Mark's Mutterings

Post apocalyptic balcony number 11

2011-06-22T14:43:00.000+01:00

Can't complain I guess
Brings in the dollar
Pays for the happy times
With the happy times
Everything else fades

A few of them get physical
Not in the pleasure sense
Black eyes
Bleeding arse hole
Happy times to come

Not really big enough
To fight back
Just take it
Money thrown in face
Black out I guess

Met this guy, last week
Friendly like
Neighbor from floor above
Might tout for johns
But Real life – not into it.

This guy, maybe a friend
Brought me left over dinner
For the microwave
Don't have one though
Ate it cold – alright, better than normal

Next day, he came
Ask for the Tupperware
Hard to get these days
Had a wife in tow
He said to me

Kid, Son,
Want a different job
Want less internal bleeding
Doesn't have to be this way
I get the feeling he may be right.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 10

2011-05-26T17:42:00.001+01:00

Scattered fragments
of unnecessary wounds
lacerate the air
Around KidCarl's world
Curled in a naked wheel arch
Throbbing reality nightmare
Awakened to the world
of violence
and lack of compromise.

The slashing
and the stabbing
and the dying
slows down

as people limp
away
shouting
territorial claims
to the bare walls of the tunnel

maybe to the wounded
to the dead
to the next time

KidCarl
almost shacking
maybe so
just does not know anymore

Please the husky voice of our angel.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 9

2011-05-01T15:24:00.000+01:00

Tunnel walls focus
To Enlarging
Running
People

Reality breathing close
as life stutters
a quick dash people;
metal will scrape

brooding, echoing
resonant
cries
Sonic waves colliding

before flesh
and metal come together
and screams hint at
loss, regret, honor or victory

screams of silent dead faces
tarmac comfort
in a cool cave like forgotten tunnel
blades move on

muscles tensed,
beads of sweat or blood
mixed in orange sodium gloom
a blade moves across a throat

no pause for a light hearted jingle
KidCarl was bleeding not dying
curled in an empty truck wheel arch
hands protecting ears from death rattle melody

Mong Kok boys
and ShaTin girls.
The remaining
leave to where they came from
Agro4 and adrenaline drained
Blood congealing
Hatred blossoming.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 8

2010-12-15T14:32:00.000Z

Slow steps beat
calm apparent march
meditation
almost

Movie clips
in slow motion
Reflections to be
caught in blades

Boots of
Mong Kok Boys
fall
together

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

Post apocalyptic balcony number 7

2010-09-30T15:28:00.002+01:00

Wrapped in enigma,
They follow
The Siamese Psychopaths

They jump rusted
car skeletons.
Together
Choreographed
Hunting

Chasing
the white line
highway

Running towards
Lion rock tunnel
Pumped
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.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 6

2010-09-23T05:53:00.000+01:00

Rain drops
fall through
orange light

The ink which
circles wanted adds
runs

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

Blocked drains
Bubble
Like a shit souffle

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

Watching the rain
falling
stippling
and puddling.

Just waiting for someone to come.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 5

2010-09-11T08:27:00.000+01:00

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
stabbed
shot
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
rise
Not many dreams evolve.

Maybe today would be new.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 4

2010-09-09T14:21:00.001+01:00

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.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 3

2010-09-03T13:50:00.004+01:00

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
Eager.
Dr Jim doesn't know
It's KidCarl's first roll
For the Mong Kok Boys tonight

Post apocalyptic balcony number 2

2010-09-02T03:16:00.000+01:00

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.

Post apocalyptic balcony number 1

2010-09-01T12:09:00.002+01:00

The Dusk Light
Was Unsettling
Electric Pink.

Barry Lau Sat
Contented
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
Warning

Gently rocking
out the days
until the storm
passed.

Pay as you go

2010-08-19T14:40:00.000+01:00

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
anymore
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.

Cracks in a city's pavement

2010-08-08T09:48:00.000+01:00

(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.

Cuthbert Eats Bob

2010-07-02T13:58:00.001+01:00

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
Cuthbert
My Tape Worm
Eat
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

Dragon Boat Racing

2010-06-18T14:47:00.000+01:00

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.
Exhausted.
Confused.
But so high there is nothing else.

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

Phantom Bike Shimmy

2010-06-07T14:43:00.000+01:00

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.
Safe.
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.

