Nothing To Say

What? Holy roller ancient scroller
Intense between the acts plotting the end
Wondering if the gauge is set
Thinking what the fuck if you never met
Trying the doors that faith locked right up
Finding and seeking the star you took
The ghosts still knock and Chuck Berry he rocks
They will judge you and you will judge yourself
Power to burst between the planes your energy the goodness you lack
Flounder in the void your soundless pleas
Your mouth dribbling nothing but bile
Desperate to pray and absolutely nothing to say

What The Fuck Is A Jazz Club Doing in Wolverhampton?

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Imagine if the advanced lives of them
who live in the gaps between the stars
drop to Earth and say
in Saxophone voices ‘where is he?’
and the fat white men ask ‘Who?’
John Coltrane of course ‘Mighty Prophet’
bang the snare a little harder of course
drink the Pernod and sip through the smoke
the tones and aching poor sad bones
Coltrane asks nothing I fucking muse
in my Black suit the whisky warm, pure, sure
she moves past me and bumps, in the cocktail dress
she got from Primark for eight quid
only eighteen ya know why and what she doing here man?
past again bumping her little butt, I choke
laugh and do old man mental arithmetic
fire up the furnace and the love within
look in the mirror behind the bar, the eyes
the desolations and the scars
on the dance floor by herself dancing like Julie London
MDMA makes me go in and go out, whisper, shout
Coltrane on the turntables mate, bumpin’
Turkish fella having a loon half freaking
cutting through the tunes and I think I’m angry
but I’m watching her dance in the mirror, pumpin’
The Bar dude has a beard
the doop bar been a Bard
Bitches Brew. dopehead screw. fuck boy funkadelics
I wonder if she’s fed up of the sticky hand
perfumed boys she knew from School. lips glisten with KFC
in the back of the Corsa. will she swallow it all
of coursa
I let Miles deal with it and sit down
happy with my lot thanks. no angry deals
those wheels within wheels don’t have no effect
I haven’t got a fucking sad bone tonight
just the bumpin’ ass of Miles delight
I pretend I’m a white Miles you know
I sit and don’t even move. sipping, fucking slipping
my fingertips are numb. good Turkish contact Cocaine
blue flake who flake the sniff remains the same
He’s still shouting and the drum and bass bouncer
is about to fucking pouncer ya know
it makes me giggle how they all get along
she has fucking great eyebrows. the seat tickles me
I think there is a Dog running around the tables
head underneath temples of boom pounding
rounding the numbers off of course and her legs
dancing in front of me I smile lift my Pernod. salute
she stares at me and dances away. dread up DJ play
give me a song to sing her. feel like De Niro a little
the codes running cold transference of ego
bends her knees and spirals, the viral ease of sex
she opens up my notebook and writes down her number
with my awful biro. smiler and high miler
Christ on a fucking bike Ecstasy bite high heeler.
sicker for it. so what

Free Money For Art Creative Things

All your daubings dabbing and splashes all the scribbles and quibbles most of the photos of the holiday the blast from the past the men who always came last girls with theirs tits out fine smart for the digital shout out songs and twanging a the hearts last hanging thoughts and crosses shallow lost bosses who moan and complain the souls last refrain the stories got more-es the view count the sellers eye to PayPal and we touch the sky it’s limited edition this final permission to use not abuse to buy to own to keep to sleep confident you got it as the auction ends we stoop and bend to pick up the stuff the smooth with the rough and we sell and we sell as that’s what we do the lost love of art dredged out of the poo buy it now don’t wait and lose out I’ve got hundreds of pics of the kids you could have and stories of them on the beach in the cafe it was so funny and it’s one pound fifty today and tomorrow then back to it’s normal price on the straight and the narrow for the rent had to be paid and I need to get laid there’s a jacket on eBay and I haven’t been paid so here’s a drawing I did and it’s nine ninety nine it could be yours and it used to be mine have it buy it send me a cheque I have to sell this shit or drown as everybody does it and everybody sells their hearts their souls their own private Hell

Psalm 812

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uhheunmysheu
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Stormed

Night still breathing barely sky fearful and low sired
feeling shame for the unashamed brashness informative
gloss of techno fear alleviated emotive capsule
dire rain wind that whips the corridor
wetness spreads underneath the door
tucked fucked endless litanies whispered
drip angled slate guttered and lost
what endless summer promised grass and tree
shallow gossip embittered pressured hollow

tickle under the skin on my forehead
relative anger cardboard nerve stretched taut
another line etched carved impressed paint
lined fears mapped outright paged curled
center touch to sink found again endlessly

foiled entered betrayed silent son
dry fuckers cast foul songs trust
addled brains fried too hot to touch

what verses flung into the sky would reach
fired souls blessed untouched faces holy
one hand to touch lighted heart brazen

tree tapped window shadowed and blank

Needle Gun

I stole his mobile phone and read his messages
He loves New wave shit
Can’t get enough of it
Even standing in the shop he thinks he’s a post nuclear detective
Solving crimes and dropping strange asides to the Polish girl who tends the till
The bus ticket in his pocket he shreds up into pieces
And the can of tango he bought just fits into his trouser pocket
He nods at the girl and she thinks he looks like Nicholas Cage
Another world and he would
But the jingle of the till makes him feel sick
The scars they still itch
The clock behind the counter ticks
Hand in your pocket to hold the needle gun
Press through the crowds of shoppers let his will be done
Let the spaceships fly and don’t worry too much son
Three hundred fresh bullets
A need to get things done

