Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Post apocalyptic balcony number 8

Slow steps beat
calm apparent march

Movie clips
in slow motion
Reflections to be
caught in blades

Boots of
Mong Kok Boys

To the tunnel
Below the mountain
Finger connection
gate of surging hate

settled tonight
settled for honor
settled at birth
arranged marriages forgotten in the time before

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Post apocalyptic balcony number 7

Wrapped in enigma,
They follow
The Siamese Psychopaths

They jump rusted
car skeletons.

the white line

Running towards
Lion rock tunnel
with Agro4
The Chemist's new
ultra violent drug.

The world was small
focused to tarmac
fight and death.

It's all about blades
sharpened for blood
death weapons
tools of war

Running towards
the dark arch of the tunnel
the battle ground
mid way under a mountain

A mountain
That separates two.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Post apocalyptic balcony number 6

Rain drops
fall through
orange light

The ink which
circles wanted adds

Inked tears
which could be
Brushed into a swan
and fly away

Blocked drains
Like a shit souffle

Sheltering under a ledge
With a neon noodle sign
Flickering blue
like a fly trap

Watching the rain
and puddling.

Just waiting for someone to come.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Post apocalyptic balcony number 5

She hoped,
Her children,
Had Heard her voice.
Tonight, of all nights -her birthday.

At the top
Of Tai Mo Shan
Mary, in her enclave
Speaking free.

The rusting
Radio transmitter
Gaffa taped to
An old observatory golf ball.

Temperature 34
humidity 78
typhoon level 3
impending storm

She hoped
They'd listen.
But, so many
had not.

So many had died
dead now.

The young bunch
the lost bunch
the violent bunch
the dreams that drained into soil.

She hope the beats
the liquid base
had changed
a few thoughts.

In the post disaster world
Not many chances
Not many dreams evolve.

Maybe today would be new.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Post apocalyptic balcony number 4

Down at The Lazy Orchid
Base flowed like mercury.
Emma sat, eyes of fire
Staring back from
Vodka shot meniscus.

The sparse drum beat
Indicates an architecture
To the liquidity
Her finger's
Tapped pensive

Inside The Lazy Orchid
Bare concrete
Punctuated with rusting re bar
Sound systems giving
Harsh lines living movement.

Bar man Dave
Water's Bar plant Marge
Laconic as always
No judgment
No questions

The base tightens
Emma's slices a slither of lemon
With a clever
And twists the three drops
Into the vodka

The rest of them
The Shatin Girls
Walk in.
Like a wake behind
Tinky and Winky.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Post apocalyptic balcony number 3

Wrinkled faces, caught by time
Push hawker carts
Slow shouting procession
The smell of noodles
Chicken stock, vinegar and soy.
Steam locomotion
Keep off the floor
The smell of rotting garbage
Sewage and sweat
Olds lie homeless
Stepped over by youth.

Thronging masses
Packed tight like legends
Tell of salmon.

Street level, forgotten level, people level
Alive level
Way below enclosed, excluded
Restaurant arcades.
Up above
From surgery come fresh guffaws
Fake as display noodles
Bi weekly sex changes
Make for interesting affairs.
This one guy
Could fuck his own arse
Grafted a pussy
Over his shitter
Cause he liked his dick to smell
In the gym locker room.

Wealth determines height above
Piss stained trousers
Sex menus
And bathtub narcotics.

Dr Jim, pimp and pusher
Looks down and out over his users
Plexiglass separation
Gold watch, two links to big
Falls visually onto hand
Coal black suit
Too crisp to be cheap
Data streamed straight
To his optic nerve
New tech implants
Can't even be found
At Sam Shui Po.

His eyes catch a kid,
New on Nathan Road.
Biking through crowd
Dr Jim doesn't know
It's KidCarl's first roll
For the Mong Kok Boys tonight

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Post apocalyptic balcony number 2

The evening heat;
making the air feel like cream cheese

Turning a knob through static
Genghis searches for Mary
The husky voice of an angel.
Beamed down from the top of HK

“Down to the people on the street
Coming for you
Your evening voice
Your evening song bird.
We've got beats.
We've got base.
We've got word.
Kept that dial locked children.
Peace out Genghis;
Roll away,
Mong Kok Boys.
Keep it real,
Take it easy:
Take a step back,
Sha Tin Girls
No need for blood
Tinky & Winky
Please not tonight”

Gentle rhythm lifts over
Husky voice
Base blossom speaker
Snare click syncopation
Vocals come and go like
voices imagined in the night.

