septic hymns

kamping

2009-07-17T18:29:00.001Z

I'll get that linden / fragment of a dollar / scrawl dribbling across the repetitive beats / atrophied / withered of brain muscle / a M.J death clone fakes tears / shopping for violence, the seething foam of commerce / illuminates / frustrates / prickle skin sensations, until owned by the dull thought / a slight subterrainian noise tickles / the Technician elaborates over a cloaked barely rezzed corpse / grey / blank / unfortunately elf like / cringes / slips scalpel into eyeball / twists playfully / with a bored expression....

man made as a doll / skinny / lithe / a burp helped me out into another night / sexy blows awaken me / strip off skin / thankfully shiny and false beneath....

a movie mein kampf / a sample cliche's up the silence / tranmission / all the juice in your ear / floods / flows / goo up and stick / control of discharge / and wet gore suck / a tongue in ear might palpate an emotion / an incompatability / a digital glitch muds up brown....

something generic farts / can't distinguish the smell just yet / but a rat's tail is of interest / tickles a consciousness / uploading electro sex music / the moth gets closer to the lightbulb of the Technician's mind / and flutters / is deceased / desiccates in the pile of others attracted to closeness / muted / closed down and greyed out / S Faith's a dick / minimal bong shardz....

a dom maddonna / bleeding in front of me / the puke bondage / ringed to a man / all I need is a plaster / a dull untingle / save me daphne / your pop up enquires of me / I don't believe, but click anyhow....

back to the Woods and a kind of hope mishandled / she fingers my anus quietly / I pain happy / and happily pain out / luxury the vodka and feared sleep febrile / brains out on the counter thinking change / just Bellmer it up / lift off skull for / ohh I don't know the anti nazi league'd tagged is dancing next to me in underpants / rather he's jerking all socked up...

paperceuticals

2009-06-20T23:01:00.003Z

271 pages

2009-06-07T20:13:00.001Z

Lloyd’s cranial teat fluttered a little as he browsed for a notebook. Adjacent to him the shop assistant arranged already neatly arranged books on a shelf. He assumed he must be a thief and promptly purchased a notebook – this notebook – to replace the shoddy page moulting predecessor.
He was lost. He had just emptied the old notebook of content and chucked it in a bin. He had felt like a criminal relieving a purse of its paper and coin. He kicked himself along, transparent and scuffed like a traffic flattened diet coke bottle. Onward into the unfamiliar streets, pouring himself down tenement lined slopes until he struck some memory, some previous location of self in dead chronologies. He slipped into deteriorated strips of paved celluloid he had once starred in with a walk on part. And there he found himself criminalising his thought in the book shop. Later on deep into a fuelled and substantive mourning:

A bubonic hatred. The ghost of so many pavements and viewed from the wheeled metal containments, vaguely reflected in the screens. The scene seen on the screen, himself, at points of periphery, at the paedophile edges of a park.

One’s scissors, one’s knifes, in a fight. One cutting, one stabbing, three blades biting one another. Not that you would know. Insulated fantastically. Comfortable and so such. He’s stoned see, seeing like Cagney see. He’d met Marjory training blades, sharpening cocks to go up against each other, so that nobody reads and so and so. And such. Scissor cutting up a slit, knife in castration act. And death wank and other.

Lloyd drew a line under last nights discussion with Marjory Wana. A line under the excrement in the woods, the excrement piled high in secret, in bags that can be squeezed. And a line under the hand-cuffs in cots and the general miasma of semi-mystic sophisms.