Screaming Beats

2010-05-27T16:06:00.001+01:00

|....|..|...|...|
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

Experiments

2010-05-19T15:38:00.003+01:00

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.

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

2010-03-27T13:46:00.001Z

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?

Peace

2010-03-17T13:46:00.002Z

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.

My Table Top

2010-03-07T08:37:00.006Z

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
lube
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
diary
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
grime
and dirt
my life on my coffee table

Hong Kong

2010-02-19T15:10:00.000Z

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...

Early morning sometime

2010-02-15T18:26:00.000Z

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.

Bob

2010-02-04T15:00:00.004Z

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.

x

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

morning people

2010-01-27T14:10:00.004Z

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
home
in loving arms
listening to filthy b lines
fucking
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.

no thinking no corrections

2010-01-22T16:53:00.003Z

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
x

Time

2010-01-15T16:42:00.003Z

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
delapordated
because image is
superficial

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
ram
the
renewable energy times in your face

and talk with pride about
sustainability.

Mahjohng welcome

2010-01-15T16:13:00.003Z

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
points.
It feels like a
lucky wash.
It feels like
all four paws
hit the ground,
it feels like
a sheltering
welcome
it feels like
a future cloud
thank you

Post COP

2009-12-21T14:20:00.000Z

Well, it was a depressing end to the Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen, but why?

The government representatives who were present failed to put global warming ahead of economic growth. But why?

Just to put this out there, government are self serving entities, who seek to prevail in positions of power. i.e. in the democratised world they seek the favour of the masses. So is it everyone in the leading countries that failed. I think I was guilty in having faith that they would step above their selfish positions and act against the masses to commit to large scale economic changes. In essence this faith was very unfounded, there should have more placards, more membership commitments to friends of the earth or the WWF. There should have been more pressure to make large governments act.

So what next, politics from above have failed, it's time to use other mechanisms to achieve goals. One important group that has formed are the COP 40, a group of international cities, including London, Hong Kong, Adis Abbaba... who are fighting from a much more in tune grass routes level. Their vested interests stemmed from slowing sea level rise to prevent mass flooding of their business districts to learning and educating less developed cities. It is at this level that new mechanisms of department integration are occurring, transport planners speaking to waste departments to develop holistic frameworks to act at local specific levels. This has to be the answer, telling higher politics what is happening, such as London's former mayor did, developing far thinking practical strategies to limit GHG emissions. And of course passing on information for no gain other than to enable humankind as we know it to survive.

So I guess it is up to everyone now, no more eco arrogance, just education and action. Been an activist doesn't mean putting bricks through Porsche windscreens, the people are rich enough to buy a new windscreen and waste even more carbon. It is time for pragmatic universal action to enact real change. In the hope that governments will see the will of populations and fight in Mexico City next winter. Time is running out, carbon emissions must peak before 2017, to prevent the +2oC rise and associated serious affects of fucking with the globe. And this is the minimum we need to do. So it is time to stop thinking that is only one more holiday, one degree lower on the air con, one more break horse power. Time and the people in charge are no longer with us, it is time for us and only us to act. Lets no longer trust those above, and trust our selves after all we are the ones who will eventually have to change lifestyles if governments get together and pass laws, pre-empt and inspire I say.

There is hope, but not for two many more years.

Distance

2009-12-10T14:15:00.002Z

Screaming impatient
Lullabies.
Into the wind.
Hoping,
They reach you
Beautiful.

Writing rhyming
love couplets.
On paper aircraft
Fuselages.
Fly away windswept
Poems.

Global time zone
Manipulation.
Hazy blurred video
conversation.
Laptop impersonator
comfort.

Hope to Mitigate

2009-12-06T08:16:00.001Z

When The World is gone,
Scorched or flooded.
When The Last few remain,
Searching aimlessly.

Nights drawing in,
A scant decaying rhythm.
The last leaves of autumn,
Falling towards the ground.

A simple skeleton,
For a timeless gravestone.
The last and eternal rest,
A vigil to nothing.

Will the winds still think,
The tides still breath,
Or the clouds ponder lonely.
Will everything just stop.
Like a tree falling silently.

Hong Kong – First Impressions

2009-11-30T14:21:00.001Z

This place is tall.

