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February 12, 2008


This is a translation of another poem. It's had about 6 stages of random additions and subtractions. I just kinda liked it. 

Red roll from flaring England

Bam! His still black carcinogen

Drink and pass peaceful puce blame.

My magenta sound needs refurbishment. Thud.

I indignant, punch, call out cyan.

Magnolia is to curdle. Drip done.

I feel apathetic grey slip.

Marinade, zoom away beyond gold.

Flustered route to white gun.

Reassures that green tap heart.

Thoughts (Sestina)


Thoughts, emanated from cerebral case
Tumble onto the floor.
Some by happy chance fall into our arms.
Your eyes aren’t a window they’re a door.
They offer fruit outward to me like a laden branch,
But I can’t take it on board.

Let’s write caught thought up on a white-board!
Let’s share the experience just in case
The fruit goes rotten whilst left on the branch.
The next fall leaves all inspiration on the floor.
Fading steps are muffled by the slammed-shut door.
I let another thought grow cradled in my arms.

We spend our life in a race for emotional arms,
When the fire-power is accrued prepare to board.
I barricade the door.
“You won’t get in here, in any case!
It happened before, knocked me to the floor.”
But I soon wave the bone-hued flag hung from a branch.

Subdued and compliant I lay down my branch.
I let myself be levitated by culture’s arms.
People get carried away all the time, but do all hit the floor?
“I can’t see your mind through your eyes anymore, just the board
That you put up.” I say, “It’s in case
Someone sharp wants to enter the door.”

My mouth has become an out-swinging door.
From cynicism’s tree has grown a branch,
And its fruit is all that is all that leaves this head-case.
I won’t let any fall into your arms.
It’s too precious to waste. No, my meeting of the board
Has one voice taking the floor.

Really, I want something to make my chin press the floor
Down. I want to fling… no unhinge the door
In order for me to take another on board
Wholeheartedly. Someone with a different fruit on their branch,
A sweet fruit that I can barely reach round with my arms,
The produce of a love that absolves my case.

The thoughts are a point in case, saved from the floor.
Placed on paper from my arms, offered through an unhinged door,
On a branch that was not too heavy for Him to take on board.

Put Me Off

Put Me Off

Tears distort perceptions

Misting over views.

Tears corrupt reflections

That are looking back at me.

Sighs are merely breathing

In order to get attention

For pain that has been held


These signifiers mystify

And prolong what often is a simple matter


Then please speak your mind.

You’re putting me off my pint.

And that is very unkind.

November 01, 2007

Alf not Donald

I'd been working on the case for four years. Papers lounged over every horizontal surface in my office as I tried to piece together the information I had received from the Muffin Man. I saw these papers when I shut my eyes, read them as I tried to sleep. Sleep, that was something that had been evading me for some time now. The obsession with catching Norman Gnome had left me unable to catch even the most meagre amount of shut-eye without a couple of healthy doses of scotch and unicorn milk. So yeah, you could say that I get emotionally entangled in my work. 

Slumped at my desk, I was about to let another fruitless day splutter out and resign itself to the heap of wasted days I’d thrown out like trash, when the sound of stilettos on the wooden floor in the corridor taps its way to the door to my office. The tapping stops, the door whines as it’s opened and in walks the most beautiful troll I’d ever seen. With bright pink back-combed hair about a foot high, warts the size of quail eggs and legs like two cellophane bags of mashed potatoes; she was perfect. Her cracked grey hide and moustache triggered an aching in my gut that I hadn’t felt since, well, ever.

“Can I help you, ma'am?” I lit a cigarette and put my feet up on my desk. She wasn’t going to know the effect she’d had on me. Not if I could help it.

“Laudie yes! Sit yo’ sel’ down boy. I got tales that gonna make yo’ freak out!” I tried to tear myself away from staring into the psychedelic patterns her bloodshot eyes created, but the sweet soothing ghetto tone of her voice was hypnotic. “What yo’ starin’ at boy? Don’t make me have to come up and slap yo’ ass in this joint. I gots me some important details that gonna blow yo’ face off and turn yo’ mind inside outaways!”

Envisaging the state of my head after that sort of revelation made me think twice bout hearing this broad out, but I figured I’d heard things in my time that’d make Lucifer blush.

“Ma’am, I’m a dwarf detective that’s seen a lotta things. In my line of work we have to deal daily with the scum of Tairyfale City. There’s nothing you got, that can shock me. So, go ahead. Tell me what you got to say.”

