Want to be
- Details
- Created on Saturday, 01 June 2013 01:02
want to be this
this and nothing else
fans of black approaching
flanked by rows of
smudged streaks of electric light
not trying to find words
or to moderate behavior
or fearing to encounter
phantoms of past failures to do so
hurdling over bars of light
specters of shame
want to be earth
smacking its lips
thirst slaked by piss
solemnly watched over
by tiers of fir
want to be slabs of stone encroaching
and the rustle of plastic-wrapped bouquets
the awe monolith
awe distance
closed
the two diverging triangles of light
watchfully cutting the night
gone
the unnameable night
gone
Communication
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- Created on Monday, 13 May 2013 22:00
This poem deals with communication and the problems its imperfections cause, as well as the specific problem I and others with Asperger traits experience. Those with Asperger syndrome typically display poor non-verbal communication and exceptional verbal skills. This makes the expression of emotion, using words alone, through poetry, natural to me.
True communication is impossible
I wrote
on an online forum
She disagreed
I had to be right
this explained
why it didn't work out between us
a universal human flaw
that's why I dumped her
a universal human flaw
over the phone
a universal human flaw
because I couldn't bare another
futile conversation
that seemed to leave
only the faintest of impressions
on either of us
a universal human flaw
It had to be
in my solipsist's universe
there was no difference
between the universal
and the particular
I've lost you already
Haven’t I?
Plain English is stranded
unsure of itself
at a party
watching Extended Metaphor and Obscurity
across the table
grinning friends
swimming in each other's liquor laced breath
each goading the other on
to surreptitiously pour
more and more
vodka
into Diction's glass
Rocking
back and forth on their stools as they
watch her
struggle to keep her composure
she hiccups
and clumsily rushes
to cover her mouth
Diction blushes
Extended Metaphor and Obscurity
turn to each other
gleeful gleaming streams
of yellow laughter
escape through the gaps between their fingers
mingling in a tingling singularity
of hilarity
These are a subset of possible instances of communication
that are likely to fail
Or less precisely
these are the things I struggle to communicate
Yet somehow
I expect you to find them
if you carefully comb the voids
between my lines
These are
the tentative struggling
steps of a newborn calf
not graceful enough
to release
from this windowless wooden barn
For I cannot bear another accident
another bone riven
driven though translucent skin
If I wait
until it is ready
it will be
yet another
lumbering blind bull
there will be nowhere
nowhere for it to go
Meanwhile I sit
in my fusty
lightless room
my hunger gnawing at my patience
and eventually I cut
cut my losses
and eat tender veal
as I sit in the gloom
of my fusty
lightless room
These are those
of which I cannot speak
and must pass over in silence
only
to change my mind years later
when
again
their time is gone
And still I expect you to read
what's written
in a blind man's handwriting
between my lines
Why even bother at all
when I can smother the scrawl
I call content with form
if content to adorn
blank pages and empty spaces
with similar sounding words
arranged in patterns
changing in paces
like a shifting flock of birds
I can dig myself so deep
that the slope's too steep
to climb out
and I don't have the strength
to throw rhyme out
skin's worn and fists clenched
shirt's torn and sweat drenched
loose blisters and blood
as I twist in the mud
lunging to the beat
of my spade's every thud
plunging into peat
I moil in the mud
and I toil in the muck
my spade starts to stick
in clay that's thick
thick enough to be brick
jolt kick and alarm
as a sawtooth wave
judders up my arm
must be bedrock
but only the dead stop
can't reach a deadlock
panting in the dim light
my skin-stripped grip
still manages to cling tight
again I fling
my shovel down
I hear a ding
and feel a sting
as it's flung right back
leaving me stung and slack
but I recoil and redouble
in the soil and the rubble
with every sharp
stroke of my spade
my frayed nerves are flayed
my thoughts disarrayed
but one remains
at the forefront of my brain
I repeat the refrain
that somewhere at the bottom lies
monotony lobotomised
somewhere at the bottom lies
monotony lobotomised
somewhere at the bottom lies
monotony lobotomised
Rollin' In My Pimped-Up Time Machine
- Details
- Created on Monday, 03 December 2012 22:37
A semi-autobiographical pastiche of UK Hip-Hop and Grime:
My engine is primed – the margin is narrow I drive my pimpmoblie the wrong way up the one way street we call time's arrowv to me at fourteen with something to say about reading books or my computer screen or my attempts to look without being seen? These things don't matter they're not general boy's chatter they're not TV, football or violence Why not just sit here in silence? But I was never one to think before I spoke I would teeter on the brink of being a joke saved by a brain that'd sometimes produce wit or intelligence, but my peers didn't give a shit unless it was a yo-mamma joke or snide remark directed at a teacher – or self-mockery for fear of being rejected It occurs to me now that it was considered cool to use spoken word as an expressive tool among young rappers in the burgeoning grime scene but I was about as gangsta as burgundy is lime-green But I could have just picked it up from my environment – in retrospect and moulded my youth around rap in a vain attempt to get respect
Heading for East London in 2004 give a young me advice thought I really wanted to do so much more this'll have to suffice It was the most tough of decisions I really wanted to drop in on Chaucer tell him of post-structuralism and the death of the author And after that – feck it give antidepressants to Samule Beckett
Hello little man whom I used to be reeling from an Injury called puberty life doesn’t seem viable not even liable to try at all wishing your parents used contraception more reliable than withdrawal: coitus interruptus but we can't let self-pity interrupt us Just lie – saying your parents continue the tradition and why – because they bang on your door while you're in a compromising position on your bedroom floor with the sket next door
Let's practice – shall we?
