sinkin’ fast

this is the last part of part one! i will be dissecting it in the blog over the month. i’m not going to post every day though. this six months of contect has really taken me more like 18 months of work, so i’m slowing down a little.

the poem continues of course, but from july i will be posting less frequently while i work on new music, and on my first novella ‘comin’ up: a neurodivergent memoir’ which will be published later this year.

chaos vikings marchin’ under summer’s radiation
space tunnel violinist, what did we do to you?
reflect on convalescence’s end, my reaction improved
stars are parts of empires, feart to boo a ghost
i schedule noxious imbibition and obnoxious noise projection
with colleagues, on a rager, dipsomaniacal
the bread, my sour domain, hers an egg on top
perfection is a conspicuous imperfection..
pun-ridden dogger-elly sub-nonsense in
ifunereal nomenclature and dress
but i did have six toasts today, all of them doublers
(lentil, tuna rocket; salmon shallot; ched spicy)
you meet someone you know from gossip
our hour our sense our self
in each case you can choose to cooperate or cheat
and hybrid work means shivering alone
by a lockfast window on a sunny day
my favourite track, the album’s last
round the oval, and pound the quad
on the verge of an irretrievable memory, a texture, a vague sense
tangled shoe, cockapoo, over you, road rash tattoo
honestly what are the odds? the prophecy came first much too soon, then again a bit too late
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.

have you tried the toblerone,
insolent infant?
it’s cheap if you can afford
a lot of it
i have a theory
identic twins in tandem
are set at random on their paths
different, but the same

all through the night, we have no past, we won’t reach back
dilatory breathing, with the inmates chewing fat
i always laugh when i chop onions, ever since my pet cat killed himself
liberty’s light will lead us there, libraries gave us power
elongate the environ of the emblem of they who shall be emancipated
pishhead magnetism combines us, their yolk won’t define us
(con)serve – not conscripted infantry but torpid flabby midgetry
superiors drink-sodden day-to-day erudite popinjays
oh god this ship is sinking fast, just hope we make the buddha last
if everyone had to pay market rent on their home forever
the market would reach an equilibrium that would be better for everyone
except the rentier class, who belong in jail, and may well end up there
were there lots of you? well that’s a posse
honestly i’m just trying to live the most wasted, safe life
antediluvian nipponese amble celebrants and another two bunnies
the next poem will be called the gilet years
sugar rush stroll, the last of my 30s, then back to the wall
more nippon, this time kitchen, with an ambassadorial element
i’m 40 tomorrow and honestly everything hurts, throbs, stings or is otherwise stiff
champagne dog run sling factory tour bonnie umbrella
honestly right now i feel ok about myself,
grateful for what ive been given and have achieved in my four decades so far
maybe i’m ready to start reading novels again
found the partick co-op for a just poetic society
if things are going to change anyway, they may as well change for the better
ditched blade draped bed and became bin overladen
something about ikea bed linen
i watch a boring football match in communion with a centimillion europeans
all good souls forgive each other

have you tried the toblerone,
insolent infant?
it’s cheap if you can afford
a lot of it
i have a theory
identic twins in tandem
are set at random on their paths
different, but the same

the love epochal – stanza 5 – the sack of london

i have a new verse out today – the text was previously published in edge of humanity magazine, so please check that out if you haven’t already (see link below). now live on youtube, spotify, etc.

The Sack Of London

every coincidental couple share or will share a day
(assuming all live lives that lap over and aside)
when one is either twice or half as old as their partner.
we only live in relation to each other:
brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children we are all
in second place again, lo siento, i feel your pain
then a vow: to talk much more on the telephone
hazy jane mountain range and a mouthful of blood
the chip shop salt and vinegar on the edge of the breeze
decline is the consequence of a millennium without conquest
bring all ye visigoths, only the sack of london can save us now
sometimes perspective illuminates
sunny convalescence; can i modify my betrayed reaction?
is there space for love without condition between event and response?
the universe is comprised of information thoughts are but ephemeral forms
deleted from the records for eternity, locked within an evanescent system
but are some things unforgivable?
let’s hope good souls can hold a grudge with compassion.

