I want you.
As for the first time.
I want you here. Not beside me. But standing inside my feet looking out through my eyes, breathing my breath, tasting my tongue, beating my beat, blinking my blink.
I want you to look out into the cold intake air.
As for the first time.
To see that piece of light up there
as for the first time
it is connected, connected to it all.
To the lamp. That lamp there, alone. There he is. Solitary. Keeping it up. His head. Holding the fort. Staying true. The street lamp. There he is far to the left. Down the column. Down like through the arch of a surfing wave down to the street to the left, through the flat back gardens.
And diagonally to the right in the distance is the town sleeping with its eyes open, with the lights on through the pines, The chunky, solid pines. The stalwarts. The dependable. There they are. With beefy trunks and sinewy branches and fluffy dark masses all over them. Needles. Fluffy only when together all.
And to the right, the windows, the bricks and the rectangular design for living of people and their televisions and rectangles of light from electricity.
Not like this. Not like above.
That’s not electricity. Electrical. It’s Electricity. It’s Beyond. Beyond Electrical by another name and yet the same name. It has another name. A small spark. A thing that motors. A huge spark. That motors the insect into magic, into self-stored, self-generated, self-motivated from somewhere without a power chord. Powered by Power.
Power.
There is a piece of it above.
It’s what we all know. But what is not known. Not really. Don’t you see. We don’t know.
I know we went there. Walked around. Hopped. Bounced.
But here it is. The fact of it.
A shine.
A piece of shine in a circle.
It’s above.
We went there. The rockiness of it. The ultimately uneventfulness of it. The rock. The dust. The hanging there, solid and grainy. Other people getting excited in their mechanical suits.
But here we are. You and me. You in my pyjamas. Looking up.
And there it is.
The shine. The glow.
The promise.
The hello.
The nod from the ever far away.
That haze around the circle.
The piece of shine shedding out.
Makes my heart beat faster. Makes my stomach twizzle so.
But you feel it too. Because you’re with me looking up too.
I want to touch the circle of shine.
Where is it now?
Has it moved through the branches. Is it hiding. Is it playing.
Yes you are.
Hello back.
So precious.
So familiar.
But don’t let it be.
That’s a trap.
Because it’s not.
It’s the weirdest, it’s the strangest.
It’s the phone call in the middle of the night from where.
Hello. There you are. Here I am from somewhere. From the beginning saying hello. From the end saying hello. From neither saying.
I see you, it says. I know you, it says. It says but you don’t know me but you do know me at the same time.
I am the strange.
I am the strangest of the strangest.
And so are you my little human in its pyjamas being human, being all the humans in one.
I am the O. You are the one.
You come from me.
From the shine. From the shone. From the shinery.
You are shiny too.
And that’s when we kiss.
This is me now talking.
Yes, we do. Me, you and the moon. Connected.
We kiss.

jerk hand feels good
lung pump sound
pop
ach
woo
chub
thumb in
frum
middle
I luff ow to
5 swing ding
funny
mi
all of this
me
end of hand
over there
so funny
hurts
nothing in stomach
hurts
you piss me off
hurts
mash
in mouth
in tummy
mmm
light on eyes
dilate
shrink
point at end of me
funny
you
who are you?
what are you?
are you me?
where?
it’s funny
where am I?
soft
floating
point
funny
I am you
you are me
funny
drown in
taste
smell
look
feel
you
me
it’s me
do as I say or it hurts
funny
so funny
I know here I am
I know more than you
funny
so funny
goodbye

 

 

 

 

running doesn’t last long
running out of breath
you think it’s so funny
at first
the chase
the bopping, flopping, tipping, topping.
you lift your feet up
too high
knees up too high without economy
you push your chest out to make sure of the going in the right direction
you get chased
you screech
it’s all so funny
to chase is to love
the jarring, the juddering
and you’re spongey
it absorbs the shock
you can afford to be generous with the shock
you are rich in shocks
and they are running
why are they running
they are racing
to get there fast
to get there first
and then when they get there
it’s over in a breath
in a hiccup
in a burp
in a gulp
in a shock
but now you’re running without the flop, the bop, the tip, the top
you run earnest
without love
you crash through the ribbon which shredded
wasn’t meant to
but it’s done
and you look back at the broken ribbon
to see where the others are
and they are there
they are here
but you ran alone
we’re here
we’re all here
some are starting out
dropping, bobbing
others are finished frozen
stiff
stuck
jammed
creaked
shocked
they are the runners over and over
slower and slower and slowing
here we all are
running up
winding up
running along
winding along
winding down
running down
and running the race it’s a start, middle and a finish, a real event
much anticipated, longed for
from the beginning and looking back from the end
and in the middle is a wall
always a wall
no one tells you
it’s a limit
you don’t know that in the approach
you don’t know that in the middle
you know it at
the end.

