IN COUNTY SLEEP (a speed-written poem)

portrait of the late great Irish genius poet-author-playwright
Brendan Behan.

(in memorium Brendan Behan)

Never and ever, the japed jelled leaves of the stained
Shaft us down Atlantic wharves
O, never and ever, the stucco sidled streets of rain
Restore blown half-knitted raised bones, and old whores
Shaft down, down, where the axes of the pyramid train
Daub drakes with sensory treacle.
Ah, what now for the neural thrones of the peopled
Verso foams and telephonic angels? – perhaps, where
Eglantine aped apricots will draw a beard from a stair
Or do we dare and do we compare
Clairaudient vaginal limpets with thinned ghostly hair?
The tidal prisoner within rivals after focal foetal
Lip-clicking stone boundaries- the hirsute Babel
Brooks bairns as infinite combed cradles
Rock just like a smoker’s sun.
One above a time, the blessed limey swiftness of the birds
Slaps shits on swept wind,
And the corners of the binned brought winged words
Back, back, and farther back to red-breasted natural curs
O, now I have read love’s palm, then I will smoke hot skin
And scatter salty game upon nesting febrile curves.
Our business in a murdered cottage uses a genial
Sotted sotto voce
And, as stony sleuth men reign after coasts
Then blorting benching body bathers hear coasts
Drowning romancers in blue-brained rat hosts.
And I have read tomorrow’s news, and I have caned caged slowed
Mast-headed Venus
And hanged time passes. Underneath a peculiar day, a diurnal body-grave
Paints oodles of dandelions and dabbed daffs
And, under a sea’s arses, a pinioning pit of plumes and days
Weep for sloes and elderberries.
God turned to go, but at the exit, a spinning doorway rammed
The spun and never-relieving sun of the world’s unearthly genius
And, slitted by kittens, a huge family pomme
Weeps for cloths and naked ladies.
Uh, narrowing knocking budded chafing hooped town-drums
Sup a father’s green daddy dream bus
One stilled day when a sylvan silken patina of dead men
Closed a broken door, then one inside a time, measurers of men
Maddened a natural wood-puzzle of brides and children
And, lo, a heated sex-caller lit a fast gun and women
Overflowed within darksome chasms and chicken
Now is the message of the fibrotic hyper lungs I beheld
When once, outside a girl, wedded withered kittens
Attended a daddy dude crust of green giddy gels
And the pistoling parasols of both height and hell
Wring the bells with doom deniers.
This side of a keen welsh moon, Celtic cavatinas will sell
Aryan Goidelic caps to bruised brains and country sea-shells
Tonight stands crying on a dark cliff. The star-rise of the kissed
Seems dying, and, o, as we turn to go, then the adage of the pissed
Peers inside guns and lives,
when once a sea of knives wonders after ever-splendid
suburban moon-minds
then our eagerness to overhear god’s lies
rises up, up against
slewing sausage-paint
and this ensign of tasty saints lams lithe
slashed cunt and eaten rivers…
tonight, under a city’s seat, pashed men ride for
a mean daddy dreamed greened gold war.
Made naked, melodious parcels of plumes and puffs
Chatter for arousing seizure-slips which kick dusts
And then moggies of a mental moon
Shutters unutterable lodes where a belled star swoons
Deep, deep down where a motel boom
Dips dolly faces in carmine menstrual eggers.
Made sweet and rude, melodious bustles swish a duff
Dilly duffle dog who rides from sleep as cusks
Claim cider from rotted apple-cusps
O, as pigged eyes dam blue vision, then marks
Suck endless eddies from drippings. Hard parks
See into nightly sex pillages.
Tonight stands under strange seals as ridders
Ramble for a neon father, and, o, as blue bridlers
Ride a coffin-horse, then
Midnight stands under veined teals when a coda of liars
Sings the last lines of green gems and women.
O, our easy business seems endless but lifted life lends
Swift beads to lasered loped workaholics
The demon drafters of both day and night spend
Diamante pirates with swung dead boats, and cold men
Commands bleaching bool blades.
Unless we appear self-alarmed, unless a bed of tears parades
After dippy salt silence
Then the fawned thieves of one zillion male pore-plays
Will lash a languid tongue to slurred ants
And blue bastardising baby boos blunt a bog of
Unutterable daddy sex cant
. La-la..
O how now have I read the loud depth of god’s blind genius.
Oh how now have I shed
Biblical sleaze when a testament of cat-kids rest
Gunny goosed Escariots where a Jesus harness
Serves fish soups to old pigs and pugged fig-faces, and death
Rocks a bald gibbon where a blown bitter bee-bulb treads
A rock-expresser of puled salt wine
And the magical bel of times wrings napes and thefts
And, lo, as regental boo-bens hear city lames
Locking lousy lanes, snared neon palping debs
Drop cunt inside a penile pooler’s plebs.