futtal gonid

2009-05-12T21:31:00.001Z

urpies

2009-05-12T15:59:00.003Z

time after time

2009-05-11T01:17:00.002Z

Lloyd did this. Lloyd did that. Lloyd did the other and stretched out a finger from his tight angsty mit to press the button on the bulky makeshift Corporeal Chronology Device. Immediately he was in another skin, the skin of his seven year old self from what he could tell from the mirror on the device. But his bone and muscle stayed adult sized, naked, skinless legs poking through childhood feet at his knees. His dissection etching arms sprouting from school age hands, fingers radiating stiff at his elbow like a peacocks tail plumage. And his head sprouted from a crop of cranial fur circulating his neck. Lloyd quickly reached out for the button and stickily pressed it. In the flutter of an eyelash he had changed, but this time more completely. He was Marilyn, and naked. Lloyd felt all the parts you would expect me have him feel, and then clutching the left breast, he bit off the nipple. It isn’t me after all, he thought, grimacing into the mirror, blood on his chin, on her chin, blood cascading over their stomach and pattering pleasantly on the black tiled floor. Another button press and he had changed again. Cramped, aching, stretched out. Sensations where everywhere, touch, sight, smell, tastes, all scattered across his frame, his mind and thoughts too, no longer were they at some centre, but spread across him and at moments autonomous. Lloyd organised the visual component of his form to look in the mirror of the device. He didn’t recognise the reflection, but then a wave of icy nausea rippled across him. He was a replica, a copy of the chronology machine. A fleshy device and with his very own button. A limb came out of him, from a side, a joined articulated femur and rib. He could sense a distant thought down his left side controlling the appendage, but he only seemed able to watch as the tip of the rib folded down and then pressed his button….il slit heir….breathing…sunlight that doesn’t need hope…nothing…

yards of exclusion, stalking orgasm

2009-05-09T21:24:00.002Z

A news story intrigues Lloyd for an hour, he googles details and fits it together. Enters through roof and kills the kid riding his Wii, Lloyd puts his head next to trophies atrophied plants and swimming pools. Puts the kids decapitated head amongst the fake gold, the Perspex, the twisted glass and distorted reflections. Hands clutch pens, golden DVDs, a book unravels its pages on the coffee table. The trees hiss in wind, whisper above fatal fame headless in sticky pool, on thick carpet, over tiles Italian, and too shiny. Lloyd masturbates feckless, to tunes of latex and disposable teen glamour, to the feet and the thickness of thighs. He mixes landed semen in sticky pool red, streaks it out like sun striations looping, and then speaks into the bare neck, words to swallow throatless, direct to still gurgling belly of lifeless star.
The night is long with body-star, with corpse moon, with waiting to do something else. The Hollywood house is white and gold and South East Asian hard wood. He caresses surfaces. Perfect smooths and fake distress. Runs his reflection along gold handrail climbing up a staircase with modernist rectangles cut into it. Has a shower. Looks in hiding places for another persons porn. Intimate items trickle through his hands. Calm hands at peace open clean sealed packages found in a stack of goody bags. Sprays expensive, sprays it all into linen, into one spot on a fancy sheet the accumulated scents of Europe evaporating in the precision light of inset circles. Light that tilts and can be focused about the room through use of a black rollerballs mounted by the door and in the bedside tables. With a click the rollerballs become dimmers, controllers of shadows, of emergence and submergence. Sending signals across the hills, he sits on the bed in confused fragrance.
Exploring on hands and knees, crawling in a night of riches, freezing as a statue each time the worried phones ring. Time perhaps to leave this pad, find the garage, the petrol, move on slink back.
The flames race high, fingering blackness, exploding dry shrubs. Lloyd scrambles into vague spaces, tearing skin on shrubs, finds a road, ignores and crosses it quickly into a laborious tangle of escape.

15 minutes in a book shop.

2009-04-29T16:42:00.003Z

He was reading a book, a random page, to take a bit off the mind: …>>Tis the shonkiest donkey that ever waxed through Wayford, Mamm<< Lloyd skipped a bit, then reading on: …at that moment a certain gentleman came through the copse, his britches soaked through so that one could see the outline of his cock resting on a presumably hairy and manly thigh. Colonel Man Officer strode forward squelching in his boots, the pond water bacteria and algae providing sustenance to his heavily fungulated feet. But in her eyes the flesh was splendid. Splendid with haloes on… Jeez! Lloyd moved along the shelves and picked up another book, he started to read, his stupid lips miming the words: …the fridge door itinerary, the herbilicious borders robbed for fads. The children rollicked loudly in the garden and through Susan’s daydreams of the man at the park rowing, forever moving away backwards in the evening river, in the orgasm that had terrified her son mid Play-Doh, mid-afternoon, with a plastic toy, a tentative dildo that had seemed all improbabilities. She could feel a rash of guilt… Lloyd browsed further along, scanned another book, and another passage fragment: …In a large city like Los Angeles, but not Los Angeles, the main source of information is an electronic spout somewhere near the centre. Salacious Android knew this and would take the mono on a daily basis to get his fix of Risalapram junked into his nodes. Eyes would glisten up, distort vague. He would lose his transparency and… Lloyd replaced the book in the popular pile, and left, leaving a glance with the bored shop assistant at the till, leaning in black fleece uniform, idling with burnt in brand of white vinyl on chest.