They have faces.
That one
I floated onto the pavement and was left by a snake going off above the speed limit.
And there it was
So kind
2 eyes
1 nose
and a triangular hat.
Set back.
Staring out.
Staring ahead.
I knew it was looking at me.
Really.
Periphery.
It was doing an amazing job incognito in the dark.
No one home if the lights were off.
Except some part may be, behind, they’d be looking hypnotised through an over-bright, choppy window, opinion full of edited world.
I wanted to go through that tight, querulous mouth not to that but to it.
The whole occupied.
Unassuming.
Nudging out its shape into the dark so that only
I would notice.
It says do you see me. I am bland.
I see you. Bland, grey magic that you are.
So big to be invisible.
So square to disappear.
So mirrored to fold in on itself.
But there it was.
Safe.
Carrying on.
Close to traffic. Perilous but
safe.
Smokey solid.
And as I walked past, its eyes followed me but not if I looked.
One step in front of the other.
And then I passed another one with round surprised eyes - innocent and wide eyed.
A long nose and a worried mouth.
Don’t worry I said and I smiled but it was too vertical to manage horizontal.
Everywhere called to me as I stepped one by one. Come live here. We’ll
enfold you. We’ll hug you. Keep you light and warm. We’ll love you.
And the dented moon whisked above in its whistling distant glamour, feral superiority sane to any residential magic.
And then the Methodist church in the day so dependably dull, but at this time finger is pointing up, lips, tongue and eyebrows straining.
We’re watching.
And I disappeared with the foxes and the deer down the avenue.

In the background is in
the foreground
singing to itself and
now
to
me
but not for me
pop music in the
background
tickets
queues
people getting on
people getting off
people getting on
people getting off
little black music generator
in the black network
warbles
in front of me at an angle
jumping intervals
in the background
pink structure
in the round gross
dizzy against the blue
looming persistence
gradation
stealth
elegance
sisyphean entertainment
throws your head
back
to see it all
decapitated singing
while slightly the quiver for sex
shakes the little fairy
in the branches
The dark foreground
complicated
The light background
clumsy and graceful
and gradual
and swollen
with pods of people hanging from the stem
a tiny bird composing
in the foreground

 

 

 

Super Blue Blood Moon

You’ve blown up and
I can’t catch the precision
Noncorformist from the
Attention seeking
Superior
To earthly trivia
Ignored by the blind gulp of
electricity
fuel
plastic
Stares on
Above
I run to you and you climb higher
I can’t report back this silent
crowdless concert
The painful ignorance
Of your solid ephemera
Here and gone
Round
Big
Sail so fast
Still so high
Don’t leave me
With a precious hole
I shall fold my fingers over and hang
to take me to a better place
Breaking the silver rule
Regarding the pearl sea sighs
Filled your chest out
Inflated your eg-
o
Patiently being the mysteries
For the chattering, winking addicted
Expensive button
For giant cold overcoat
Watching,
waiting, drinking
Seeing
Not to be seen
Mass remote
Has no reflection in traffic, hot drinks,
murders and ear-buds
I’m ashamed hal-
o
Golden on our big night out.

 

 

 

 

2 Sources of light.
I see flatness in the pink walls.
I hear turbulence in the trains.
They take a long time.
Silence.
Higher and higher to a squeak-shriek.
Metal thinning.
Still another coat,
Still another one.
Mechanics hammering.
My breath.
My heart.
My lungs.
Thinner and thinner.
Perspective.
To a dot,
A dot of sound.
2 sources of sound.
The train.
The sound of a shrinking dot.
The mechanism.
Thrumming and knocking at the same time.
I still hear it.
I do.
I hear the water in the pipes of the toilet flush.
It gets louder.
The street lamp outside.
That’s the 3rd source.
My heart squeezes and I fart.
My mechanism.
Discharge. Flushing.
I can still hear the train.
I can still smell my fart.
Thinning out into the night.
Now a police siren.
A wave.
A line curling.
Now it’s gone.
The train too.
The water in the pipes.
They have all met at a point
Gone back to the source.
And phwap.
An imploding fart.
They’ve disappeared.
And all I hear is the roar in my head and the anxious bursts of scratching of this pen.
Quick before I forget.
Before I implode.
.

