Love Song For Phillip K Dick

Petalengros eye

Instinct makes you feel the need to bleed to sink and stutter
a gentle word or two and then back to the heated wheel
and artists sell their works so cheap and fritter their honesty
but we step back a little and let the crowd draw in to see and feel
what words we say to each other that fail to bridge the gap
and in a sense abandoned and fallen words never tell the truth
as words they artificially bleed their life into any sufferance
but again we stagger under the weight of them held true to our bodies
angered, bitter we stare at the dampened walls, hold tears
we pick at flaking walls and wonder at the workmanship
at the window high above the barking dogs of searchers
here, i stand. But can never join in the sunshine songs
the Blue sky brigade have much to tell, a keener heaven
a more painful hell.
The sentence nearly done i think, the walls are faint to see
but the tears that fall or blood means nothing more to me
Black ropes of rain that fall and curl the grey grass outside
the inference of insects life pantomimes the graceful flight
before they settle and whisper and start to bite
for lesser men a blindfolded sentence cut short and left alone
for many an able laugh and a quick journey home
on the other side of the cell door they whisper
and joke to torture the less of him, to look with older eyes
and inside we know they have no yoke upon shaking shoulders
and we laugh and dance to their awful music like filthy dogs
and jam our fingers in our ears as we laugh and fly
be still and listen to the rain outside, the rhythm sicker now
and i look at my own precious blood in my hands and i smile
You Black Iron Prison, you will crumble away
and all those inside will again, fly away, hopefully

FreeSpacethisISmyWILL

1620424_10151935278606196_11074795_n

Reach out a hand and touch the cold wall
its damp my sweat or the moisture in the air
neither of us seem to care
of all the blasted tunes on the radio
all of them and all again
your hair looks good shorter
i can see your neck better
outside the scrap man sings his song
and i touch your shoulder with my tongue
and taste your salt and wonder
dont fear it at your fingertips
let go and rewrite your song
give in to me, let it go
just let yourself go with the flow
i am not evil and lost any more
give in to it, do it and love it
you know you want to
you know you need to
i know how you need and what
as that’s all i do now develop the will
to do what i want

23 Songs

This is a excerpt from my new book ’23 Songs for John Dillinger’. Here John is waiting at a Gas Station in the middle of the Desert and is struggling with the knowledge that in less than two days time he will be dead.

Dillinger sees the main street stretch in front of him, it stretches and goes to infinity and the pale faces of its inhabitants rush and flush their way through the scene as indeed she does. He knows the reason for the Red dress now, he sees it as a filament of his own life held true and held fast by the colour and the movement as the environment closes in on itself for a moment. A childs Bicycle drips onto the wooden porch of a shop front, a visual discrepancy in the scene in front of him.

He stood at the Gas station and walked off a little while as she sat in the car and looked beautiful, he lit a cigarette and looked up and down the highway. There wasn’t a breath of wind and it was 7.15pm, the day seemed to be waiting for the night to hurry on and on the horizon the sky was Purple lit by flashes of something maybe Aeroplane wings from the Airport. Jet planes high up in the Chrome sky that hadn’t even been invented yet. He looked back at her and she waved as the fellow who worked their filled the car up with Gas. Another Gas station worker sat idly in the Station itself reading a Comic.

The Two Pistols at his hips hung heavy protected and hidden by a long tweed jacket, they hung and were heavy, loaded and full of hate. They hate as they love. On the handle carved grips showed the strange designs he had been told would be lucky, at the time. He knew what they were and how they had been designed. By half mad Gods and Demons but plotted and scored by the Alchemists and Magis of the ages. It sickened him. Her arm hanging from the car was pale against the Black of the paintwork subtly dusted with sand like a Forensic scene, finger prints and marks where some person or thing had brushed against it.

The desert was abandoned, the desert sucked him in, made him feel like a thing, a cog in a whole complex of other cogs, alienated. He drew heavily on the cigarette to dampen the heavenly smells of the Gasoline mixed with the perfume of the night blooming desert flowers.

Here and there a Rabbit would bound from bush to thin bush looking for something or some other Rabbit, It bounded, hid behind a depression in the ground then jumped again, skittish aware. It stopped at a plant and started to eat it looking around at all times for some Predator or what ever.. As Dillinger watched it, unnoticed across that Purple and deep Blue sky a thin White line appeared from the North, thin and crisp and with great speed it split the sky in half. The upper half Blue and Black, the lower half Purple, light Blue and Golden. The line changed direction once twice, three times etching the sky with geometric precision, a set of lines that made up Triangles, and squares within squares, triangles on edge, upside down slicing the sky scape with ordered and accurate lines.

Dillinger looked up and saw them and was pleased. The sense of relief so powerful he laughed a little glad that the signs had been shown to him, and at that moment from the vast spaces in front of him a shooting star burst in the centre of the design and the whole scene faded away into the standard view, the budget deliverance.

From the youngest of ages I drew the lines and the circles and didn’t know why or how they came to be in my mind or who had taught me them. In my room at home I drew on old rolls of wallpaper and Butchers paper. I would use a Pencil in a single night. I drew to stop the madness from affecting me, the Asylum loomed large in my mind, I saw my Mother screaming at me and at them as they they shackled me and injected me and threw me in an Ambulance. I drew to stop the fears of life, the edgy lives of others from inflicting them on me. To stop the clawing of the children in my School as they tried to make sense of the place they were in. I drew and I remembered.