Lamborghini Tractor, 23 years ago.

2009-04-29T16:37:00.001Z

The spitting image song (deckchairs up the nose, snorted, imbibed) and a Lamborghini tractor in a stone walled field are synomonous to Lloyd. But he couldn’t quite think the memory out. He was having a panic attack. Not that the others on the bus would notice. Unless they were inspecting him closely, for his breathing had become deliberate rather then involuntary. He held a hand casually across his mouth, elbow rested on sill of bus window. The hand covered his rhythmic fish gaping slit, protected it from infectious observation. Lloyd placed his imaginary dick in the cleavage of a viewed woman, but it was gore, it was a huge sticky maggot scything through frontal lobes, and didn’t take his mind off the stirring stomach. He tried to throw thought away from this ill feeling, into the horses in the field, into reliable fantasies and the heavy trod mind paths. If only some couple were behind him, chatting so he could drift into their words, their lives, meanings and trivialities. But there was no one, no one talking, just the buses drone, fit and start, and the gut churning roads of East Yorkshire, where flags of Confederacy are duh rigour.

a crickets length

2009-04-15T22:05:00.005Z

Groggy, annoyed, caressed by a feverish dream of buses and unpeddable bikes Lloyd awoke into the brow scrunching noise of municipal chainsaws attacking the trees, the foliage, his fragility. Dear Jesus didn’t they know it was only AM, an hour left, but still only AM time. Grunchingly he got up, unfurling the duvet with an automatons flourish. It was damp from the dream terror sweats and the scrumpled sheet beneath had decorated one side of his body with its folds, with the unkempt lay of the lad, red and unnaturally white. As for the dream, well.

The dream was remembered something like this: Struggling with a bike, its peddles or Lloyd’s legs don’t seem to work. Struggling with a bike, underpants, holey boxers, raggedy and worn outside jeans. Struggling to hide the underwear beneath black shirt. A host of amblers, not normally there, impede and obstruct. A bus travels off in the wrong direction, dramatically and with tension, with that preternatural fear. A system of everything through coloured block charts seems possible. Squirming under Lloyds makeshift spear, prong, sharpened metal prod, a papier-mache beast. Need to kill it. It is like a leatherback turtle. Ugly. Threatened. Aliens are cut into slices, inside they are like tomato innards, like larva lamps, like seeds looking for somewhere to plant. Lloyd receives an award, a certificate, the Gille De Rais embellishment on paper. It is worthless, not accepted. Graham Chapmen holds a meeting in an old entangled colonial pile, surrounded by jungle. Lloyd is on the bank of the river before the house, but cannot make his legs move, cannot climb the bank. An abundance of pith helmets.

Lloyd emerges into the scream of mechanical teeth and tree jism.

The bus comes now Lloyd thought, now when the snickers wrapper, tumbling, blown fitfully, passes the third kerb interstice from the edge of the bus stop. The branded discard scuttled pass the third stone and the gap that ended it. Pattered onwards, probably to bleach and interminably rot in the tangles of brambles, the flower beds of the park, the gutters of the street, the front gardens of probability. Oh not then, then, thunk Lloyd, when then, when the schoolgirl, almost home after school, enters her house and shuts the first of two doors. The desired houses of Scotland seemed to share that trait with American homes, homes hot and in the south from what he had seen on TV, and with painted, pouting, panting alcoholic women, Elizabeth Taylors in sweatpants pink. The schoolgirl had shut the door, but the bus had yet to arrive, to turn the corner onto the old Newhaven Rd. Impatient Lloyd lit a Windsor Blue, and yes it came round the corner, the freshly lit cigarette had tempted it into a materialisation. Lloyd stubbed out a good length of potential tar on the side of the bin, held out his arm, assembled into a collaboration with the bus driver to arrange delivery of the folding ingress, readied his change.

>>Purple enough for ya?<< A passenger in front motioned to their companion, pointing into a catalogue he couldn’t make out or what was purple. He settled in, into the high seat, not the rear seat, but the one that allowed him to view everyone on the bus, bar those behind, and more importantly to lustre after the foot claddings of females as they paid for their tickets, walked the aisle, or climbed the steps to the upper deck. Boots of every kind are his favourite.