Tinky & Winky
Siamese psychopaths
Joined at the hip
Smiling silent
drawing each others
knife edge
black battle eye liner.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Post apocalyptic balcony number 1

The Dusk Light
Was Unsettling
Electric Pink.

Barry Lau Sat
In his genius
In his rocking chair

Not that genius
was appreciated today
but it's cozy
warm memeories comforted

54 stories up
Penthouse Suite
Deserted below
Ram-shackled vegetable garden above

Squash tendrils creeping
like a crown
down to an earth
Flooded for years

A typhoons first breath
Hanging like
a stuttered whisper

Gently rocking
out the days
until the storm

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Pay as you go

Mobile phone fuzz
Personally; pay as you go
Just top up here and there
No five year plan
No projected destination
No written red summary
Of a previous life.

People around upgrade
and drop into obscurity
new model
new lover
new diploma
new path
upgrade now
the best offer on the street
the mantra of tomorrow
spoke yesterday

I have touch screen
I have a new hair cur
I have a 3.2 mega pixels;
yes in my phone
I have a new job
Yes with accounting
Check this new app
I never loose an erection
I'm upgraded
I wish I was was
Come, you can be,
forget the old
destroy the outdated

Crashed piles of weee
forgotten mountains
Forgotten paths
to the end.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Cracks in a city's pavement

(not a word of this is true – it's an experiment in urban decay)

Whipped cream rushes
From stainless Steal Dispenser
Slide show shutter images
from last night
Amphetamine buzz
Post club retreat
Nitrous oxide from similar
Stainless Steal Dispenser
Balloon after Balloon
Trips in miniature
Getting closer, hands search
Cold sweat lips seek
Naked on a nylon carpet
She straddles me
Reddened chest
Pours whipping cream
Into that same Dispenser
Ejects an inverted cross
of cloud lite cream
down my torso
Devouring mouthfuls
sickly whipped cream
off quivering erect
cum scented body parts.
Until, too full of sick
my stomach flows like a torrent
down her back.
Pissed at me she shoots too much smack
Lips turn blue
I slip out of the flat
Passing ambulance crew
on dusty concrete steps
I held her hand to the last moment
but couldn't take another wrap like that.
Now alone, morning bistro
Not even sure last night existed
With all the scenes
laid to waste.
Cooked up some ket;
got rid of the bubbles;
found a vein;
Now with every whipped cream latte
another silent movie
a dream.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Cuthbert Eats Bob

So I cut open my stomach
With a sharpened spoon
Plug in the video camera
Gaffa tape to seal
Camera primed with a fresh role
Of Beta Max Tape

Press go and watch
My Tape Worm
Bob my enlarged gut

It's so dull, even with the scenes
of sea anemones fucking
spliced in.
So I drop a bomb
To speed up the day

Bob shrunk to nothing
As did my genitalia
My brain
and my circle of friends

Now the reals of film lie scattered
across the unmowed lawn
The odd daffodil focusing
on the slow scene
until the sun goes down

Friday, June 18, 2010

Dragon Boat Racing

Just 20 people.
In a long wooden dragon boat.
Two abreast
Breathing, tensed, waiting for the gun.

3 months of training
condensed to 3 minutes
This is it, coiled, small world
Waiting for the gun.

Sea breeze and green mountains
Not in the picture today
The other 11 boats
Not in the picture today.

Bang. Stick strikes drum
Paddles pull water
Hard at first but the speed increases
Every muscle driving.

18 oars in perfect synchronization,
Drive, pull, breath, recover.
Stroke after stroke
Drum beat after drum beat.

Pain setting in,
Lungs screaming, muscles ripping
18 oars in perfect synchronization,
Drum beat after drum beat.

The team screams through the pain
The world melts
To a relentless rhythm
Pull harder for the last twenty.