inner-city youth for two years gonna' spit truth for all ears blazing marijuana in my pyjamas watching batman while peeling a banana – yeah I cotch like a badman I don't blaze to escape the crushing banality the squalor and stress of urban reality and never to quell my social anxiety It's a spiritual ting – so suck on my piety
Now that we've flexed our verbal muscle what next A superfluous verse far from terse where we nurse our ego with superlatives and inflate our self-worth 'till it's likely to burst tempting – yes but let's try the alternatives
Hard to give form to me and you in rhyme when we're torn in two by a gulf of time What can we do with this Let us try a new tack remove our differences and see what's still intact
Left bereft except for a fear of theft GBH and assault unable to brawl unable to bolt we stall and we fall and it's somehow our fault
“What you got for me – bruv?” Let me see – bruv I've got page upon page of repressed rage scrawled down from a young age pacing my flesh cage Looking for an outlet You hear that strange sound? I think I'm breaking out – lets go to some waste-ground where you'll meet my gaze through the midday heat's haze Then you'll glance back at the fence we slipped through Now's my chance I reach my hand down into the scrub and long grass and grab an old brass pipe – swinging it in a wide arc it collides making a loud sharp metallic crack – you start to sway and fall with a dull thud Wolf-like – I bare my teeth and bay because I can smell blood
I swagger over to meet you as you stagger to your feet and beat you to a pulp watching you gulp on teeth from your gums and blood from your tongue like warm salty spunk from your dad when he's drunk Your mouth's hanging open like I'm telling a joke and you're waiting for the punchline (Brap!) Wake up in a months time sill supine – this time on a hospital bed staring blankly – whimpering – nodding your head and your mother's cry'n you're a mewling cretin She thought you looked fine 'till the drooling set in
Now let's practice our diction Yeah I know that's a “posh word” my social background pops back up like a flushed turd
I'm not writing fiction It's not diction It's slang – I'm not prang that you'll think I have no authenticity because I wasn't born in this city and 'caus I don't roll with a gang white as chalk tryna' talk like I'm black Think I might baulk at my lack of melanin – no – too much adrenalin – too busy telling them that my rhymes are tight – and they'll never unravel 'caus I'm down with the kids like the late Jimmy Savile was I set the buffest trends in the roughest endz you can ask my friends but that depends Do you really want to risk a brisk stroll through a grey and abrasive shit-hole that'll choke you down and rope you in It makes Beasley Street look utopian
Toller (Doll 2.)
- Details
- Created on Friday, 20 April 2012 13:46
I wrote this in late 2011. It was intended to accompany a hand-made doll, adding to its character.
Up Hourly
from a sunken home
hollow tower, twisting, long
to glaring warmth or eerie gloam
A form once vital, study, strong
each step - each tendon taut as twine
sallow skin sheaths withered string
Final threshold beneath the dome
A patient, punctual rope does hang
accustomed to his wizened grasp
The curved lip swings slowly, briefly to shine
Tradition’s each tug spends a song, soon sombre
sadly
lost to
time
Scopophile (Doll 1.)
- Details
- Created on Friday, 20 April 2012 13:43
I wrote this in late 2011. It was intended to accompany a hand-made doll, adding to its character.