Lloyd plugged in his not an ipod player, plugged it into his ears, and consciously hid the aberrant not an ipod player in his jacket. He listened and watched. (Traditional speech marks will indicate music / lyrics. You have been scorned.)

“Soon, soon, soon, these unborn things, sweat hanging like best perfume on lithe frames. Soon, soon, soon, they would wear skull shaped under garments, femurs for sleeves, the teeth of jackels in their ears. Soon, soon, soon…”

A drunk gesticulates into the bus, at the driver, at a bus stop were he was carelessly crossing, at a generalness of everything, his toothless absence, his lack of most teeth naked, enlarged outside the windscreen.

“I could murder my another, smother my another, in an off seas bank account, pecking manicure, pecking at bowling greens, seething in tumult, breathing in asphalt, coughing reflectively, gob into the sink…”

Nice pair of boots boards his train of thought, his examination of the tarmac, (note to self, had to correct my to his, get out of Lloyd you writer!) they, the boots ascend the stairs, travel away to a world of noisy children on the back seat, feet drumming, skipping into beats, unnerving reverie, disconnecting its soporiferous sensations in the reflections of the windows of Chicken Shack. Windows and shop sunk away from the street, basement level, reflecting the legs and feet of those waiting at the bus stop.

“Shoes and litter, you are my glitter, the somnabulence I skip to, in provincial gleam, go, go, go, Spartacus dream league, go, go, go, the ether sign painters union, go, go…”

Two youths scrambled with posturing onto the bus and sat in front of Lloyd, one seemed animated, telling a story enthusiastically, with big hand motions and gestures. Lloyd heard the odd word here and there, increasingly words like spunk and excrement began to puncture his daydream stasis, which he started to delaminated, unpeel, so that he could focus on the story. Now he had something besides the faint static of his broken not an ipod player to bear down upon.

The story unravelled from this point: …and then they spunked in her near death ears, slapping spent bellends against her gauche ear-ring burdened lobes. A still born child slabbered out of her at this point, feet first, its legs death twitching, doing a tap dance in the plentiful viscera deposited upon the slab, the fine Italian marble, its edges dripping red in that cold slapping way on the stone beneath.
Shit! I hope this is The Aristocrats joke thoughticuled Lloyd.
Then the Priest came in, he’d just finished lubing the larynxes of the choir boys, and was outraged at the noise the Satanists had been making next door in the Saturnary and shot them all. And I robbed their corpses for glory loot…
A series of clouds emerged from Lloyds mind, gradually increasing in size, until in the final cloud read the thought: Ahh he’s recounting his exploits in the Pubic Racist mod for GTA IV.

Lloyd removed himself back into static, into the reassurance of sultry sibilance. His Morningside stop was approaching and he arranged himself to depart, rang the bell, got up, swayed from vertical hand-bars to chrome seat grips as he idled towards his exit.
It was dreak, grey, blustery. The bus had been a warm bath of humanity for forty minutes. He hunched into his clothes and headed off to see V**** at the library opposite Waitrose. (Though given recent history of this supermarket site it may well have changed ownership when you come to check the veracity of my tract… tract, tee hee.)

some time later

2009-04-08T22:12:00.005Z

Some years later, somewhere beyond rainbows and the rotted mouldy leather jacket that died and was dumped in a wheelie bin in the back brick alleys of Manchester. Lloyd travelled north, to a city of hard stone, edifices and stairs. He never got comfortable, never found out about the chinks in his fantasies, his brain idling daydreams.

Semester 18.

Leaving, leaving the weekly group via London Rd, Lloyd dawdled into reverie, interspersed with the habitual in roughly the same place, just before the crossing. The crossing that talked if you could find it blind, and anyway. Croaky robotic accent near the pink bottle cap that Lloyd observed, noted mentally and somewhat superstitiously each time he passed. Sometimes he would have to pause, search it out, locate it until he could move on. It had been there now for months, on the desire path that cut through the crescent of city parkland. Only existing, only just in his gaze, his habit of its observation. But back to the habitual before the crossing. A Mayfair kingsize, lit by the streetscape junction box coated with posters. Today it was a poster for the independent film >>Savage Cabin,<< a large female screaming eye with a silhouette of a log cabin crafted into the reflection of the pupil. Lloyd flicked his gaze from the poster to the denim clad vulva of the oncoming passer-by, and exhaled, and wondered almost aloud. The boots of the vulva (he hadn’t seen her yet) made a nice sound in his squishy brain parts. When he looked at her face, met her eyes at that point arranged by both passers, she seemed to laugh eyefully. Lloyd slumped on curtly coughing. Resolving himself, he decided that he might go see the film at the Picturehouse.