As a gemmed gorger of ghoul-god grips to sea-bread
Then Jesu under hanged roods
Stops and end.
O where once endless spun ingles rammed a glimpse of
Neon knifers, then a sun-ending sex-rekindling rose of loss
Harries hissers with bobby brocks and brine-burned blued
Nude naked candle brut. The hams of seed
Cram a cloned tongue where blind uvulas of horse mead
Link intefusers with towns and criers.
Odes to Indian England hems gods into henna ghosts, and Leda
Rides her swanny star where routed riders of the moon
Drags dippy drawls from bitter bums and swooned
Deli drapes and mussels.
The wired jaw of judas Christ digs arsenics into tunnels
And, lo, as we ride from endless peds and cradles
Then candled crosser ken
Crabs a fallower for daddy green gems and dauphins
And I saw canny cabinets when eaten star-stems
Feed male masks to god and his masted Venus.
The paramour of a curtained grave hisses after
Salt-thrown breasts and father
O our business seems complete, and, loped, partners
Thunder-fuse natural dimmers with lamp-litters.
As we turn and go, an inexorable mien of killers
Claims doping dodgy dowers
And the elbows of dolt-flowers jeer where rivers
Compress life’s bower within
Dosed drays and bonny bone bins
We have come to realise that our lost issues
Contend a natural murder,
We have come to magnetise our crushed values
And, oh, when we come to pass a green giver
Then thamesward city fathers
Will cut cold engines from statues.
The tethering tawny teething rings of purdah
Bomb fuelled crypts and die.
O surely on dun day I will find coastal killers, and
O surely, under love’s hill, we will hear lambs
Racing against a country clock.
Words are worn on winnowed fingers: vinegar hock
Will ram a fairy thumb when a jack of rot
Strums a sugar vine, and the sodded star-slock
Fills for vialed vases
As the illegal farms of women slot
Coins into loss
Then a sun in a fazed cross crucifies the lot of
Brawled lamps and faces
Ah- this side of a bulled stall, gods
Dream of a level world
And the teethers of tippling devil birds
Cut a daddy doll from bled bolls
All dreamt days are negated-
I have seen the blind bellstar of the rivers raise
Impossible sea braids
And then a sudden touch of winter lather
Worm-burrows under tubed mad grief.
Too much of our life has been lived,
Too many odd hours have been
Vaunted with gossamer dreams
And the tunnels of our drooling year
You were lost and scented drams toasted
Loss and families.
The breasted buttocks of buttery bodies
Slashed swung song-birds with
Ecstatic talons, and the mean blow of the town
Tracks graffiti with fallowed vandal-pounds.
You were utterably mine, - the concrete crowds
Were glass-mauled within
Anonymous buildings, and a weeper in a cloud
Observe adulous children crapping.
I have seen you struggle with your world,
I have glassed you
A mental mind-vision hair-covers old fulfilment.
And I dare not entreat the grave. Life is not near.
Dug from dying, though, I reach out for true fear,
And I dare not complete death.
While out of sexy rain, the rippers of my mind
Dream of rotted cunt-rain
And I dare not compete with death.
And men in manses collect flavoured flowers.
Dragged, a dilly green fruit-pet sunders
And I dare not complete feathers
daubed mind folks find faceless soda
Drinking gas.
I dare not travel too far. In my mental eye, I always
Lay sex-waste to dogs and graves
Out of fierce hearing, I will appear to see day
Lamping a sea-face inside soft glades
What with this mortal fire-grate yearning
Breaks glad beads, then sex seems burning
Bright boozy blood shows us
The best way to blind love’s husk
And ghost-gibs haunt swarmed pain.
Tonight, of all nights, life’s wife sold her favourite fruit.
O, I dashed a plum-stone at a soup-flask
And the pleasure-whirring bowel of glass where roots
Raped a lady liquorice with bulbs and glass
Brightens a glass-bowl where rotted dates succour
Blood-blinded gobstoppers.
Underwatered, a green daddy bus dyes a dry house
With giddy mean vaginal clit-cried
Sizzling salt peaches.
Tonight, of all nights, light’s Christ will snap fruit.
Ah, eyes lap locks from faeces as a shop of brute
Bathes a baby in an adult bath-.
The hair-greased bared hairbands of the past
Test for an oiled latrine
And, uh, I have overseen such sadnesses of breeding
And I have undertoned such roman rotted steam
The lazy leader of Mount Zion hears rafts
Sailing off into
A magneto’s engine-ooze
And the labellers of the colour true
Storms dying murdering mind-maidens
And sun-stricken skies pass on by as broods
Slacken for the fire.