I am on the seventeenth floor and there is a road above my window.

It's a technologically advance place, maybe one of the most on the planet, but they still have old style ring pulls on drinks cans, how 1980's

The supermarkets have lots of greens.

My chop stick skills led to a fork been brought to my table.

Two of my best shirts have splatters from dumplings or chicken legs plopping back down into soup or curry.

The roads don't seem very bike friendly.

The satellite villages have sky scrappers, cloud itchers.

The beer is good and cheap.

Concrete, so many small, tall apartment blocks. Every bit of flat land expanded upwards.

My washing detergent won all the independent tests apart from 'milk/blood'.

Christmas mania.

Roaring, flaming cooking fires, flash cook beautiful fish.

Bustling market, fake, cheap copies.

Car horn impatience.

Gambling island Las Vegas.

Portuguese mo pad, yellow and red building influence.

Long working hours. Silent lift accents.

Pollution burning lungs, underground the world on the MTR.

Hong Kong - The Journey To

2009-11-30T14:20:00.000Z

Aeroplane engine hum.
Familiar lonely song.
Suspended between worlds.
Worlds which are only
A few seas apart.

The vibrancy of change
Which strikes bolts of fear
And love
Through hearts.
An ode to the engine,
Hum, song.
The shrinking world.
Grand bass of my life.

Ripped from tender,
Post uteric.
Loving relationship.
Ripped and kicked far away.
Time zone change.
Internet phone account.
Frequent flyer discount;
Privilege cards in glittering
colours.

Global personna.
Lonely and lost.
Craving I no longer know
What?
It was until economies melted,
A two up two down.
A Georgian brick terrace.
My lover and a garden.

Now any excuse to work.
I need money for pens.

Hong Kong, before.

2009-11-30T14:16:00.000Z

The second flight away in less than a year, where am I going? Leaving Squid behind, what I am doing? Moving to Hong Kong, the lure of The East, the corporate east this time, not the jungle and mountainous of the remote east. Dim sum and glass sky coffins. Tropical skies and associated deluges. Reading shows and people speak of Hong Kong's many faces, sleazy, capitalist, diverse. Hunting ground for the dollar, prostitution, Buddhism, Christianity, Cantonese, suits and ties.

Britannia turned this island in the 1850's from farming and fishing villages to global economic quarterback, a banking axis with Shanghai, HSBC, red and white now sits on many a countries street corner. Neon lights, I suspect the outward normal sprawl, flickering signs of suburbia, missing 'el's from the Hotel advert. The modern center, the renovated, the places that move with times, a trait of capitalism to adapt to circumstance and environment, the dragons mouth, breathing fire.

Hong Kong Island, expatriate haven, Chinese refuge, mixing bowl, east meets west soup on a tropical island with surfing beaches, serpents, electronic music, banned Falun Gong, discotheques and chop stick handling skills. Will these pre-conceptions be true?

Emigrating Today

2009-11-24T09:13:00.002Z

New Places,
The confusion of
The unknown to
The excitement of
The exploration.

A heart beat,
A new phase,
A different page.

Like any step,
Fear and sadness.
Lost and found.

New people with
New hair cuts.
Ever more
Distant hands
Waving goodbye.

A change bridged
By love.
Beautiful connection.
To beautiful to loose.

I probably should
Be packing.
Not writing poems.
Procrastination?

What will this change
Begin?
What will this change
Relieve?
I don't know,
However,
The easy road is usually
Wrong.

A secret location, no dress code.

2009-11-17T11:07:00.001Z

Underneath a railway arch,
A car park or a disused warehouse.
One night only, blue neon lights.
And a distinct bass throb.

Milling people stand, huddled.
A steaming impatient queue.
Security and cloak rooms,
Apprehension and excitement.

The bass hum now phater.
Built upon with middle and treble.
Lights escape from hidden arenas.
Groups of people meet; great and smile.

Corridors open onto dance floors.
Strobe lights, beats and moving feet.
Musicians play the crowd,
Like a pumping Bavarian accordion.

Luke cold cans of overpriced beer,
Chemical enhancement,
Could be anything.
Hugs and silly hats, laughing faces.

Beats, notes and samples make rhythms,
Moments evolve, drop and decay.
No longer trapped on an Apple Mac.
0's and 1's turned to synaptic pleasure.