After 183 minutes Lloyd entered the Picturehouse, paddled around a little near a notice board examining the grotty red carpet, examining his shoes and others, examining start times, examining posters with their familiar rebuses and five star reassurances. Deciding to see the film, he bought his ticket from the garish kiosk, the attendant slid it to him across the counter, her fingers were pretty, nails painted in bruise colours, her smile crept upon him later, he didn’t remember seeing her eyes.

The film itself went like this: Two teen pot smoking lovers mauled by a salivating (possibly rabid) moose, extremities bitten off and into by huge incisors, then eventually, after some camera trickery, the pair are carried crucified, one per antler dripping their respective death oozes. Witness to the moose attack a young geek is suffocated, drugged and dragged into darkness by a hick-billy. A lithe terrified female whilst in the process of an escape from an unseen pursuer, somehow slams a seemingly sharp car door upon her head, thereby carving off a chunk of cranium, a finality of grey slop plops into forest mud. A pre-tortured (I only heard the latter screams) youth cuts off his crippled vice held hand with a light weight hacksaw, when he hears the semi-toothless goon (skinny and redolent of Spike) approach, the youth escapes down a series of tunnels scraping frantic stump on manky wood walls, impaling earth, eventually he emerges into moonlight and panting frenzy, and then disappears with a verdant rustle. Our young geek awakes, strapped down with barbed wire upon a grimy, soaked and quite stylish dentist chair, eyes and mouth held wide open via an elaborate mechanism, (lots of close up panicked eye gapery) a hick-billy approaches with a three pin plug made of power drills for our young geek’s forced sockets, a great deal of corporeal and mechanical screams follow, along with a lot of slorp and glurp red wetness.
For Lloyd this was the end of the film he drifted off into the repetitive, into a painful sleep, into images of slender hands pinpointed with dark purple nail polish exploring his pockets, into being unable to walk or move up steps of soggy red carpet.
>>…over.<<
>>Guh!<<
>>Film’s over sir, you have to leave now.<<
>>Oh, yes, yes, sorry<<
Lloyd exited the theatre, a little groggy and newly born into the outside, traffic, wind and shouts, all slightly wrong. Walking past the poster for >>In the Oblivion of our Metamorphoses<< a new Lemmy Caution film, he stuffed hands into pockets and refamiliarised himself with the litter within. A crushed and empty fag packet along with its hymenal cellophane, a bus ticket and a ball of silver paper. The bus ticket would be useful, it would get him home and to V****.
>>Ahh V**** Lloyd lullabyed.<<

the Obyss

2009-04-05T20:53:00.001Z

A salient depressed / salivous dribbles / clear plastic pecked with bubbles / flaws / stretched until snaps / double up on anti-depressant / sedative mourning mania / deposit porn at the roadside / a year since it was found / at the roadside / at the verge / at the verdant ditch / at the pinnacle of hope / in the yesterday blooming.

More mouth moaning / stroking throat / crystal and unshaven / edges / curved points / looping words fail / die dreaming / aspire sweat / chunter voices vibrate the bus / the views / the travellers in the layby / the thoughts spurting / down the back of her neck / above her head / lolloping into encroaching distance.

The change / an injection of toxins / vague distress and spots of blood / a soft trickle from the nose / deep / dark game played / a sonorous solitude / mounts / stuffed living / from the lists of fame / from the sunshine states / bleaked out with dark shades and ray-beams / a monochrome landscape / bleached skin and dust.

An idol smile died yesterday / glittered under redtops / examined / excavated and uprooted / casually crafted femur dildos / an everyone must have / must have / musty trophies / the rotten decomposed words / spilt vowels / glossy intestines slip / roll / crawl in the footprints / the hollow index of the consumertariat.