For it must always seem that the fruit-bowl we made
Curries after ashen waxed blades
O as wicked apples sully pears with graves
Then picking pear-pluff will mac a lay with
Teeming toasts and rammed rose-figs.
And I dare not muffle god’s kids, and I won’t kid
Good God because
I miss the idylls of a time when jesus died for pigs
The damsels of a plastic soul close
Whipped eyes and dummy factories, La
We enter into sand
We swagger for summer, and a winter in a car
Writhes from driven Mars
And, uh, as a candle under pepper sneezes after
Dames and dollies
Then pruned bud-soap must see Father
Praying for top-of-the-pops…
Underneath a chiselled ledge, I saw the riding dead
Digging bolted graves
O, when once bad bodies yawned, then
Dazzling moping lays
Sucked peach-stones with fluted mouthers
And opening sex trades whip tipplers when
Versos vamp veering nodes.
While snorting lackadaisical oil, a vixen under lodes
Lipper a lemon foil for strawed thunder-troves
And then backers of a walnut-pickled life
Ignites pushed prams with spoils and Christs.
And do not visit love’s grave.
She is not there. She did not die for braves
And she dare not die for another.
Inside a cherried fog, we hear belled trees
Mowing sylvan soda from gins and glebes
And you and your scalded lips cry out aloud
And then misled cats of cranny war
Leach to a fountainhead
And the felinity of the warred turns
Prison plots and thunderheads.
O I will heal youths with pyres
O I shall sear kids with lies
And then, once rapped in a cave, we will ride
Far back home when
Our distant dilly daring love expends.
Dark dogs move as a night ship dies.
Inside a crisscrossed chapel and a church, I oversaw
Pornographic saviours attempting to save
Wide eyed witnesses to a sea of seesaws
And, o, I do not dare to visit god’s guilty grave?
And, forever snapped by air, a countess in a saw
Slices giddy cock-clawed
Bled brigs and guilty heaven’s
Buggered butter-beads whose assaulted gardens
Give crow-talons to gems and junkies.
Outside a sex-cropped church and apple, I overheard
Pornosapphic sailors exempting loins and ashes
And the giggler in a glam grippled after
Laughed cages and funereal fume.
There is, inside a mind, a mental crock which reads
Idiot ingle books?
O my father’s mouth is
Stopped dead.
O my mother’s mouth is
Sent to bed.
A baby on the rise is
And spun wards rid
Eyes and bodies.
Such flowers which
Wither inside
Will see lips
In a bed of curves
We sunder
City slumber….
As coiled grief
Ponied cabs
Then blue rubies
Ride from
Neon fishing, and
Dyed daubed drams
Trees and lovers.
Inner dreaming dresses dust in naked dirt,
Walnut faces wrinkle noses
And then the vine-cut faces of the curt
Gnarl a hot bed with chained roses
Old stone encaged in van-vaulted hymns
Straps a silent lord within
Out-of-perspective failures who swing for
Veined bruised women
A small, green pug plops on pits as fishy war
Brings beery harvests back home
And, loaned, a cherry choker cracks, and bone
Feeds a canine lion-
Underneath ripened sunsets, a starry sea of Zion
For we must clad old colourful kids in tarry macadams
And then the tearing of kids
Wrestles blue oil from foxy fizzy green madams
And the powders of one billion suns
Suck-gnarled windwells
For we must clad cold killers inside a tarred sea-havens
And we will rot for keen rivers
And the skull-known voices of a dumb garden
Encases men and fevers in cold shives and harsh fathers
When once a scrunching sea-city drinks its waves
Then bended sea-bodies
Must walk all tides where birds and spies
Stride oceanic sea-babies…
A car-jaunted yellowed lip snaps a cat and
Dogs writhe.
These vegetable veins I have dreamed must whip
Gentle hands and heels
O these terrible reels of salt film must see ships
Sailing out where old wheels
Rock for concertinas
And a clammy fist of time vaunts after
Wrinkled wrestling masters, and grey fathers
Divorce love’s hapless truth
And then keeled cuts of faith wrest spoils from couth
Criers, and the daring dolly of drubbers
Sex-clads coiled spools where rammed lovers
Encase sickled sunsets within dobbed dugs and
I espy a nightly bird car-cramming caverns under
Fast city tundra.
Hashed by hot hotels, we warden for weevilled healers
And the closed toads of a sea-town
Drags fairy thumbs from dogs and moon-life
And here we walk a weary line as hell-lit sister life
Dies for money.
Gone now to the ugliness of a fleshy flyover,
I hear the sudden noise of a pissed hangover
Staggering for a blue shit
And, o, as curtains fail, then a natural killer
Must surely slice eyes from bruised lips?