Fragrant fabric of tangible touch
Fluid and life-affirming
Tremulous ineffable pulses jolt
Each smile sweet-tinged
light-clad
I sit and drink
the interchange dry
They never notice my slack presence
Half-leech
half-furniture
Vicariously
I feed my vertiginous void
Plump goes the husk
If I try I will splinter
They will smell my falsity
and enact that stale crucifixion
So I drink my fill
and vomit word by word
it's too rich
Call me Maudlin
Parasitic
Verbose
My words are all I have
and even they are borrowed
Metal Flower
- Details
- Created on Saturday, 17 March 2012 15:20
My body there
responding
Torn flag
in a gale
Amidst the numb puppetry
a soft warmth
listened
smiled shyly
Exposed a want
I never knew I had
Lying together
a touch that drew circles
to heal my tattered flesh
My wounds closed around her
In desperate flight
slipped from her skin
leaving her surface
intertwined
with mine
New skin
same glow
somehow harder
drier
than that which wove weft
to the warp of my tissue
Small brass cylinder
Cut
Bent
to crudely resemble a flower
Held between my legs
Wire tendrils
solder for pollen
Burnt at times
left on her desk
Returned shortly
It was gone
Gone
A cretin nearby
culprit
Stared into her face
Straining
to force my pain through her dull eyes
scour out her skull
Lightless
loud
Mellifluous music
smothers lachrymose lust
Muck
- Details
- Created on Sunday, 20 November 2011 00:00
my muck
for lack of a better designation
is branded
bent
dragged
thither and yon
back and forth
wrenched up
cast down
until a circle is well trodden
uprooted once more
I am a copier
hooked by code’s contrivance
or could it be
destiny
love
reason
words of swollen motley
gibbering that I crave silence
or babbling of solitude
or alone
pining for altruism
the motley bursts
pleasure’s algorithm is not mine to write
but to follow
to a womb full of muck
or abstain
for a brain full of muck
but always
a stomach full of guilt
my fevered fancy
the perverse potentialities of muck
to be gravid with my own muck
to own muck
to be but muck
this nauseous dynamism of muck
to be the millionth fascist in an edifice of muck
never again
to pick at the bones of my muck
nor attempt steal into your muck
nor correct anybody’s muck
as though my present load of muck
were not muck
a vanity of muck
a pedantry of muck
a jingoism of muck
oh esteemed shit
of all passing muck
you know your place
the rest only keeps the body going
until it knows its place
Neighbourhood Watch
- Details
- Created on Friday, 09 September 2011 00:00
When we look at you
the insect inside
stirs
You cling to the round
side of the mother
Soft and blind
you suckle
We are galvanized
chitinous
doing God’s work
Your languor bulges our eyes
Your comfort
scratches incessantly
beneath our brows
You the dream guzzler
We the twitching mound
rising below you
Your stupor
vomit on an exposed nerve ending
An incandescent spasm
courses through us
Wrenched
swaying
We have a leg!
A snap
More
You shriek
More
A trickle of orange
More
Your proboscis is torn
More
Fat gushes from the bore-hole
More
A roiling rush to be sated
More
Your screaming ceases
PLEASE BE CAREFUL WHEN FEEDING THE HORSES, THEY MAY BITE
- Details
- Created on Tuesday, 05 July 2011 00:00
Tentative
My finger slides the latch
‘Public footpath’
The worn concrete reads
I sidle in
Leaving my resolve planted firmly outside
by the lane
with arms folded
Damp hiking shoes make tentative progress
as quavering blue-grey lenses scan the field
Grass
Brush
At the far end
two horses
One chestnut brown
the other pale grey
Large long-boned heads
turn inquisitively
they trot toward me
perhaps smelling my trickling brain
I return to the gate
slide the latch
Reunited with my resolve
on the macadam
the sign still reads:
‘BE CAREFUL WHEN FEEDING THE HORSES
THEY MAY BITE’
I venture further up the lane
the pair plod
still in my direction
very close
the wooden fence seems too fragile
to keep all that power
and beauty in
I turn back
unenthused by the impending row of houses
the horses
nearer now
peer ponderously
over the galvanised metal gate
my resolve smiles wryly
retreats further back
the way I came
Both horses press
into the gate-cum-stile
A heavy grey head probes
over the cold metal
I have nothing
I’m afraid
It regards me sidelong
with a melancholy eye
The other seeks
to no avail
All I have are my hands
Their long necks brush
they tussle delicately
affectionately
in the morning sun
The muscular one
with a glossy warm-brown coat
brays at me
I step back
It cranes its neck
and eats some foliage
I wander home
Vicarious Rigor Mortis or Eros and Thanatos: A Fraternal Reunion
- Details
- Created on Sunday, 05 June 2011 00:00
While buying some sundries in Ilford today, I was struck by the leaden desolation of the place. As I walked through an industrial estate, I was choked by a myriad of unpleasant fumes. Under a railway bridge, across a wooden board, lay the cadaver of a fox. Several paces down that same road, a group of people were protesting the cruel treatment of donkeys at a nearby funfair. All the while. it was overcast and drizzling.
All this has left me feeling rather morbid and led me to think of a poem I wrote about a year ago, but never posted to my blog. Frankly I don’t see what people find so unpalatable about the theme of death — especially when the equally universal sex is thrown in at no extra cost.
Vicarious Rigor Mortis
His lancet lust
it scrapes the tiles
Encased in rust
and empty smiles
A formless scab
on a picket fence
Neon drenched
Drab
bleached and tense
Clockwise
his stomach turns
brings up blood
cement burns
Dusk
Damp disused quarry
a rotting prize
occupies
the banged-out lorry
Glee flies
across grit
pools of squelch
clamorous heart flit
itchy pores belch
Amorous longing loudly grating
A moonless sunless month of waiting
Moist sackcloth torn in haste
“no more of this rigour”
open tongue savours taste
Limp blimp
Bloated and bigger
than dull recollection
Mumbles and fumbles
with zealous grin
unveils an erection
Hungrily hovers
over ripe loose skin
A coffin-moth penis that stutters from dust
plunges between femurs with shuddering thrusts
Larval hands
that probe epithelium
massage his glands
tease his perineum
A rusty piston enviously observes
the industrious bounding and pounding
remembers a day
when it did serve
to thunder and drum
with force resounding
The ravenous reverie reaches its climax
A wave of ecstasy sweeps every synapse