Today is Thursday and a savoury was delivered unto us.

mott

2009-03-29T20:55:00.002Z

post structuralist paisley

2009-03-29T20:52:00.002Z

hundreds of information

2009-03-29T20:42:00.001Z

Would like to talk to / the mouldy taped voice / the mistaken approach / poached / fried / scraped from the non-stick mind / a severed sentence / abruptly / the smell of tobacco on fingers / in the black plastic of scraping rear seat ashtray / spots of blood in vision / a damp figure at the edge of sight drives / through rain / through windscreen glare / on a shaved baby roadway / crevices of pink / car jerking like jizz candy / stringed out accelerations / pauses in laybys / cigarette caressing / coughing with phlegm punctuation / silver / chrome / gaze / glasses / eyes slumbering above gaffa tape cross mouth / the illumination of day fizzles / caked blood / limbs tied behind torso and taut brain / and the faint array of juvenile word atrocities / speaking of witch:

Grenadier arse keg lit needlessly near good queen embryo.
Onanist maintaining rhythm to coincide with second plane.
Nunching after a blow back felch.
Another cat’s paw sewn to empty testicle sack, flapping wildly about its pole.
Dentist drilling for oil finds nerve to ask out her reclining screamsomeness.

They / the words and sentances toyed across the synapses / metal on a nerve that tastes its blue / its saliva inducement / caked flakes of semen in Pollock appliqué / brown ribbed seat / hot plastic smell / the grim stench of objects covering / a tartan rug / a masterpiece waiting to be unveiled / reflects in glasses / permeates stilled water thinking / lust / exhaustion pipe / layered rubber of fan belt / rust / rust / rust in wheel arches / giblets churn in stomach of empty art piece / arranged to be arranged.

Something.

Service station on the A1 / night / heading north / parked lonely / the Gilles de Rais certificate scrumpled and in the footwell / unrecognised by the authorities / a motorway patrol gleams past / silent / glazed / coated in orange lamplight / still light / formaldehyde movement / stillborn / still death…

songmeat

2009-03-20T22:02:00.001Z

highkoo

2009-03-20T21:50:00.003Z

dislocated arm
without a person to be
clean butchered socket

****************

I lick your pussy
choking on a hairball love
unshaven testes

anxiac

2009-03-10T16:46:00.001Z

Cosy spaces / hunched up into self / aware / externally conscious / nervously squeezing some other’s hands / recently chilled upon handlebars / upon strips of grey / upon winds skipping verges / doubling effort / to speak / to bare up at least a squeak / to acknowledge / to meet eyes higher / me slunk down in NHS mental chair / a halfway house of a couch / looking through the window at words / and to pass through without shattering to summon some of my own / all the while straightening cuffs / wafting crumbs and unknown dust / cleaning puddle specs from shoes / from immaculate / worn / over-washed black / my uniform refined for invisibility / my armour anonymity / my my I can see up her skirt from the lowness of the mutant couch / hide salacious aqueous humour beneath peek of cap and play depression across displayed lips.

the flat packed unit

2009-02-09T02:38:00.001Z

Five now, and the Hunter in the penumbra of a magisterial tree / a plague with beautiful spots / with errant limbs / twisting / sucked out of sockets and the basics of hell / unenlightened / he is hell Is he / throwing out the kitchen sink so that the end credits can appear in spurted tap blood / close up and beneath the window of a dreamed of council house / here his hell is / she in the softness of a snigger / a smile caresses her face / her fingers around a chrome bus strut / crinkle cut crisp of a mouth / the final bliss / the scribe of a king / lunged superking / majesty spluttering phone accent / ripped static picked up in a stand / in a Perspex dog run / crisp and breaking under tags /labels / the branded orgasm / the maniac holding excessive script / grinning / quarter bottles at bedtime the key to anti-psychotics / discontinuation appears to justify the juvenile diary cover / the feigned auto / self in fine pictures / untaken / scene / screens of the slim and beautiful / the veins pop out in doodle webbing and jerks of ink / a scorpion on the forearm / something bothered or rather interrupted hunters’ blurb / something says: >> I told him to get rid / destroy cover horror / hide the sleeping bag made in china by armies of workers / faceless workers / pidgins in the earthquake dust <<>> er...er... <<>> If don’t play crush you. << Gap tween one come burden enthusiastic physical / try swarm cope guns / blunt christ arrows / they pierce correctly and with glowing platitudes / english defeat / this text / this text is the pattern / I can - with the blurb of ease of computer, etc. - edit and re-edit this subconscious map of syntax and sign / sixty-one is sighing / I think, am I supposed to be writing this / having these ideas / conscious and editing into the room / the dulled sensations of the room entered here in a code stilted…