I SNOO YOU (12/17)

And then it was white.
All white?
Everything white.
No colours?
There are always colours in the Winter
Night.
It’s the white specks flashing in the dark sky you know.
You could think that but they are in fact colours streaking.
Where are you going?
On a pilgrimage.
With everything going off?
Oh yes.
And the snow?
On the ground?
On the trees?
And there are two moons.
But where are you going?
For a cup of tea by a fire in an armchair in a house with many rooms and roots.
1500s.
They clustered then.
And the Cedar of Lebanon later on.
1500.
ISOO.
I so love you with snow.
I sooo love you with snoooo
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (17)

The Wind

If I was the wind
I wouldn’t be cold
That’s what I want to be
Out there
Out of this heat
In the cold that will kill me
With the cool lesson
With the driving law
With the truth of hard on soft
With melting my flesh in scorching cold.
The love of no nourishment, no warmth, no protection.
The true love.
Blasted
Powdered
Eroded
Peeling off
You’re soft says hard love

We need juice
I’m hoping you’ll go.
I’ve run out of juice.
Not quite.
The juice has pins.
I scream and giggle.
It’s all I can do.
You stick pins in me and I spit the juice out of me. You take it.
Blue. Green pink.
Ivory. Indigo. Black blue.
They hang in space.
Beautiful mistakes.
I walk round them.
Free.

Night Romance

A dark lozenge fuzzy
round the edges
picks up speed
in this shell of darkness
crushing its notes
in this shell of darkness
into high pitch
and descends and disappears
in this shell of darkness
That’s someone
going somewhere exciting
in this shell of darkness
not like me
in this shell of darkness

I hear the wind in your mouth.
I feel your hair floating behind my eyelids.
The horns blow thrimming my lungs that are seas and caves.
Cold shines toes.
I float to you.
I sing high and shrill fighting the birds with my sliding scales.
I’m gulping in water and you won’t save me.
You say it’s for my own good.
My heart bouncing out my chest.
You are my love.
Why don’t you come to me.
I can’t make out your shape.
Pebbly uncomfortable sliding. Topple.
Hesitant. Behind the beat. Waiting. Tentative.
I conduct you with my fins.
You are barely there. Hiding in the crowd. Indistinct.
With the sea creatures jumping and laughing.
Their noses pushing into me. Wanting to enter my world,
Smell what it’s like.
I miss you.
My hand goes through you.
You are clouds, bitty and ragged and sweet.
I’m so alone and you don’t come to me.
Standing like a picture in the sky.
I’ll shake you away as the colours spread into you. Pink. Red.
Purple. Orange.
Yellow. Heating.
Sugaring the water.
I hope you.
I hope.

Eyelids petals
Close
Lungs branches
open close
open close
Heart fruit
juicy dripping
Vagina lake
flow sleep
never to waken
Pubic hair spiders
Weaving Waiting
Receiving Mating
Eating Making
again and again
Petals falling
Lonely in space.
Next I’ll make mobile.
I love you my petals. You are me.
You are mine. You are constant.
My love. You love me. I love you

Straw cockerel with cartoon lips perch.
No part of him chicken.
And a sunshine cushion. India for LA sofas.
Then out to concrete sand drawn on. Little rivers of black pen. It gives, like cushions, beneath padded feet, impressing.
Tight to go.
Eaten a hamburger.
I’m tight might go, is going, please go into the ocean.
First wild California and then …..and then…. and then…. it’s sheds of warmth in wood, all for Christmas. In pink, yellow and white to live in for a while until out they float from Crystal Cove with ponytails and swinging hippy hips out to sea. Uncoiling me.
Lavender top girl.
And I was her once, head high, hair told to knot at the neck. Long back of chicken flesh, body electric like fairy lights.
I was.
I was that.
Delicate bulbs that flash in conversation of future hope and loving in sheets.
She loves those dark guitarists who must sing. I know those.
You’re chicken.
A pull. My poor metal muscles. A message to relax.
Now can’t I?
After squeezing these words through sweat and dirt to bathe them in Newport and see couples.
To finish with thick strings and fingers and sliding in America.
I forget I am alone, made of gut.
I said to the waves and the light leaving me that I will be loved.
I will be found.
And I will find a pebble beneath me.
That wants me.

An expanse that grows and then encloses me out there in the night noise.
That’s not entertainment – that’s LA.
That’s me feeling the desert under the buildings of human decades
As a candle holder swings.
I have turned myself around and now from my new bed of state observe the window and beyond.
A white button set in an infinite navy serge suit. On the lapel, a palm tree.
Noir and specifically Pacific.
Disease is creativity so that’s why we are all here.
My head is at the foot of the bed - my foot is in my mouth like a poor baby.
And here are the 40s and Mr. Mulholland is corrupting the desert water and he’s busy on his road to my movie here, me transplanted and lonely, deserted in L.A.
Tonight I keep my window open, daring low level crime to hurt me, daring the chipping away of popular fear to collapse my bed of state.

