I fear God
because I can't help feeling
I'm being watched

bodies at rest cannot be stopped
see how they've become
the smell of winter nights

old mister young

wonders if smoke

is a good way

to stop drinking

that in its soul

smoke never dies

he has the bloody nose

the crooked spine

the fun of having

really sick this time

something you have
to look away from

There's A Light On Somewhere--Part 1?

there's a light on somewhere
what's the right way
to die surgeon general
do you agree
with suicide
I agree with dying
not killing
Jesus proved
executed
properly anyone
can reign
apparently dead

Tense

myself
future
perfect

Life In The Day Of A Poet--CutUp

I told you if I must leave city I to Chicago go was there enormous capacitance embarking the plane copyright everything other poets stealing smatterings of conversation or paraphrasing texts perhaps ekphrasis would have be continued the song Anacreonic prohibited of sternly stop when I myself find no scientists to the myth, reconciled with poets they buy the spirits they am, but god already to spell of nondenominational silence I wrote with the drunken placidity of a New York stand felt sadly for something and the pain of good dirtied something of course cruel my sin soul reduced to television and insulin was now only one question of time and I did not know where it came from the window or reflected in this one of both manner which in this is reflected darkness and slightly it is expectation and unexpectedly finally the expectation of unexpectedly leaning on the glass the dark form behind its form or where it by unknown to have known to deformed is I confirmed it so that it has disconcerted break there now the ended by the solution under the dead by it a jargon I become have been stimulated only total surplus place immediately heart the lift of up the winter warm between states as a newspaper the insult of luck the pudding of blood makes we want get somewhere true it is not always a river which exceeds it is banks the intonation of misdirection several sounds it spelled same multiplying fractions by the overdose of the time splotch of trammeled memory random bastards mother fuckers without mothers or only clear motherless fucks stamping the striding in their own uprightness of found oneself doing " I am man" they say. (ash! I say) but… must an empty pocket in searching a couple rub coins finding only one couple balls to strong dangle and clash to the sound of the early bells of the morning church to that the endless fucking hymm: Solicited of thing… still further goes literenergy vampire its little girl speaks five time language he is possible he is from breath these accidents to be only people waiting to happen place this way mask around your mouth and nose and tries normally your most breathe close by laying termination is probable behind you this poem cannot up make it is opinion how it feels this poem lasts too long to that answer but I must be permitted this madness I wished this on me and in this wishes came true I must this desire be permitted old and love enough because I no longer feel the beginning in my life have no titles my day have no subject no topic is and the imitation of 4 billion year of question I is or what I was or will become differently de-believing this way much of where I have been you have been there and we seem same

For Nicholas Hughes

today is a good day
he said and found him
hanged in his workshop

th’ ‘’rth m’v’’s gr’vit’
t’k’s h’ld ‘f ‘v’r’th’g
s’l’r m’x’m’m
t’rns th’ p’l’s
w’ ‘ll d’’

Anxiety's Cliches

the more the scarier

I’ll show him how the crowd eats scorn

the grass is always browner

search for sorrow and find regret

nervous as a desolate church

pillar of sobriety

every man has his vice

nothing ventured nothing pained

cool your jests

no pain no regain

read something out of it

time will swell

you can run but you can’t find

you get what you take

better late than ever

here today still here tomorrow

cheer up it’s the end of the world

hope springs infernal

river of fears

youth is fleeing

let’s jump from that bridge when we come to it

Religion

words that make you cry

as long as you can

A Day In The Life Of A Poet

(arranged for a White Dinner, a tribute to Erik Satie, given by Art Clay et al at the Rote Fabrik in Zurich, 25/9/09)

Humankind cannot stand very much reality.

T.S. Eliot

I told you if I have to leave town

I would go to Chicago

there was vast resistance

boarding the plane

copyright everything

to stop other poets

stealing bits of conversation

or paraphrasing texts

perhaps ekphrasis

should be prosecuted

the Anacreonic song

banned from bars

when I find

myself with poets

they buy the drinks

they aren’t scientists reconciled

to the myth but God all the while

of nondenominational silence

I wrote with the drunk composure

of a new york state

felt sorry for something

and the pain of something good

naturally cruel my sin soiled soul

reduced to television and insulin

now was only a matter of time

and I didn’t know where it was coming from

behind the window or reflected in it

either way reflected in it

darkness and light

it is expectation and the unexpected

finally the expectation of the unexpected

leaning on the glass the dark shape behind its shape

or where it’s misshapen by the unknown known to be

I fixed it so it would break

there now it’s finished

puzzled by the solution

among the dead there is a slang

I am carried along

alone altogether

too many places at once by heart

hitchhiking up winter’s

interstate warm as newspaper

the insult of luck

the pudding of blood

makes we want to get

somewhere where

it’s not always

a river that outdoes

it’s banks

the intonation of deceit

sounds different

spelled the same

multiplying fractions

by time’s overdose

splotch of trammeled memories

random bastards
mother fuckers with no mothers
or just plain motherless fucks
stomping striding in their own righteousness
of wrong doing
"i am the man"
they say.
(ashes ! I say)
but... a hand in an empty pocket
looking for a few coins to rub
finding only a couple of balls to scratch
dangle and jangle to the sound of
early morning church bells
to that endless fucking hymm:
Ding dong...

still the literenergy vampire continues

his girlfriend speaks five times the language

he can he’s out of breath

these accidents are just people

waiting to happen

so place the mask around your mouth and nose and try to breathe normally

your nearest exit is probably behind you

this poem can’t make up it’s mind

how it feels

this poem is taking too long

to respond

but I must be allowed this madness

that I wished upon myself

and in wishing came true

I must be allowed this lust

old enough to love and

because I no longer feel do

beginnings in my life have no titles

my day has no subject no theme

and being the impersonation of 4 billion years of matter

I am either what I was or will become

otherwise de-believing so much of where I’ve been

you’ve been there and we seem the same

Toxic Poetry

things break

I

want

while

I’m

more

than

less

because

why

not

be

fore

dark's as light as it gets

it’s just

because you

were there

when your

god failed

to be

our frugivorous father loved the sunrise

because he was already awake

To An Old Drunk In Copenhagen

subject to our time

which takes up space

we take our beers for a walk

having lost another tooth

having smoked another sentence

we might have spoken

with the drunk composure

of a new york state he

felt sorry for something

the pain of something good

hollow the de-educated sober addict's

dearly discarded naturally cruel

reduced to television and insulin

now is only a matter of time

one man's time's
too many to subtract
mens from one
man's enough

january’s february's march

april mays june

july’s august septembers october

november decembers

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