Fall back. Everything gone.
But so high there is nothing else.

Cameras flash.
Crowds Roar.
Hands shuck
Team nods exchanged.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Phantom Bike Shimmy

Almost like a ghost you come
You're unexpected.
You're unforgiving.
You're terrifying.

You walk into my life at high speed
Building up slowly
Catching my absolute attention
Hairs standing on end.

The familiar feeling of unease
That usually evaporates
But this time no, you're staying
Whispering tales of bitter ends.

A faint intangible wobble
Bike frame feeling like jelly
Rippling on a silver try
Each resonance closer to the end.

Breath in, this is it,
Tarmac at 50mph
But no, grasp the unknown
Fight like it's the last breath.

No longer a metal framed
carbon fiber reinforced
machine of substance
but an eel swimming between my legs.

Hold on, don't lock up,
Everything rides on this moment
Body swaying now.
But speed disappearing.

Finally jump off at the curb.
No traffic passed.
I wasn't spat from bike.

But my trusted bike is
Eerily perfect.
Rides true, all parts in order.
Just a brief moment of mechanical possession.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Screaming Beats

deep in urban fabrics
the slip of syncopation alive
wells up inside
exploding rib cages
sucked back in, another bar.

Relentless evolving sound
Internet niches now huge
1 and zeros , ones and 0's
zooming around the globe
To ear bones and synaptic nerves

to the center of everything.
when the sun has faded
particles still collide
rhythms develop
The gentle beat of eternity

Wednesday, May 19, 2010


Sorry, it's been awhile. Margg, thanks for the encouragement, this may make things make sense.

Experimenting with sobriety;
Bottle of vodka frozen into the freezer
with loneliness.

Endless days of energy and mediocrity,
Run here, row there, hear the vicious beat.
The bars of life palpable.

The sad realization of transition,
long drawn out waves
To a way of life.

The underground doors slide shut,
Two faces already pressed against the window
Kissing through the impenetrable but invisible barrier.

Knocking on thirty with a career,
that seldom makes me care.
A hole for my head peg.

The mountains speak to me again,
The sea's tides rock my rest bite.
The trees gently shade my emptiness.

My friend's words remain with me,
No longer lost in the soup of intoxication.
It's a new day, the sun slates through the occasional clouds.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

What are governments and why do they feel they have the right to impose law?

My piss smelt like barbeque flavored crisps today.
And looked like iron bru.
I wouldn't drink it even if the person in charge
at the foreign legion
told me too.
Which apparently a friend of mine had to do.
To prove he was a man.
Whatever, an x girlfriend of mine drank her own piss,
Not for sexual pleasure,
Just to see what it tasted like.
Apparently neither nice nor foul.
A bit like fish eyes.
The first time I ate them,
my friend didn't tell me not to crunch the hard bit.
The rest was neither nice nor foul,
but the hard bit was chalky and foul.
Another friend of mine,
when very young
ate his own poo
because it brown and looked like chocolate.
His mum considered this a taboo, and said no.
I think I agree with his mum.
My friend's wife one day,
came home with a highly venomous snake,
she chased through their field and clubbed to death
with a bit of bamboo.
She cooked it into a great soup.
She wasn't afraid of mice either.
They got married when they were 14,
and are completely in love.
With two children called guitar and a name I forget,
but again sounds like a romanic word.
I've never fancied the ultimate taboo,
eating a person.
But some people have, when in desperate need.
I guess everybody has a point in their lives,
When to survive.
You break all your own rules.
Just so you can see your family and friends again.

What are governments and why do they feel they have the right to impose law?

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


I have found peace in many places,
Harvesting rice, before sitting down to eat last seasons.
Swapping choices cuts with friends,
Passing a glass of strong moonshine.
Because beer seems bottled and extravagant.

Or different times, living in Muslim communities,
Where alcohol is frowned upon.
So you eat chicken in peanut sauce,
Swap stories and jokes in languages barely understood.
Watching the red dawn over adobe huts.

Or laying the last brick in house I once built.
Before giving it away because I became restless.
But the sun set over mountains there.
Which have always seemed permanent.
And by consequence superior.