A sudden sallied acceptance of night and day
Plays litter-ridden where the mouth-bound grave
Points ferrules at imbecilic tree-towels
And the killing body of a false mind disembowels
Hot spaces where closed faces
Shit in the wind
Twenty-two fingers vault against a vended rape
And one billion heaped guitars
Serenade god as banging angel-cars
As an angel’s car, named Abaddon, rode from light
Then a bad sea-star fell from midnight
And the ashen roses of a sea of Adam
Stuck Aaron deep down where a shitted car of Christ
Taunted roads with bodies.
Where the fingers of sex vinegars leach to life
Then thunderheads may well
Disembody bolls from washed miraculous laddies
And we will ladder all sense?
Musk-strewn, we musify the operatic poor when
Nude motorways silence neon bitter women
And naked fellows of felonic foals
Skate for optics as wind-swells roll
Darkness into rain
This side of a world is being painted with
Loudmouthed baby-varnish
And the roads of lady-cabbage cut all kids.
When made grim and unimportant, an ugly city-town
Sprays slayed paint where bombed sound
Howls inside sprawling trees; and as wasted town
Taunts blinded teachers
And the suns of fathers vamp cunt as an urban clown
Snips bright killers
Once interwoven with billers, a branched baby-bidder
Sits and gleams for
Old ides and ivory whores, and, lo, as dreamed dawgs
Undress dogs and fever then
Casted kibbles create cunt-hens from cold women
When once we are fist-felled, then grey children
Must climb city wards.
We will shed some alligator tears. As cars career
Inside the dead, then
We will drink some crocodile beers; and a bill of men
Must rot for Simeon
And the gullies of the gobbed and reasoned
Hear youth call to age
O. The slappy sovereign in a cage must
Wrap wounds inside sweet age
And then cabinets of the lied will fib for rage, and
We will share some sweetened bitter lust
And button birds in blue turtle dreams.
For whom do we sleep? Ourselves? Or is it more
That rest suffers a dreamed self which cannot arise?
Chidden men of Xmas wrap gifts for god’s bride
And the malting eggs of sap sample Easter’s
Sweet swilled shell-snaps.
And we will share some alligator beers. As cars revere
Outside death, then we will gun-sear
Drabbling fishy fear from vine-tilted wine-wilted
Poked pierced cock…
The wives of guzzled wort widen when
Turds under cables cradle shits and pissed women
And the covers of a private heron
Hardens, and blown bodied beaver-boys season
Pushers in Haven.
As we retreat, just like the sea, our town of gardens
Digs for blossoming claws
And the bagger of bauds bed-binds ravens
And a closed lime-lady
Locks a maggot finger underneath moors
Soon surely to be rid of pap-girls, urban reasons must
Spiral from a pithed chapped word where
Soft red mouths moisten men and gay prayer
And, pounced, a parabola of peated poesy has snares
And we must seem scared of evening?
Wet wives widen for clamouring dirtied sirens.
Swashed spies soften
Beached bombs and coarse guns, and Poseidon
Bobs up from treed shroud-sailed
Tautened sea-tigons, and we will harden
Swelled pigs in pug gardens.
As a bended blathered bee-boss stings ravens
Then muted modelled mead-moss
Pecks crows and peals off a blue cross.
When uninhearsed, I saw a bad kid fearing
Deliberate stage-fright
And, when once plays roll, I am crying?
O, laden god has been a lucky boy
O, his active lover has danced for joys
And the closed dramaturgy of a big boy
Smooches in chiffon light.
Uncoached, three dramatic towels touch again
The felt lips of an infant song
And choral crypts carry crags unto swung rain
And tipping histrionics.
Owls under gaffers grit giddy thespians
By altered radio Christ, and, la, cold romantics
Shape a Roman dream from
A pantheon of pushing penile cunt-drums
And sainted sable-summer strips for honey.
A sudden sliding sun of love sunders
Barns and owls, and, o, as a knifer’s keen father
Stalls old stone, then
A sudden sliding gun of god sunders
Burns and cowls. O this town of feathers
Tars bells with trowels
And then green glint of a hover-bus bears towels
Damply back home where a dill of fakes fashions
Crows and mother.
Keen kenned grapes rinse hands in bread-wine
And drunk foetal grinds
Crapulent beer-binds
And where once a vogue for wine lines
Pockets of lime, then lemon stores
Spread tipsy tubers against thieves and wards
And wardened guarder men
Dig for obfuscated brolly men, and washed hens
Don vodka-vision.
A sodden siren’s snooded summer sucks rocks as lissom
Speaks for whores and powder….
What the hell are we doing with our mind make-up?
Copyright JedBellamy 2018.
In County Sleep somehow relates to Dylan Thomas's unfinished poem In Country Sleep?