kitten smitten

2009-02-08T00:13:00.001Z

Evacuating loose bowels / constituents / salt / sugar / fat / reorganised mouth cuds / evacuated loose upon the kittens’ head / mew / phew / barnymangrew / matted shit clumped fur / scalloped in its walkery / its nose drops off / and a paw / in fact all the legs come away easily / torn overcooked chicken like / mini-teats extend / lift upwards the kitten / fursome jellyfishy something / stretching skyward / I ache my gaze up waving two paws per fist.
- Oi! What’s wrong with you? Move on!
A glowering lemon yellow man / official but not police interrupts a reverie and waves with hands / I take the cue and act officiously / all Black Rod / and start to bang a moist door with a stick / a root / a gnarled staff / He seems like staff and manhandles me via the shoulders into a face to face with his dribbling words.
- What th.. dribble dribble dribb……
I show him mental credentials / a note from the doctor / my silver pages of pop out controls / dissolvable long windy names / a general sensitivity and a proclivity for my mind and vision to wander / there’s a dribblous background / my eyes take leave / shoot out and roll away / sticky up boots / black / and pleasantly denimed legs / blue. Another bit of dialogue to break it poemy:
- These panties I bought from Lungehooray seem too small?!
I hold up the red doily and stretch the gusset before his derailed eyes / mine returned and manic palpate the trinket / little red frames lemon yellow / a collideascope / an optical skiting / a dream machine of sorts / closing my eyes I feel the pattern strobe physical beneath the lids / like low winter sun through naked branches or flimsy nun habits as they stride by / me low down / bent religious / preying…
- Jesus! What’s up with you?! He parades in voices.
- It’s me hands see (not so poemy a structure now, is it (fuck off Id)) they got holes that leak when I drink just after brushing me teeth. And me holy feet sting in the shower when I use conditioner on me luxuriance. And me sides all gashed and sore from that spear that got famous cos of it and now leads the Tory party. Or is the Tory leader the thin nail, last one for the Britain shaped coffin he drags around all Django like, sept without the firepower? I get mixed up. The kittens’ teats must be sore? (uh that was like a tv reminder you set two days ago and crops up and turns over when into some programme and nicely stoned (sod off Id, have you got some? (no)))
Indeed they were / stretchy and long / pushing the kitten on / who now was scuffing the utter reaches of the atmosphere / tendrils lactating / stumps bleeding / and such was my head / bloody / pummelled by lemon yellow man / to mash of juicy lumps and skull shell / me dead / he gone to prison for what he done / then murdered with a shank in protean night…

insident at overpass forward

2009-01-27T03:49:00.002Z

Delivered into an heightened state / a mantra repeating / naked trees in mud / opaque sky / skinny limbed / starved / pale / ribs rush under skin / corrugated / broken now / a buttock apron / anus / he lies animated / her blade slides under the skin / makes a cut as though passing through taut plastic / things shiny and wet spill out / I separate from myself and feel that sensation in my head / not quite right / she is naked and daubed / and painted in mud / I imagine a chair for her to sit in / it is wooden / bare / worn and hard / planted in the mud of the field / bad thunk lifts off my head / I lay it in her lap / feel her fur on the back of my neck / looking up at myself sightless // my heightened self collapses in the HMV / I follow a lost opportunity and balk at a chance / slumbering into ennui / into petite historical routs and a retrieval of instances / puking into an ill-formed beard / carrying a broken bike I’d fucked into the curb / where rats run and her hair is scraped back / powerful and tarnished / conjuring spittle in her mouth / witch baptism / I have name and wash in shiny and wet things / and reattach to something of me / seeing stars twinkle along the membranes of a hollowed torso / echoes / a voice limbers within the container / and from behind / and from her mouth / summons me to lay down within / to curl up / to be sewn into my old form…

Pock Bile (excerpt)

2009-01-25T21:42:00.001Z

Ink stumbles across paper like a slightly watered spider, in fits of spunktuation, immobile limbs and loops. Skin shrinkwrapped, veins visible and pulsing on surface waxy. Crying out for a shiny needle to suck in, to consume, to gobble on its point. Could a junky get through such a small window? An example to the fat and literal masses wobbling down the aisle. The food aisle. Taking the dear little ones up the chocolate aisle. Bellies precede them. Them, the lumpen consumertariat. Dreams sucked off into the mire of Chinese plastic. Sticky slugs of joy, gloop onto pale skin, reddened in harsh sunlight of abroad. Knickers ride mounds, Golgotha. Ride up into the sweaty crevice of a foreboding succulency, painfully gripping the things we are about to buy. Clutching a new desire, a new promise.