“Oh my good graciousness me. You ain’t never heard information likes mine! I got words in my head that gonna tear of yo’ ears and slap your mama with ‘em.”

The hypnosis was beginning to fade. It was replaced with a mild mental indigestion. It was uncomfortable, but not so bad that it took away the yearning to see this dame in front of me naked. On the off chance that scenario was on the cards I restrained the urge to use my fairy amulet to vaporise her, and let her continue.

“Yo’ listening?”

“Yeah I’m listening. Just one thing. What’s your name?”

“Teresa chil’. I’m Teresa.”

“OK Teresa, I’m Donald. Most folks call me Alf.”

“Alf? What kinda mixed up fool calls themselves Alf outta choice?”

“That’s another story; you still got one to tell me yet.”

“Why yes, ha-ha! So I do. Where shall I start? Hmmm … let me see. Oh yeah, I know, the beginning.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Well in that case sweetness, that’s just where I’ll starts mysel’. Once upon a time I licked a gnome. He looked tasty, said his name was Norman…”

October 25, 2007

Bar Dive Scores 8.6

I was flat, flat on the floor, flat on the floor in front of an entire audience whose heads have swung like motion sensitive CCTV cameras to take in every last moment of my humiliation. My backpack filled with clothes and flat-pack chair (for a more relaxed beer on the go) had caused me to over balance and shallow-dive through the doors of the bar, which was strange because up until I’d arrived in England I had tended to walk through the bloody things. Trying to show that I found the whole thing hilarious too, I heaved myself to my knees and then my feet with a grin on my face like hyena flat out on ecstasy.

I notice a man. He stands in a group of men. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand and spit flies from his mouth whilst he yells at the men around him. I can see he’s man’s man; he doesn’t seem to care how many disagree, he is right. I reckon a challenge to the authority of this type of berk will cause three things: a puffed out chest, a quick scrimmage with his manhood and a nose to nose yelling match during which the poor bloke that questioned him will be subjected to a salivary monsoon. He looks over in my direction.

“What is up with your hat sunshine?”

“C’mon mate, it’s the very latest. Ladies love it.”

“An aussie?”

“Y’reckon mate?”

I instantly regretted my rash decision to attempt rhetoric with a man who clearly has the social grace of a Great White with ADD. Soon, I am magically transformed into ‘Bruce the human spittoon’. Not being a show I wished to take on tour, I decided it was about time to get this human hosepipe to spit on some other fool.

“Look mate, I only just arrived here. All I want is a cold beer, or two, and I’ll be on my way. Although, if we do have to keep arguing, warn me. I’ll go get an umbrella for my face.”

The man’s friends hide sniggers.

“What you talking ‘bout you smug git?”

“Mate, I am talking about your inability to talk without precipitatin’ on a guy. Now, get out my face!”

The man looks at me, eyebrows raised. He takes half a step back to look me up and down. His knuckles pale as he clenches his fists, but at six foot two and fifteen stone, I’m not worried. I look over and see his friends have clearly enjoyed my little performance and won’t be backing him if he gets rowdy. So, I turn away from him and look straight towards the bar. I order some beer from a Marilyn Monroe look-a-like. She puts the beer in front of me and after a second look I decide that she looks more Marilyn in her present state, decaying. I think to myself that maybe living in a penal colony isn’t so bad. The outlook here’s pretty crap.

October 17, 2007


People put me here. Not for my sake, for theirs’. They thought that they needed something like me. I am a mediator of dialogue. The middle-man, when face-to-face conversation is either impossible or maybe just too destructive to what must be said. My cuboid frame holds up transparent panels allowing people to glance into me, but they also keep the elements from molesting whoever is within. Ordinary machines are ambivalent. They don’t offer protection, most are unnecessary. I however, am like an inanimate mother. Speechless, still, but able to provide a womb in which conversation is incubated. Upon entry, people impregnate me with their presence, and I in turn nurture their thoughts until emotion is birthed into speech.

        Did they make me maternal? I embrace even the ugliest of my children. Not blinded by sentimental subjective love, but liberated through our intimate bond to a place of perfect objective tolerance. In me, joys are begun and ceased, lives are continued and ended. I amplify the calls of their voices. Dozens, hundreds, possibly thousands of miles away I ensure my children are heard. I will not allow them to be silenced for they are my voice. I have no mouth. I am at once lifeless, but vicariously alive as life and lives pass through me.

        He was laughing. Laughing is good I have heard. He hurt me whilst he did it, smashing my sides with lumbering frame. Cursing and laughing in a slurred hysterical tone he ripped me open, leaving me incomplete, my womb torn asunder. His nasal-toned confusion meanders into the night. I can still be looked into, but I can no longer embrace. His laugh is twisted.