Or lying in naked arms,
Thinking of children and families.
In that moment after orgasm,
When the world shrinks to two.
With slow Saturdays, tea, crumpets and dreams.

Watching a snake move with unsurpassed elegance
Through a mulberry tree.
A river flowing never slightly in the distance.
Jungle mountains whom really know their trees
I wonder if they know me – their voyeur.

Riding an endless mountain road.
Through clouds and storms.
Cold and hot, the potholed tarmac
Stretching into an unknown distance.
With cities and sugary fruit shakes.

Holding hands on a town bench.
Sometime passed closing time.
With a shared brown papered bottled.
With jokes about the world
And the Monday to come.

So now it is skyscrapers and crowded streets
Where I find peace.
In a swirling mass of impersonal humanity.
But somehow this makes sense, the unknown passenger
next to me, bumping into me with the rock of the train.

Lost in their own thoughts, their own world now.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

My Table Top

Cold coffee pot
lap top
unplugged headphones
dental floss
half full wine glass
half used citronella candle
loose change
ice cream bowl
flat keys
leaking ashtray
Tabasco sauce pizza hut package
irregularly heaped receipts for goods
ATM evidence
tissues (used and packaged)
fruit bowl full of sugar free lollipops
ripped hard drive box
hard drive
hard drive instructions (unopened)
water jug
water glass
another water glass
read books
unread books
half read book
open dvd cases
gas bill
half full fag packet
empty fag packet
cellophane wrapper with price tag
(devoid of mother's day card)
take away menu
maxican hat
empty beer cans
printed out photos of english countryside
cables connecting me to the world and speakers
and dirt
my life on my coffee table

Friday, February 19, 2010

Hong Kong

Yeah, so maybe it is time for a more wordy blog. With paragraphs and such like, maybe about Hong Kong, we will see.

The first thing of note is, it is fucking cold here. With no insulation or heating the building pretty much follows follows external temperatures, which fall to 4oC; I wore a hat to bed last night.

The dust has settled in Hong Kong however, most of the good people I have met have decided to leave, but that is OK I guess because I have a new house plant called Shazza. It is the efficiency of Hong Kong that gets me, everything here works, despite pitiful Cantonese, I have internet, a flat in which to house it and a duel gas hob cooker for cooking and boiling me whistling kettle.

(I also have a fat hi fi and sub woofer, mp3 decks and pissed off neighbours)

I have fridge (with ice box)

Which is full of semi rotten vegetables that taste weird, and beer, although that has run out now so i'm drinking wine from Australia which is warmer than my room.

It's odd I feel work dissolves my mind, despite been incredibly creative at work, I feel words I become lost to energy flow images and long days.

I want to write novels about lonely people who run futuristic energy farms, bur read comics because there more fun, until the government demand the impossible under threat of sterilization and crazy convoluted webs develop. But that is just a dream, for which I feel I have no time.

Seas of people often submerge me, even when I have 5 chocolate croissants for breakfast and non of my colleagues want them. Maybe they feel if they eat them they will be as stupid as me, and resit and eat their danishes. Maybe this paranoia is in my head, but Albert, who lives in my head, definitely tells me its not.

I also brought a mop, and toilet bleach, which I keep under the cooker in case I find enough dirt to use them.

I have framed pictures of England, which I took with a digital camera, got printed out at a photo store and framed in ikea minimal (cheap) frames. But the frames were so cheap they distorted the pictures and now they look crap.

Enough of this moribund rubbish...

There is a park in Hong Kong (Kowloon Side – where all the cool shit goes off). Where the old town used to be, it used to be intense and crazy with no water and drug factories, but community and life. The park is cool now, with skeletal trees lining white walls and meandering paths and people sitting thinking. With food stalls that sell treats.

The food here is very good, not Beijing standard but good. Ummm morning dim sum, from trollies and steamers and people who smile. Late night noodles and lunch time tofu. Actually the food is the best thing about Hong Kong, and everyone shares everything, which is nice.

Anyway maybe I have to go to an overpriced bar now...

Monday, February 15, 2010

Early morning sometime

Only one glass left
in the bottle.
Early morning sometime.
Cold lonely couch
in a distant different city.