Different rooms, different roots,
Different cities, different languages.
Different decades.
The same love for
The electronic.
The digital.
The Dj
The producer.
The dance.

Sunrise at a bus stop.
Ringing ears, in need of a shower.
Milk delivery woman acquaintance.
The real world?

Umbrella Aside

2009-11-13T17:26:00.001Z

So it’s dark in the evenings now and wet in the days; I was forced to spend £6.99 on an umbrella to keep my woolens and impermeable skin dry, I didn't want either shrinking. The next problems was the new and frightening world of umbrella politics. Mainly a tool of social conscience developed in the late 60’s, it is designed to prevent eye loss of passer byes and provides an introduction into the mathematical fathoming of moving 200 opened umbrellas through a river of central London Worker Traffic (LWT), whilst getting only the scruffy wet. Needless to say I am new to the tool so my umbrella had eye balls and even a small raven stuck to the points after only a few meters. In the end my umbrella was confiscated by the wind and I got wet. Well that was £6.99 well spent.

Zombie Revenge

2009-11-05T12:58:00.002Z

Inspiration:

People – Squid (always looking beyond the obvious)
Blogs - http://www.thecleanwhitepage.com - offbeat incentive
Books – Wolf Totem – Jiang Rong – Animism and the big ones
Music – N-Type, King Cannibal & Joker (bass heavy madness)

It wasn't long after I got bit, perhaps only ten or fifteen minutes, that things began to change. Looking back now, I guess the main change was in my feelings, my friends, well I call them friends, the people who escaped together, ran together and attempted to 'survive' together; they were my fleeting friends. In our minds I assume we all felt the same; it would work out like in the movies, we'd be hero's, fall in love; fuck to dying cinema lights across the world. We never considered that 'fatal' bite to be a lucky card.

For most people before us, death meant a sudden change, a loss of memory and a new innocent life - what ever was appropriate. But for us, death was a protracted process, a journey that would make us understand and value every future breath. A chance to be part of the living dead.

It was the sudden loss of identity, narcissism and person. This hit home hard at fast. Groups of people suddenly began to act as one, an evil one I admit, but a short lived collective one at least. There was so much death and human consumption that all our preconceptions of a world evaporated. I admit a greed filled us to consume and I think posses, but suddenly the mind was attempting to leave a body with deserted eyes, it was trying to find the next stage, but had time to glimpse the previous whilst knowing there was a next.

It was this moment, when the old human conscious was erased, questions were answered. No one had predicted this outside of the b movie cinemas, there was no plan, no army on stand by, no safe zones or escape. It consumed humanity and brought it together. Gradually we sat down to stave and thought, we prepared for the next – together. And yes this is where we ended up, jumping passed a few steps.

Scribbler Award

2009-11-05T12:22:00.003Z

Wow, thank you Jamie Nicole (reasons to forget) for the award & certificate. It really made my blogging month....

So i have to post the rules and select my five favourite blogs. Well some of them may well have been awarded an award before, but two shouts can never make someone sad.

The rules:

-Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass the award on to five most deserving bloggy friends.

-Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author and the name of the blog from whom s/he has received the award.

-Each Superior Scribbler must display the award on his/her blog, and link to The Scholastic Scribe, which explains the award.

-Each blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr Linky List. That way, they'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives this prestigious honour.

-Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

Number One in my world, Squid - scribblesquid her sereal art and words rock my world.

Not just 'cause she gave me the award, but because reading her words is like standing in the torrent of life. Jamie Nicole (reasons to forget)

Since i read the first sentence i was hooked by the honesty and realism of the words here, Stacey Sidebottom, My Brain In Blog Format

Some great poems here, they constantly evolve too. The Reticent One pOETIC aDVENTURES oF tHE rETICENT oNE

Just came across this one Tina Lonergan The Clean White Page and it's brilliant, it's off beat.

So that's my five, maybe i needed ten.

keep up the great blogs.

mark

Autumn Sky

2009-11-04T19:37:00.004Z

Influences – Train ride to London reading Wolf Totem – Jiang Rong

Autumn evening skies are black with night, an almost comforting black, the kind that proceeds the cold of winter. In the early purple evening, stars wake up, companions to walk home with. Later their beautiful litter seeps through closed windows as the world slips into night. All this after a late afternoon sun set, a tepid pallet which highlights the enormity of the sky, scattered clouds perspectives slashed with aviation trails.