chorus

have you tried the toblerone, feckless bairn?
it’s abysmally pricey, but so is everything else
i have a theory that brexit is the effective sack of london, by hitler
different, but the same

this bipolar love hurts so much round infatuated hertz
bevvy bivouac, coke and jack in the sack
i read about his suicide on teletext in the 90s
a poet tortured, bill teller of the apple orchard
never socrates unsatisfied nor pig in shit:
we are socrates in pig shit, always and 4 real.
i cut a lana del rey tattoo into my arm, is that self harm?
each generation must make the material their own
smell tomato paste and cheddar, my da’s cooking, my home
a feeling of disconnection between body and homunculus
post-prandial down-dumpsy meek remainderman rain run
ink on scar tissue, perineum to the sun
this isn’t a cover up, the red rose, the guerilla’s fist
i am a loaf of bread, origami, a process
in purgatory every pain and every pleasure you caused will be inflicted back
and you will judge yourself
getting there—a tired prayer to monotony
four goes on the playstation then i eat the whole bloody toblerone
all that’s left is our dismal materiel
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us

chorus

have you tried the toblerone, feckless bairn?
it’s abysmally pricey, but so is everything else
i have a theory that brexit is the sack of london, by hitler
different, but the same

the love epochal – stanza 3 – the slugabed

volcanic shores and gales of fearsome solitude
mapped out like a navigable carthaginian, i was not
so, a stoic, i mourn each day a day lost
and think a blushing thought of soft skinned twins of twins
just a finger’s pinch, a shallow bite, a nibble
not a repast but the popped french cork starter pistol
for a glorious wedding breakfast.

the wind cools and we race to the ferry and over the hill
comfortable in the air between fiction and essay—
a soul impressed by power and wealth is not worth impressing:
momento mori and more is yet to come.
i’ll be home soon, waiting for you
i’m skylarking back with the new month’s tunes
and there is an elder geezer in louis vuitton shoes
his amex was in a stolen purse
has 1000 euro cash money and wants a chicken wrap
pours his heiney to a flexy tumbler, up to the brim
thanks the kindly lass across the aisle for a short term loan
and i listen to cohen again and wonder if i’m obsessive
in the wet, warm drink i sip the spirit water, and ponder
i react first with emotion, the weight takes a while to settle
i’m let down and i let down
there is no reasoning with the passions.
sometimes i feel like i’m not a real person—a lack i’ve sought in others
credit for debit, the difference solo temporal
evolve the revolving door, better round than in
any task, i’ll find a way to do it
my first instinct may be wrong but given infinite time…

our reunion was a salty affair, trolling agents and sellers
ebitdata scientists don’t budget for trauma:
cutting teeth. immersed in the pain pearlescent
I wonder if being kidnapped by my mum‘s best friend as a child had a lasting effect?
unrelated: the knot in my chest will spring from my mouth and rip out my guts
leaving a slugabed trapped in a pole vaulter’s libido
territorial, barking at my next door neighbour on the landing, hello
stand up for yourself, for [] sake
ah, woof! we all rely on the good souls who forgive us

all stoned poets think they are funny—well i am funny
or unusual anyway
shilling for a limited europe, my identity fading, delaminated
not drunk, just exuberant. and well nourished
cycling down a road like the dream where i find another room in my house
moist stroll, jelly tower shuffle, cheesing postbox, very cruel
charge another hour to diary management
you simply must believe the story you tell yourself
(excuse me for hoping to feature so prominently in it
a big and empty feeling filling a sad gap
why do i act like ive found the one true way of being when it doesn’t me happy?

but then bliss is in my life and the doldrums abate
we extend the family table, aware the ides of march
once again i chop chillies then piss and my dick burns
i count the first lambs of spring and dig a few hills
fitments suitable for various screws, but none of this massivity
a sombre lover, indolent turbo, fresh strain spring clean shower interrupter
a plan for mouth and fingers, mutuality of idyll desire
a hotbed of fervour, preachers on manic street
indigent, indignant and surplus to requirements
always leaving, never gone, tomorrow never will crystallise
the turncoat, former scapegoat, grasping for a banknote
but there is no antidote.
we hereby shall rely (on the good souls who forgive us)

chorus 3 – march

have you tried the toblerone, stupid child?
i have a theory my anti car philosophy is not strictly environmental
but because i was in two major car crashes before i was 10
different, but the same

the love epochal – stanza 2 – witness (1 dope)

stanza 2 – february “witness/1 dope”