The Wasp’s Nest

A menace outside the window
You and your orgasms
She tells him stories when he wears his boots.

 

I walk down to Redondo
I remember the wind cleaning, a rough mother
The silver people on the sand
The sand and sea are vertical
The sand blasts romantic everything
The sand and the sea are separate
Desert cannot live by water
The water beats up the sand chases it
I sail down the strand
I see the wildness out of the corner of my eye but I look the other way
I feel the wind driving me
The sun so bright on the water it scorches a hole right through and I fall in
The houses and their petty wealth dragging me down, slows me down
I must go on
Keep up with the wind
Boys sit drinking beer. The girls skate. It’s a sports afternoon.
The girls become the boys
The boys are the girls
The surf is smoke, smoke from a powerful industrial chimney
The sand is disguised by the wind
Footprints gone
By the wind smoothed into nothing, by too much
Power
Boys call out
I turn round a smile emptied by the wind
The sky is bleeding
A helicopter bold and bobbing – a delicate bubble, fierce
A horizontal
Goes out does the promenade
Into all of this increasing night
And brushes and stirs up
The foam of the sea
The power
This smashing
Tumbling up, falling up, back
Curling in on itself
The laughing sea
Wild
I must go there
Never come back

They are my lovers.
The pills of coldness entering.
Down the tracks
Into warmth
In and out the breath
Wet and bloody.
The sound sirening in whispers.
Hush.
Sipping sounds.
Tasting sweet
of cold metal
rails and cars like
wind
The window opens before the white sleep
They are touching with fronds against the grey night
lung over us
They are capturing air
And below the army are radiating
out from the roots
with white feelers
Telling each other
Feeding each other
Not alone
I am one
They bind together
to hint the
Christmas lights
red, blue, green
red dot goes on and off high up
a message
I want to lie in your arms
and sleep with sharp cold.
Back in my muffled warmth, beddy
tame.
I leave you to breathe
in central heating
while you fondle
your edges singing
your love to each other
in your branched
infinity.

The god out there curling in the wind.
Thick monumental body towers.
My altar beyond any garden
The pond, the gravel will not be talked about.
The lights of houses
criss crossed
Many horizontals
Many fronds
black against the urgent lit sky in
night from electricity overdone.
Humble at your vastness
Giant people in a row at ease in
the wind
70s geometry
In trinity
Large planet, smaller
Smallest in a rectangle
Harsh suburbs bathing
Grey austere
While soft black
Sacredness of your
loving gentle
growing wood
Needles extending
and falling
Turning yellow
amber
Heaving
Crafted
From water and oxygen and sun
into mass
I must get it done
I pray to you.
Before my story
ends
Please.
You hear me.
All of you.
Trembling in power.
I will tremble with you.
Trembling prayer.
For your power.
To get it all done.

Waving California, interference in the night.
Those surfing cicadas are out there at it.
Construction tape strummed by their vibrating in the endless space of my lung.
Who is he at the back of the apartment?
He is there but he's never in.
He moves to slow jazz soft in his warm apricot light.
I think I know him but he's left the building and when I look inside his big, open window he'll ask me in so I can leave.
Electric cables sizzle by him up high on their even trees.
They are dangerously comforting. That's why he likes them.
But a moment ago will be two lovers talking to themselves up in their apartment.
And it's all so important with their casual broken curtains.
And it's all so important because I'm still here.

Oil Rig

You were walking ahead
Your lighter burning you
There was a house with people staring out.
And dogs came rushing out.
Happy dogs ready to bite.
We walked past a lake
And the water-pump was loud
I could see your long legs in the dark
They were like trees
Maybe by the fire I will kill you
You lie there sick from fun
and I shall kill you more
And the tanker’s on the water
And when we get there
This is where the monks were
Men who liked drinking
There’s some on the sea
And we’re lying on rocks like eggs
I tell you how no one knows us
And its good
And by the fire you’re dead
Where I did you
Sick from fun.
We’ll go back
when I think of us in the wood
Then I think of no one.
That’s when I want to do you again.
And the tanker’s on the water spilling.