A gentle cold that condenses breath to white cloud wonderlands. No summer sun to stew the jogger, just that morning autumn air, not yet cold enough to burn lungs but cold enough to create those mysterious wonderlands. The winds breath a sudden bite after it's summer caress.

It's the commute home for many, stranded many lane motorways, clogged with lights both red and white. Like serpents that writhe across fields, passed skeletal trees and huggled thorny bushes. Asphalt loneliness and dreams of a warm dinner. Possibly lasagne or stew and dumplings or roasted squash soup with chilli and bread. An embrace for the lucky a microwave for the lonely.

Hedge fruits, red or black or oaken and hovering birds, rodents collecting for the months ahead. The last of summers elegance caught in the orange and yellow and purple memory of leaves. A temporary death, a hibernation of green, a spiders dream whose web glistens with morning dew in slanted dawn light.

The death of summer is beautiful, a last breath of grace before the barrenness of winter, whose desolation is so complete it can breed hope of the spring and summer to come.

A Circle Is A Line

2009-10-25T21:27:00.004Z

As a mountain I sit.
With melting roots
and frozen hair.

Owls circle passed
and rodents burrow in
As trees grow and fall.

Children toboggan to
Houses down below
to comfy winter smoke.

Glaziers grow
flowing away to sea
And back again to falling snow.

As a mountain I sit
And often think
Is there a next?

Wrapping & Unwrapping

2009-10-19T00:33:00.012+01:00

I have written this poem as I rapidly become enamored with a beautiful woman. If you're reading this x.

You know that
Pair of eyes.
The pair that
can make you smile
or cry.

That familiar touch,
To gently help you
Through the day.

Those deep hugs,
that get you over,
All your scary dreams.

That naked foot
At the bottom of the bed.
Entwined,
Attached to toes,
Moving over skin.

A morning cup
Of tea.
Drank steaming,
Next to you.
As another day begins.
Happy.

Sparse beats

2009-10-18T23:03:00.003+01:00

Music Influences – Max Cooper
Art/literature – Leonora Carrington
People - Squid

There was a time in my life, when digital music had to be hard, fast and very dirty. There was a time even earlier in my life, when I was an angry teenager, that songs had to contain the word 'fuck' for me to be interested. Now, on the cusp of middle age, I like my music a little more peaceful but sometimes insane. I still like my very heavy bass lines, the beat that twitches those feet, the psychedelic swirls that progress a song. Some days I even like lyrics, (especially those by Kimya Dawson, Bob Dylan...), but most lyrics seem lazy and bore me compared to the vibrancy of instruments or electronic trickery.

Digital music is fascinating to me, it annoys me when people say, 'but they only press play and stop.' does a conductor not just waggle a stick, some of these 'stop/play' people produce every single note on that track, others write there own computer software to make the sounds and some make their own instruments to personify their minds. For me it's a fantastically evolving art form, when mixed with digital visuals, even more mind bending.

Instrument music also inspires me. How a person connected to a shaped piece of wood, with strings, plugged into a socket, or a formed lump of hollow brass plugged into a person can make such beauty. It's utter madness.

I guess this came from a weekend spent with a lovely women, we chilled, chatted, ate... We went to listen to a friend play on Saturday night, a friend from university. Playing minimal electronic music, in a concrete bar. It was a simple but brilliant night. A tasty meal , a chilled bar, engaging music, chat. None of the chaos of a full evening clubbing, not sleeping for two days...

I feel for my last few weeks in London, I need this peace. Moving to Hong Kong will be crazy. I feel gutted about leaving this wonderful woman behind, and I spend many hours con quoting plans not to. But it's tough. Why do you meet perfect people just as life's direction changes? Just like the electronic tune, that builds intensity, beautiful synths overlayed, people begin to dance, the beat intensifies, the bass becomes a little fuller, minds get lost in the repetitive rhythm, all feet move over the dance floor; dance more, whole bodies twitch, eyes close and notes and beats flow over the body, deep bass booting the chest, lost in the dance, lost to the musicians whim, they can take you anywhere at this point – the whole room just one.