She was laughing. Laughing is good they tell each other. Dialling numbers to relay convictions is healthy, makes them human to be able to make themselves known to each other. She tuts at my injury says she’ll call again, but mutters something under her breath about the bitch on the other end of the line. Her laugh is hollow.

Is her laugh is put on; because now I’m open I can no longer encapsulate her talk? Outside influences force her to feign happiness. I would never make her fake, but I have let her down. I have been violated and cannot offer her what she needs.

Laughter is in the voice of the laughing. Hers and his were bastardised forms of joy. One too busy pleasing others, the other too busy pleasing himself. I cannot see, but I can hear. I cannot speak, but I can listen. You talk through me as if I am not there, but I care deeply for you. I am not one of you, but I see that people are alone together. I hope I help relieve that burden.

October 11, 2007

Number Crunching

If yesterday had begun as any other day, then perhaps the today George was presently cursing would not have ended in the way it had. In short, George had found himself in a predicament. The outcome of which, had put George in the sort of discomfort that would keep most men’s frown firmly the right way up. The pain killers had given some relief, but regret had been incessantly poking at the back of his brain, as if delighting in the particularly irksome position this unwelcome squatter had claimed for its own. So far no doctor had offered him something for that complaint.
George began to count the number of times the word “baby” was being used by the teenie-bopper pop-tarts that forced their way into his room via the hospital radio. He smiled for the first time that day as a pattern began to emerge. Stretching out his squat and hairy arms above him and gingerly placing his hands in between his pillow and head he assumed what he imagined to be a smug expression and waited. 
As expected, in walked a nurse, George’s nurse to be precise. George had been a touch disappointed by her. Given the nature of his injury he had rather hoped for a healing angel, but he had been charged into the care of something more akin to a breeze-block that had, unlike most breeze-blocks, the evident ability to make itself obese. George took a deep, but silent breath and tried to sound blasé.
“Don’t you love making a discovery?”
“Eh…?” The nurse had to turn bodily to face him on account of her thicker than average neck.
“Don’t you love proving something new?” George tried to reiterate.
“Say what, my dear.” She rolled her eyes and resumed rearranging his charts.
“I’m willing to bet you…”
“Oi, now stop that! It’s that kind of talk that got you here in the first place!”  The curtailer of George’s grand scheme took a purposeful step into the room. “I am special constable Veronica Brentwhistle. I am here to collect a statement from you. I would remind you that we know practically all the details at this point. Lying would prove fruitless, and would land you in more trouble than you want. Though, probably less than you deserve.”
The policewoman, at 5 feet 10 inches tall towered rather over the reclining George. With dark hair neatly bobbed and spotless uniform she managed to combine the image of authority with a strong air of fastidiousness. Her expression was taught. The slight smile was more a part of the uniform than any attempt at real civility. George, quickly deciding that offence was the strategy to employ here decided to take control of the conversation.
“Look here, I am in a delicate position and a fragile state. You are interrupting my nurse and further more if you think I’m going to talk to a…”
“A woman, Mr Stouton?”
“Exactly, given the personal nature of…”
“Mr Stouton, I am aware of your ‘injuries’. Believe me, I am deeply sorry for your loss, but I am here to do a job. Collecting your statement does not, correct me if I’m wrong, require the use of your testicles does it?”
“Well I…”
“Good. Then despite their absence shall we begin?”
“I understand Mr Stouton that bereavement for ‘the boys’ must make this difficult, but if you will be careless with the financial details of your pimp associates then I think you can consider a boxer-brief filled with quick-drying cement quite a let off.”
“That’s easy for you to say! I have…”
“I know Mr Stouton, you have suffered. Well frankly, I’d call the doctor’s inability to remove the concrete ‘sans sex organs’ a poetic justice. A justice that makes me think there may be forces in this world that do a better job than us at giving you guys what you deserve.”
“Hey I don’t pay my taxes to be treated like…”
“Actually Mr Stouton, your 'talent' for numbers has meant you haven’t paid taxes for 12 years. You may not like the treatment, but in this life you get what you pay for. I would also point out that the more irate you become, the more you are what I can only describe as squeaking. Nurse Friar has already had to leave the room. She was quite unable to bear it, and I am no more fond of it than she. Now do be a good boy and tell me what I need to know.”

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  • nice. I really like the narrator's voice – though he seems a bit educated for a cliched australian b… by on this entry
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