More rotten landscapes, piles of processed earth, rock, hillocks of linen. Bleached rags of plastic splutter in the trees lining the tarmac. In the distance clammy mountains reinvent themselves as cancers. Blinding, paralysing hunks of malignant tissue stretching out fine tendrils to throttle lungs, liver and lobes. Frontal. Full. Corporeal alien submarine burrowing into thought and motor competency. Words fall thick and slurred but barely escape the dribbling maw.

The metallic teeth of the Technician scratch at gangrenous arms. Pick at slight finger meat of the victim whilst browsing low res images of the urinal gunk holes of East Yorkshire in the magazine Fecal Seepage. A producer of clothed porn. Wrapped opaquely on the top shelf. In the alleyway next to the newsagents’ feral dogs crap information.

GGggrip

2009-01-22T22:27:00.002Z

Excluded crackdown authority, an upset bed smeared into my window, into the close-up of the celeb face staring into me, saying nothing over and over, the functional fonts and vibrations of a passing mono, cute freckles, spots on my place of repose, and then a room of clean floorboards, peopleless facades of living, houseplant fingernails, cut lip steam of fresh coffee permeates, probably pentagrams in the backyard decorated with the butchered, a polystyrene teacher, melted features hang in cockney slang, a rare piece of sunlight catches my razors edge, white and sharp on the bored wrists of the Man, the Woman selling a moustache timepiece, gaunt and high cheeked entering a smooth silver car to puke along wilderness roads… a rubber balled dog discusses its rights, teen vagrants verbally vandalise a passer-by engineering a blurred face, some phrase falls lightly on bomb-shocked ears and gets mouth shrapnel in response…

Happy liquor, mumbled verbiage, white polythene headlines, the perverted posture, petrol bombs and dead food, diseased and processed in a panic, long shadows spew from a low sun, coils of loose stone, a fear of water, cranes hang over the docks, planted severed arms, static, probable skin cancer on her actuated face… it was like a fart on a sore thumb…

eviseration policy

2009-01-12T23:37:00.002Z

Subcutaneous fish guts, so your evisceration really smells bad but looks good, the social surface of commodified identity, happy verts police my mannerisms, infect subconscious bodies, the team, the haircut, inevitable stalker with green night lenses… lonesome deficunt… finish off the bottle of Cockney Blitz Spirit…

Cockroach stalls, two thirds of the way across the kitchen, alphanumeric countdown on its back, ten seconds till it restarts, battleship grey cereal, milk activated, twinkles its little rainbows, warez, phising, anti-viral software sinks in, safe to eat, white noise, four dead people, the scientist is porn, cries in the naïve affirmative, missiles, cyberterrortastic sliced meat, the dull dim draining drone of factory boy music invokes imagined red terraced origin, a tongue fucked teddy bear bleats on the couch of vidi, confessional formula with a bit from the religico generator, my blank optics bleed within a melted face, no brain, no pain, no hairs on the body, almost feel guilty, haven’t shaved… mental sedentary acoustic, sullen alarms flay the mind, compulsions, blue overalls, a cracked and bloodied head, valedictory porcelain arms, hunched in a predicament as gensects shit out her mouth, a this is it look, almost sexual, she melts into a cash harvest…

Too soon, melting ice, bear threat and dogs, the alarm scythes through a dream miasma, a calming Melbor and the routine takes hold, then, an excited buzz for the console, the media downloaded overnight, highly defined bodies interrupted by a target gps… rush of forgetfulness, incoherent numbers flood the mono stop, a leather face is unsure, looking for the remnants of something I crushed underfoot, lurid green puss, political transfers make themselves apparent in the sky, amounts, payee, beneficiaries, mosaic christs laundering openness… her crumpled face, porcine nose holding up slithers of optical enhancement, folds of meat, fresh packages, red skull coffins, a little of the confessional with a well known passer-by, interstitial organics pussing up through the grubby sheen of the verts pressing out the horizon, shafts of spattered light, black and dank, fecund, soft and rotten… she exhibits, forlorn, grey nano weaves through her flesh, the shiver of winter caresses her eyes…
Gggggggbipbip…..

Exploding addictions

2009-01-06T21:40:00.001Z

Exploding addictions
Video sent by sfpup

illustrated poem