivion, take for granted
Each course of ill will, each
Driving,
hooving skein.
Thus the champion riding through the glen with
A fire so enchanted,
was once
Enchained. His girl, so blown, so free,
Once so slow. But he must not look back. He
Sees light, and must enthrone his ends, must
Cross into a field of bees. Now,
In title and hoard, he is a thief;
Must ride around the bend.
nb. plenty more where these came from.