Leaving London Town (soon).

2009-10-14T19:34:00.002+01:00

The job decision decided. The London job fell through, at the last moment. My cards played for me. It's off to Hong Kong in five or six weeks. Scary stuff, 'How does one go about emigrating?' I guess this blog will provide the answers over the next few weeks.

It should be exciting, but it feels lonely. I'll be leaving someone who has my heart. I'll be leaving many friends who have my joy. Naturally my first thought was to go and see my heart's harbor. So I popped downstairs, jet bike keys in hand. The engine on my jet bike is broken, so I power it using an assorted collection of happy birthday balloons and a hand held fan. Luckily the wind was with me; the journey shouldn't take too long.

Balloons inflated, fan switched to full – I set off...

Drifting over London's sky line is amazing, I'm not sure whether people have ever landed at Heathrow, it's one of the best plane landings in the world. I float down Kennsington High Street, passed the anti-social police who search the pockets of homeless people, before moving them on. Passed a collection of gaudy and predictable consumer havens. Passed the tube station; which I try to avoid. High above Hyde Park, where I sometimes run circumnavigating the Beautifully Baroque Albert Hall, home to concerts and smiles.

Over Marble Arch, with statues of ripped hero's of old on stallions. Tall Georgian business districts, beautiful but inaccessible, wave to the Queen at The Palace, pass down bustling oxford street, Christmas songs already playing for shoppers (maybe I need some ball bells for my tree). Glass shop windows display what you 'can' have through an impenetrable barrier. The far reaching chimney pot skyline of a beautiful city.

Themes slipping through London to my side. Days of old it delivered money to the banking district, now optical connections do that. Glass monoliths that influence The World. Train lines that go everywhere. Trendy east London, tight jeans and hair cuts, pubs and bars where I often smile and dance with friends. I set the jet bike down in Bethnal Green, lock it to an iron fence painted black, opposite The Buddhist Center.

I ring the door bell, lucky guess the password, take the lift upstairs, heart beating, hands sweaty. Curry ingredients in hand.

I'll miss London Town, but I want to leave happy. I feel my heart will be harbored for eons to come.

Tree house dream

2009-10-12T17:29:00.003+01:00

This is simply a daydream but maybe a real dream.

I've always wanted,
To live in a tree.
So I glued leaves
To my glasses.

Now I sit still,
In my living room.
With new friends.
Talking in Song.

The Magpie is
The most caring.
We both like
Shiny things.

Tomorrow, I think,
I'll build a swing,
And just maybe,
A fireman's pole.

Then I'll be ready,
To have old friends
Around for tea.
We'll sit and laugh.

Just Another Day

2009-10-12T13:04:00.001+01:00

London, London, London. A friends birthday, another friends engagement celebration, a gig, a pub, a club. Lots of friends, some I hadn't seen for years, some I've only recently met. All the makings for night of madness.

London for me, at the moment is a good place to be. There seems to be something happening here, a large group of people who have found each other, through mutual love of music, mashing up, hanging out, chatting and honesty. Twenty or thirty somethings, careers and vaporous weekend memories.

The night moved beautifully along, driven by a soup of alcohol and extras. Lots of chats, belated hugs, dancing, silliness all over the place. I'm lucky I guess, when I get wasted I smile, I'm not a violent person, never get into fights, arguments or any of that rubbish.

The night slipped on, through peoples houses and the streets of London, bottles of taquilla, couches and music. Suddenly it was Saturday evening, where had the next day evaporated to. A friend cooked cous cous. The chat was incredibly honest and refreshing, people spreading the love between friends, laughing.. But finally after a quick couch snooze it was time to head to bed. To my surprise I got a text from a friend, who I really want to be a lover. She was inviting me to watch the sunset on Brighton Beach. So I went to bed smiling, excited about the next day.

And it was a beautiful day, we sat on the beach listening to green waves whisper hello as the clouds cleared and the west was red and yellow and orange - the end of a weekend. We went for dinner, then home, hugged deeply and caught trains going in opposite directions.

Now it's Monday, a new week of possibilities.

Hangover Monologue

2009-10-09T10:17:00.002+01:00

This poem was a hangover poem, dedicated to my love of the previous night - wine and vodka.