Escaped from somethings
From three day
Amphetamine hazes.
No bedside table line
for breakfast
or morning beer glass hugs.

Hunter S. or Hemingway,
Kerouac or Selby.
You help me out today.
Like last year
and the year before.

Maybe not a solemn Mexican
Road today.
But a mayhem of Cantonese.
You'd understand.
Cheap karaoke bars,
Whiskey and green tea.

Treating hearts like
paper airplanes.
Feeling like a piece of shit.
Where is my tambourine man,
jingling ever on the horizon.
Tapping out another path.

Modern nomad blues
Ever another path.
Wondering where and when
The sun will set
In the same place again.

Thursday, February 4, 2010


Why, when i listen to Bob Dylan,
Does everyhting fall into order.
it may be cliched,
it may be harking back to retro times
when i wasn't even a sperm.

but it all makes sense.
the lyrics that flow to meaning.
At times i have been inspired
while push bike riding down a
100km road in remote mexico
by captain arab and friends.

at times, like now i'm inspired
by the freedom
but it's always just the
personal meaning
that evolves
from the words
with the laid back strings
and the occasional harmonica

when i'm coming down hard
it sooothes
when i'm coming up hard
it drives

bob oh bob keep on going.

whenever i hear your new words
i think they're shit
but then i listen again
and again
because i know it'll be worthwhile

and suddenly bam
i am there, with an albume for life.

let me gamble on the jack of hearts.


(i only ever buy your albumes in mp3 format from internet retailers because i don't know why)

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

morning people

seas of dessolate faces
encapsulate my commute.
rivers of them
in semi developed newtonian motion
a b line for the cake shop
or for the tripedal exit barrier.
just the steady dub step beat
to guide my feet
and the pigeon instinct homing in on
my lcd haven,
of morning coffee
and various papers
broadness now defined by my lcd companionship
maybe today channel four isn't blocked
maybe today people can speak
maybe today i'll remember my degree equations
and not feel like a retard
design a new skyscrapper
to suck energy from the weather
and make people happy
inspire poeople to think
and live
with one globe in mind
maybe also i'll just wish i was at
in loving arms
listening to filthy b lines
and drinking cheap wines
plotting routes on my map
eating dim sum two hours passed there prime
thin king really come on
are we not etheral.

Friday, January 22, 2010

no thinking no corrections

day evening night
pressure exploding madness
trapped dreams evaporate
with each economically viable answer
take the pv's away
they cost too much
but save the island states
who are they
they're not on the news
or in the world cup
are they even real
maybe we can forget them
after all 'samsung LCD revolutions' dont distribute there
or coka cola
or cane cola
or pepsi
or suksi
or any fucking emapthy
to washed out homes
or floating corpes
or stagment ponds
with children
taking slurps
of death
they would never make uni anyway
there isn't one
they can't speak english
does that mean they don't count
fuck it all
fuck everything
fuck late entry copenhagen politics
fuck the fact that i ate today
and drank more than one beer
fuck me
i don't even count

Friday, January 15, 2010


Poetry dissolves
in the commuter rush.
elbows in your kidneys
as a glass door
crushes your face.

Every day the cake people
smilelessly take
my $HK 5.50
for a mexican current bun.
but i smile 'umm goius'
and march along.

march to the lcd screen
of work
of productivity
of progress.

I sell you a vision
a vision of the future
where energy
doesn't corrupt

i believe this
i see a solution
i see green hills.
with rabbits bouncing.

but my shirt is
because image is

believe me
i am a engineer
i don't seek finance
i seek effciency

you ram your insipid orange financial pages downn my throat
compressed on the underground
on the tube
in the media
fuck you
economic gradients are diminishing
maybe one day
i can
renewable energy times in your face

and talk with pride about

Mahjohng welcome

it's being a while, and i guess i am feeling the pressure of a new job and a new city. Much of my thoughts are taken up with creating a future for buildings, lots of which are very useful but very abstracted from this blog. But this is a poem to the people who have welcomed me to hong kong.

3 of all 4 compass
It feels like a
lucky wash.
It feels like
all four paws
hit the ground,
it feels like
a sheltering
it feels like
a future cloud
thank you