All entries for Thursday 29 October 2009

October 29, 2009


Yeah, not a fan of this one. Serious editing needed but there are timed limitations...literally wrote this on the way back from seeing the Bowerbirds play in London (go to Cargo, it's really cool there) so it's only fitting to put one of their songs here.

Here is 'Hooves':

I don't know how to make the video come up, so I'll just post a pretty picture of the band. Actally, I'll probably write a review of them soon enough for The Boar SO here is another picture more appropriate to the poem, Egon Schiele's 'Dead Girl':



OH, decrepit.
Let it be known,
Known, here,
now, now.
Let it be known,
that you won’t
delay my youth
any more,
for fear that
you will quench
the milk
that my mum worked
so hard to
force into my
Yes: you make
me brittle,
old man.

You are the
seventy-year old
squawking war

You are the rust
that settles out
of court for an
undisclosed sum

You are startled
wood, waxing
memory into that
cull that killed

You! An order
that sparks
bitter botox and
livid libidos.

BUT, decrepit.
I am your fool.
What ever ‘decrep’
is, I will do IT. I will
swallow IT for you.
Beyond flaked
skin, grey eyes,
tracksuit bottoms
and Cancer-
you are life.
You are a French 
man in a London
cafe, glazing Paris
by omitting
to order that ‘t’.
Oh, dechrep-ee.

You are sweat
seeping from the brow
of a deputy-headmaster
conning the Skins Generation

You are a victory
for masculinity, our
pity for the tiny cocks
on roman statues

You are the roman
statutes. You are PAX
are Obama

You seduce the notion

of lifelessness made

vibrant. You are


OH, decrepit.
Let it be known,
Known, here,
now, now.
Let it be known,
that you are
my aching,
And you won’t
delay my youth
any more.

Rain Making

"And from these, gather enough dream to sneak out a back door".

This is a poem that works like a dual stream of consciousness with the purpose of 'making rain'. Pow.

The picture is called 'A Child' by Ray Caesar.

a child

Typewriter clutters
the space where-
                       My habit was to gnaw the knot
                       Stiff to the doughy molar. For
-, on polyester
bedsheets (stained-
                      coyotes and tractors and men
                      and getting lost in that field of
-wet with ribena),
ultra-secret reading-
                     sheep at that fair where that
                     old lady took me to that jam
-of Atwood’s nameless
victims took precedence-
                    stall, raspberry jam stall, damson
                    jam stall, strawberry jam stall
-over trying to find
where the hell Wally-
                   stalling, stalling, stalling,
                   and having to eat that muddened
-was running to, page
turning whispers of rape-
                  gravy on those anti-death
                  death sausages and artery
-making adult my infant
dreams, he will come-
                 clogging up my arms, and not
                 fitting between the black key
-dark in the toy box and
consume my whole, my-
                 and the white on the piano
                which caused the breaking       
-brittle, bitten, brazen
body, sequestered
                of my headmaster’s thumb   
                nail, and pools of blood
before Barrie wrote   
me, whole, by cracks
               being sprightly ignored
               by nonchalant cigarette
in the paint in my door
where my father SHOUTED
               men, puffing appetite
               for all but
               their lust
               for lust
               their lack
               for lack
               their rust
               got rusted
   and silence
   in that space
              shut by
              the rain
   where the

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