Wine voice woman
Tongue sweet with roses
Worship my pillow whispers
But your breath befouls me.

If you cared you'd ask
Just why?
Empty bottles cover the floor.

The answers not deep
Or traumatic
Or repressed.

It's a ticket for something more
It's a shattered glass
It's a simple loving caress.

Which Job Do I Take

2009-10-08T22:16:00.002+01:00

Influences of the while

Books: Automated Alice – Jeff Noon
Music : Augie March & N type
Film: Baste Taste - Peter Jackson.

Well, in essence I lost my job a while ago. It was my fault really, I decided to ride a bike across Central America. Was it my fault though, I was fleeing a crumbled relationship. Yes, it probably was. That has led me here though, unemployed but two job offers in hand. One in London, where a lot of friends live, and one in Hong Kong, where a new adventure lie. Both fun jobs, engineering sustainable buildings (it's what I do best). Anxiety over what to do is driving me quite mad. My brain seems to explode with fire crackers of options, possibilities and futures.

Well only one way to decide, fill out two acceptances, select two random post boxes in London, assign a job to each, I walk, which ever one I find first is the job I take. Simple. Well nothing is really simple is it.

I had walked about 2 miles when the people around me started to stagger and scowl at me. Rude I thought, but London after all. I walk a bit further, I got a little offended when I saw a couple in an advanced state of foreplay in the street. They were biting each others necks. Passionately. Anyway I was almost at Soho so anything goes I guess.

A question I often ask myself, 'Do you cross the street to help, if you see someone getting attacked?'

Always, I have always thought until today. As I turned a corner I saw a young woman ruthlessly stabbing an suited man in the skull. I didn't run across the road, I fell to my knees, crippled, and cried out 'Help!', 'Somebody, police, someone.' but the people around me seemed oblivious, in a nine to five trance. Sushi for lunch and tips for dessert.

I just stood there, the knife kept plunging in and sucking out. Blood and skull pattering on the pavement. People just walked on by. I slumped against the wall in mental exhaustion. A stream of people flowed passed. And passed. More people. I guess the blood was flowing across the street, I wasn't watching anymore.

The more people that passed me the more they seemed to look at me. Look at me like I wasn't one of them. Look at me like I wasn't a person. The more I looked at them, the more they looked distant, almost alien.

Suddenly a middle aged man in jeans and t-shirt, the type I'd wear, turned to me. His lips quivered. His eyes, although they focused on me, seemed vaporous. His lips turned into a snarl, then they opened and let out terrific cry. The street stopped and turned, turned to me, started to crowd around me, looking intently. Looking like they wanted me.

My legs took over, my arms pushed and swept aside as I ran, ran for anywhere.

Only once I looked over my shoulder, only once I saw the a baying crowd with automated steps chasing me down.

After that I ran, ran fast, and faster. Until my lungs burned and I was safe in my friends flat. I still had both letters, I still don't know which job to take – Any suggestions, I assume the zombies have left now..

Digging for answers

2009-10-06T15:01:00.002+01:00

I was digging over my mother’s allotment today, passing time before my new job starts. I was slowly turning over the clods of earth, meeting many earthworms; most of them pleasant. At one point, the fork slipped suspiciously easily into the ground, in fact it slipped all the way to the handle. I rattled it around in the ground, which was a little strange, more earth fell away, the ground beneath my feet began to slip, my knees disappeared, then my hips. For a brief moment all I saw was a swirling soily tunnel until I thudded onto a cold damp floor.

I was sitting on my bum in an angular cuboid cavern. The light came from the comparatively small hole from where I’d fallen. A giant earthworm with a bobble hat on both ends spoke, ‘Hi I’m Albert.’ ‘And I’m Edgar’ each phrase came from under a different hat. ‘We’re siamese worms.’ Both mouths said in unison. ‘We also have split personalities; sometimes we switch bodies. You don’t need to know this however; you’ve come for different answers.’

I suspected either Albert or Edgar was talking out of their arse.

With that the earthen walls swelled into pictures, these were nothing like the oily holographs I’d seen before, there hues were dense, there forms almost palpable. Gradually after a few flickers my face appeared. Although there were no tears my blue eyes seeped sadness. I noticed how blue they were, had I ever noticed this before?