if all bald men are solar powered sex machines
and if hercules in chains is free to believe in himself
should i drink aegean water when i hear my siren call?
hmm? a doubtful interjection. beginning my each phrase
yet ah is how i start my whatsapps—it’s a bit more generous.
an unexpected trip with treasured brethren
of which diane was not infomed
cold, wet, gravel, ice… and light new hoops.
pant leg micturition is a viable system
jerk foul, jerk fish, take the pineapple express
to morrisons partick, hover on a ba’ sac,
re-up on buddha and kippers
the king came with the bangers, we stayed for the ballads
my airpod uneared into a drain so i chanced an upgrade
cursed inadequate chuck-sticking, can’t hold cash either
story and sensation is all there is, between the end and the beginning
singsong paraphernalia and assorted phrases for sale
ahm a wan can wee dram ama-drama cry baby
ubuntu, our humanity, sister, brother, heal me please
and i will heel to you:

we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.

don’t text yer ex, drunk dialist splitting violence
hullo its jie p. (eftir ra pope) wi’ thi shy pee
multi-pizza two score and a spare bon-anniversaire
spotting louder nearly home, millhouse coming up everything
you trust me again, you always could, that love is unconditional
and universal, and specific, and ebbs and flows throughout
the systems, internal and external, that are of us.
you notice another of my bizarre intolerances—at last we have a term for it.
a nearly new horizon lost, for which i missed legs day at the gym
a stressful jealous night by my [] smartphone
another shoe that never drops, no leg too short to scorch the earth
are we a puzzle, a riddle to be solved, or are we pupils
flawed and inconsistent and driven by unchosen passions,
forced to plump for either irony or idiocy since the dawn of the h bomb?

suffering rotating chair formalism of a gently absurd nature
as impenetrable references abound the conference room (apologies: all mine)
…so i fly out of town
covid mask memories per explosive phlegmy cough leotard geriatric
i am triggered resolutely
by a king of the morons tailwind and a tornado of dust
braking and hard-pedalling and fighting the headwind
(for one bequeathes the other, and the scary shunts from across the shoulders)
oil slick sneaker sandstorm set back, sliders for the subsequence
grill on the hill was a thrill when even the slider nearly blew away
santa lucia, bocadillo con queso, cortardo y cerveza it’s great to be back
sunbathing stoned on the balcony avec joan of arc in lossless quality
thinking maybe capitalism is not so bad:
ah well, we all rely on the good souls who forgive us

skelly wean, have you tried the toblerone?
it’s very expensive, and different but not nicer
I have a theory that every generation knows completely different stuff
different, but the same

stanza 1 – toblerone

hamstrung by the ancestors of landlords
beneath the distant barren peaks of a toblerone—
the traumatic trough entrenches resilience.
a slight slide and crunch underfoot on icy steps,
the organism (the leviathan) slips into disequilibrium.
revolted by bolts of thunderous chunder, and a cold sweat
a risky coffee poured into the evacuated gut.
in a feverish daze, i found the courage to ask for help
and was restored—with my problems undiminished
domsing bad, wee butt tender, hungrier than a motherfucker
you let me stop back at your warm, little cove
hollow pegs, bonking, splat on the wall
hula hoops, double drop glucose—i’m back in the winter sun.
a felled tree blocked our path—round we went in the mud
my diary in fact proved a lesson in epistemology
isn’t it always the case that party chat evaporates?
from the overhung underpass on green holds, in one
i had my morning shower mid way round my run was
woke is a post colonial attitude that assuages my white guilt
made in china by terracotta serfs:
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.
i console myself by thinking humans are but plankton or a moss
coating the globe, turning air from one form to the other
arranging strange loquacious fragments, enjambe—
ment. meant cement, ‘a bag on the heid, revolt and foment
an engaged driver with more issues than the london times
an old flame left my close fire door ajar
on a grey Saturday, and made plans to break plans
in the tempest’s fallout, the provost closed the saunas down
and if you reap the dividends you better keep receipts
(because i do) and i know what’s owed
if your finger’s in the till, be aware the drawer slams closed
in scotland, the scotch pie is simply called “a pie”
love is a feeling, not a decision, surrender to it
every act cast’s a vote for your honour and character
Ya puddin’, ya haggis, yer cheap lousy habits
An address to yer arse and lets make it the last
A southerly wind blew the weather away
and nae cunt’s wearing tartan
the stress of january can lead to bad decisions:
we all rely on the good souls that forgive us

chorus one – january

sweet child, have you tried the toblerone?
it’s very expensive, and different but not nicer
I have a theory that burns is to ayr as ice cube to compton
different, but the same