Sometimes I would draw on one side and then the other and holding the paper to the Window, the pale light of that Winter and the snows, I saw they intersected perfectly. Intersected and grew into each other. I was beside myself, a warmth a realisation that it was ordered and true. It was a secret never to be told. I viewed them as a distraction sometimes and in others as a message or a curative for ailment.

She smiled in the Car. That smile she does to all men and they love her for it. She would cast herself on to the hood and let their dirty fingers probe the delicate parts of her body, rough as they have no politeness, no art in what they do. They stumble and they groan and she would moan for she knows that she has a power over them. The creator of course, the Scarlet womb, the giver. They would chasten themselves after for their madness but she would be long gone. They would paw her breasts like beasts and push her legs asunder and she would cry out as if they were the very incarnation of Halabat the Great Lover of the ages who made women scream in pleasure.

Does she? Watching the Attendant smear the filth of flattened Fly further over the glass she watched and parted her legs a little and let her soft hand fall between her legs to her panties that finest slip of material between the sweet air and the sweeter dew. He watched her gently slip a hand into them and to press a little, the finest of pressures to alleviate the need, the strength inside, to let it out. He watched and she let her head turn, towards Dillinger just staring into the sky alone with his though. Outside the car the attendant a mere slip of a man aged possibly twenty five or forty five years old she never cared.

She unbuttoned the top three buttons of her dress and let her breasts feel the encroaching night the enchanted evening to come. Her nipples swelled as she felt the eyes of the fuel stunk man outside pressing his crotch gently on the paintwork of the car.

Dillinger lit another cigarette while the attendant washed the screen of the car, probably getting an eyeful while he did it. Dillinger wasn’t really bothered by any of that for some reason or another. He knew her, knew her whiles and tales, her acts.

They had a short drive to get into Chicago, he had things to do there but didn’t know what at the moment, it would all become clearer the closer he got but,,,,Something bothered him about it, something ‘needled’ him. Maybe it was being chased for so long, the narrative of the years since Lima was a hindrance, he could feel those times weigh on him. The stories he had wrought were being played out in everything he saw, he was loath to embrace it, scared perhaps to look within the Mirror instead of at it. Scared at what he would see knowing the great lies that had become solid within those intervening years. As he watched people now he saw the abject surrender of them. As they walked into Church shoulders bowed, he saw it in the people who queued at the Bank to take money out or to beg for more of their worthless tokens.

The end for him was near, he felt it but embraced it also, a release for him perhaps? An unveiling of the great mysteries or a trammelled piece of grass and a chipped granite monument? The thought of a rest always cheered him. The sky in the Desert made him happy and he didn’t often find joy. Perhaps he could find a small Farm or Small holding, a little land to just while away the days. He made more bars for his window, more barbed wire to wind around the heart.

He knew it was a dream and one he would never fulfill. The Gods bicker and annoy each other using Humans as playthings and Dillinger felt that at this moment. He loved the idea of being a simple Mannequin to be jerked and pulled from one crisis to another. He enjoyed the idea of not being in control of himself, the act of being ‘abandoned’ absolved him of the deeds he had performed, the crimes in the hot days, the lonely nights. As children we let the Gods play with us and when they retire we sleep until they need us again.

She called from the car, they were done, a few dollars changed hands and even though the Attendant had a leer of a high pressure pervert Dillinger tipped him ten bucks and bid him to ‘fuck off’. He could smell her perfume in the car, she spread her legs as he entered and showed him her sex and he smiled but felt like weeping.

Annihilator

Good friend, awful friend lie still a second.
Hot barrel love to give and always shatter.
We seed the world with pain, once kissed…
the Motherfuckers never get up again.
Lie still and shush, the time has come.
Soon you will be unleashed, your fresh lead will scatter.
Lie heavy but true you horrid thing,
we gutter punks a thing to bring.
To laughter and a solid punch,
an ounce of lead while you eat lunch.
Laughter I use as my defence,
I cannot bring myself to say,
the truths about this thing inside the case.
A sour taste of metal and Oil,
no work to do no senseless toil.
A breather left within a Car,
too soon to tell in life bizarre.
How we use it tells a story, a tale.
Not one for here but later we whisper of it,
tucked away within a long coat.
At Doorways we stagger and dance,
a tapped rhythm not left to chance.
A hail of steel that mocks the receiver,
the knock at the door,
the cold handed dreamer.
Annihilation the breath foretold,
under the hammer never to grow old.
Fire for the taker and the hard full jacket.
The stink of sour Cordite and the hellish fucking racket.
Made by those who dream no more,
the Annihilator cries no more, but barks and spits
a ragged song, a fitting end for fuckers.

A Simple Rage

068

The wounded seem to see and think the night long
but the strangeness of it seems to me
to bee like angels and fancies, to breath in and exhale
to sink at the last battle, to lie and suffer
to think for a second of the crimes and passions
and yet we smile and think of better things
and my phone number i wrote for you lies crumpled
in the floor of your car as you cry and see nothing
as the rain makes jewels on the window
to close my eyes and look and see you
and light another cigarette and idle through
we stare at reflections in black kitchen windows
and grip the taps harder to lessen the grief
should we seek an approval or a whispered truth
the mess we are in to play upon the stage
and the wicked turns love to simple rage
hold my hand tight and don’t let go
the Demons will utter and shout
in the glow of bus stop lights
and turn a collar up against the wind
as the rain falls a beat of the heart
a greater good we are worlds apart
the thoughts wither and fade in the sense we have
a bitter end of wrung hands and broken promise
a lack of courage a lost mind a dream unbroken
i settle the accounts held and hidden
the Black Sun heats the bitterest hearts
we will hold hands and listen some more
to songs the sinners sing