Black and white to colour.
Bang.
Birth.
You’re not starving Mother.
LEAVE ME ALONE.
I see this - it’s everywhere in me, on me, over me and around me.
There had been stirrings.
Before April 2 2017
a day here and there, maybe 2, 1 here, 1 there to say the black and white is changing but April 2 in Mapledurham graveyard that’s when it all started waking inside.
I grieved.
I grieved the loss of dark browns, blacks, greys against a lighter and darker sky. I grieved the change. I grieved the aches and the tightness loosening.
Feels like loss of intensity, loss of focus, to be opened and spread by sun.
It is such a deep dream of winter sleep.
And all so fast.
Whizzing us to shortcut everything with age and experience.
So it speeds.
It’s the newness that slowed everything down.
Oldness speeds it up.
And so bash into Spring.
On 2 April 2017 I walked around.
I walked it off - saying goodbye to my friends the cold, the dark evenings, the bare branches against him, the light cup over us, her, the glowing dome - they are one androgyny.
I walk along the lane, through the woods on the paths, over and down, confused by warmth, sun, blossoms, pushing tender leaves.
I sit in the little graveyard by the fake turf and the Mother’s Day card and the little stone door standing on its own with dates and names on and I’m sad.
And the sun wakens me.
Goes through me and stretches me out long and thin.
On the rack of Spring.
And then -
I GIVE IN
and spread out.
I spend the day.
I come home.
This is it.
I’ve woken up.
And it’s OK.
It was violent.
Yes.
Black and white to colour.
I do that everywhere you’ve noticed.
Womb to world.
So is that it then?
My violent birth?
Was it so painful?
From black and white to colour.
Bang.
Woosh.
Seems so.

My hips are a horse
My chest is bare
I move my shoulders and my hooves strive.
I go rolling in power.
I outrun you human, nipples pointing in the wind.
The wind is yelling like a wave.
I don’t need so much breath as when I walk as a man
as a woman I
love you inside
you
on your back
with legs
dangling
mane like grass
on a plain
smashing on
the earth joints
too thin
femurs like stalks
rump power
pump power
don’t come
ever
to me
on you
polished stone for feet
matte hair to be
stroked in one
direction
shine in moon
leapt
my diaphragm
bangs
and I spew air
from your bigger
lungs than mine
fragile upper half
muscle flat human body
long
on a flesh ship
ropey
thick
veiny round
lower half

Am I walking off the rottenness of me?
My descent
Into beach urban closing time
Me desperate for air in my lungs
Opening up
My thighs stretching and
Calves and thighs striding longer
And longer strides into
The nauseating pink of beauty
Loveliness sky flashing and
Slashing its flamingo paint
Venice Beach
No why don’t you kiss me quick reminders
But the long and the longer furred
Up tongue of too many drugs and
Alcohol in an Hyeronomus Bosch still
Not eating meat, being massaged,
The future seen in leathery
Soiled cards, oil vomited onto canvas
Big-breasted mermaids
Heaped out of tired sand peed on by dogs.
I go down into this and hear the
Sea reminding me of wild and
Pure

The storefronts arch up giddily
Venice becomes a cathedral and
The moneylenders sunny and curly, their fingers round locks and shop fronts
I am not one of them.  I am a pilgrim progressing
Hallucinating my health and
Vigour
And therefore I am healthy
And pure in mind, I see it.
I feel the glow
I stride past a little old lady with
Fuzzy grey hair long and longer to say she was
Young too like me.
I see India closing down and
I buy a Buddha just in time
For $12.99.  The American is talking
Of his trips to go anywhere
In the Far East in the 70.s for
$17.99.  I buy a cushion cover.  No dirt in this light.
This light is to light only part
Of the story.  This is now a stage and
The people have thinned out and
I am the only actor who might not be safe.

I am a sailor pulled to the sea
To a natural, wholesome death
Mashed by hydraulic energy
Rather than slow suicide by ingestion
Of strange social substances, or antisocial.
If I were in a photograph
I would be a creeping girl in tackiness
Frozen but not really I am transported
I am walking above any ground
Invisible to Hogarth
I would be out of this
But all I see is vaulting architecture
And majestic palms, I hear
Thunderous sea and feel infinite
Dark emptiness – possibility
Shop store music, thing t-shirts, sugary drinks
Lukewarm coffee, fries, eking out
A living – not now
I am a warrior of beauty – innocence – Blake and English summers
In a Northern coastal town
When my limbs were gently
Rubbery and my mind thought
Everything possible if only I could get
Away to California
Now in California I understand
That I progress humbly through
Myself above and beyond
Turning back in my regained
Rubberiness
It’s all right to be here and anywhere
Thank god.