‘You don’t know do you?’ my face spoke,
‘Know What?’ I answered
‘What to do.’
‘About what?’
‘The woman, your new job.’
‘Yes, I know I’m off to London, the city, the music, friends, vibrancy.’
‘Yeah but the woman has gone.’
‘No she hasn’t!’
‘She has, what bit of I’m off back to old boyfriend didn’t you understand?’
‘She might not be, might be just getting her head together.’
‘Might be, might not, but she’s gone.’
‘Yeah but it was so good, how could she go.’
‘Was it good.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, it seemed good, we spoke, we joked, we laughed, we had fun.’
‘She was fucked up over her ex though, she just needed a tonic.’
‘But the tonic was good, it worked.’
‘Yes, but only a tonic, and a stupidly intense tonic, look at your blood pressure - 132 over 80 something and you’re half marathon fit. That’s not right.’
‘So what are you saying, I shouldn’t go to London. I shouldn’t live on valerium.’
‘Maybe, check the job offer in Hong Kong, a new country, lights, music, new people and food that’s a whole lot better than London.’
‘She really has gone hasn’t she, that fiery romance, burnt out like magnesium, ashes floating off in the wind. Yeah time for a new start, maybe Hong Kong, maybe London. A new start whichever.’

The hole ejected me like a broken piston part, my hands we’re blistered from the digging, a reasonable area of the allotment turned over and a fine autumn drizzle starting. Gardening is quite meditative.

The Office – towing the corporate line

2009-10-05T15:14:00.006+01:00

Do I really want a new job, I remember one from a while ago...

The day was long, too long, many hours sat numbing my mind at the office. Maybe the week was too long, maybe I needed out of this shit. Forty Five pounds rested in my pocket, a gram of coke in my colleagues. The tension had built throughout the day, how do we do the exchange under the gaze of straight colleagues and bosses. Subtle e-mail correspondence. Under the pretense of work, slipped between files, passed between hands. Cash for good times, same old same old.

A gram of coke rested in my pocket. Now understand I’m not an addict, but I really wanted a hit. Sitting down at the computer, devoid of interest and wanting more, I felt the wrap burn my leg, begging me, just a cheeky one, a bump to see off the day, a spark of something else, something better than a customer account, or a flashing cursor and an easily irascible boss.

Off to the cubical I marched with familiar apprehension swelling. You try to be subtle, but how subtle can inhaling a line be. I racked it up on the toilet role dispenser, sharply breathing in the good times. A bitter taste of solid but sordid friendship Splashed cold water on the face, shuck the drips, grinned in the mirror and strutted back to a slightly less mundane job. Life can be fun I thought, life was fun I felt.

2009-10-05T11:45:00.001+01:00

Ode to Bukowski's Words

2009-10-05T11:04:00.001+01:00

I wrote this poem a while ago, so i guess it is a blog cheat. But i really like it. I also admire Bukowski's freedoma and words, even if he was a misogynistic prick.

lumps of cork
float in my wine
as another evening turns to night
the loneliness of a
different ambition
the smokiness of a fading life
wisps of it
melting into rooms
which in turn melt into a
monotonous world
of blurred expectations
it's strange but is isn't
life is not what we make of it
but the words that surround it

Hollywood Ending

2009-10-05T11:01:00.001+01:00

This started off as a poem about winning a heart but turned into an anti-capitolist rant. it's funny how words evolve.

Dead rodent breath.
Saturday morning blues.
Win the prize.
By bribing the judge.
Only got to find
that lethal judge.
Living free amongst
skeletal trees of autumn.
graveyard fantasy.
hydrocarbon vapour.

Monday's Lunacy

2009-10-05T10:45:00.002+01:00

This is my first post, a poem i wrote on the same morning as the post. It is one of my favourite pieces of writing i have ever written. It talks of evaporating love and herbal anti-anxiety pills. But generally the crazed freedom of Monday.

Ripping through fields of tulips,
Like a drunk combined harvester.
Throwing flowers away over my shoulder.
Laughing at the lunacy of Monday.
It's been a while my friend valerium,
Knocked on your door with a cup of tea,
Synaptic breakfast mutilation.
Oceans of flowers envelop me,
Red and yellow petal vision,
Driving blues - thank you Bob.
Fine rain drop pollen mist,
Tickles the sides, as it all hits home.