Lest The Horror Get Too Much

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I’m not twisted by the frayed ends of your weaving
Your hands move in yourself only and that’s good isn’t it?
But when you said hello to your mom you had cocaine all over your nose
When she went to make a cup of tea you took my hand and put it in your wetness
Then I think, the Gnostic truth was just that
A little bit of nothing and a useless little chat
Your hands are connected to the greater truth I think
Fucking in the doorways of City centre shops
Loving the way it makes you fizzy and wrong
Grab it while you can it’s like a sale around these parts
Mascara in your eye, the way your feet hurt in those shoes, the way you break hearts
Dizzle bags litter the floor while you twist and orgasm again while I think of things I could say
But I shut up and the music floats on hot air
On the breath of companions too fucked to care really
Curses and verses I can plot and put down on paper but it doesn’t mean anything at all
Seeing the truth as I have and the path that leads on
From Egypt and the bliss of discovery the painted parchments and remittance to demons
The geometry they plotted torn apart by secrets
The never ending quest to see and believe in something
But my fingers in your cunt tells a simpler more astute truth
We raise the bar to heaven and behold the builder shrines
Four square for bitter lies for cool cocaine and stronger wine
Button up your shirt put your breasts back in think of Algeria and the mess you were tangled within
For even though you dragged yourself out of the mires look to the North and the burning funeral pyres
Remember these verses were never for you or them to pore and scratch to sell and then..
For me these words describe the inner light and Black Sun divine
And when I died and faded a hand dragged me back to deliver the sainted blessed crack
As you fucked and fought alone I cried out to Gods and home
Pulled and given the builders yard I held your throat tight and begged you to see, the view of home denied to me
Blessed, let the prophets call and see their words tumble out and defile the holy ground
Lost to me you are, never found
But don’t look in the mirror and think you are Divine.
You were never theirs you were always mine

Watching The Traffic

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On the kerb you can stutter and confuse the washed away crap
As it’s easy to sit by the traffic and laugh
The door handles of the cars smashing along
All nice colours they don’t stop and don’t stay
Sometimes your reflection is caught for a moment in metallic paint
But the filthy dirty cars don’t reflect anything at all
Just layers of traffic filth
Sometimes a hastily fingered message in the muck
‘Clean me’
But nobody does
So sit and breathe in the fumes for lost empires and simply you
Last one in is it, your arse is numb and you feel sick
They look and wonder but we don’t fucking care
Just sit at the filthy kerb and stare
Secret societies the ones we never knew
Plot the return of the devil
Badger the Gods for you
We are close but the finger tips are numb and it’s a classic affair
This magical system in the sodium glare
We suffer but take on an idiotic grin
Tap your phone and let them all in
Sell me everything my success depends
On the liars construct and the sweated end
Be lost and watch the traffic pass
It’s a meditative aspect in life’s tight glass
As the sand passes through the thinner waisted beautiful ass
We think and count the traffic going past

An Eris Ritual for Piss Stained Stinking Doorways (Feb 2015)

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Place your hands against the concrete of an anonymous building that belongs to them and gently rest your forehead upon it and close your eyes. This is the Eigen. The manipulated end, the Pantomime of Eigengrau. This is the first step in the ritual. The sound they make is a torrent of filth. It disgusts you. Breathe in the filth they make and spit it out. Spit upon the floor. Clean your mouth out.

Is it dry now? Coated with the dirt they make? The poison that runs through your veins. They make it. We know they do, we have knowledge given to us. Let your fingertips hover above the wall surface and let it sink into your hands without touching. Let the bright lights they have sink into you as a Sun. What you have inside is something that is not this and will never be that.

Fuck off you liars. All of you lie.
Every time you open your filthy mouths
it just falls out. Doesn’t it?
Your Magik is shit poor and Black Suns still rise
Your dragons I trapped are here
in me, they always were. Sicker beasts

Visualise the change.Keep your mouth dry. Keep your eyes shut. Feel the concrete vibrate.

You know me so well and yet always the shuttered smoke hides you from me
Let the needles they have placed in you sink
No fear for prime meat and yet we always sob and think and laugh

See the door presented underneath your hands and press your fingers to the edges. Sense the other side of it and the object your own eigen projected. What fucking sense they leave us with and we crawl on our hands and knees forever forward, forever onward. In the glass. What do the learned know. What fears have they got to show us that will not, in the end be simply familiar. Even the eternal fire will in time bore and dull the eyes that have melted away to dust. Your Hells mean nothing at all. Even we may make our Satan as is our wish and see him crawl upon his knees to us and say “I am lost” and ‘there is no such thing as a fucking innocent’

Sense the door in the concrete, in the brick, below the underpass and the stench of piss.

She would come to the bedside and I would feel her sit down and put her hand on my head to see if I were hot. To see if my temperature was heading upwards. She opened the window and let in a cool night time breeze. Placing her hands underneath me she lifted me up to the window and moved aside the net curtain and in the distance the houses that surrounded mine became faint and eventually they just faded away. On the hill a single tree whose leaves shone in the pull of the Black Sun which teased the life from them. The essence revealed and taken home. She lay me back down and lifted a cold glass of cool water to my lips and I sipped it. She smiled.

See this thing that presses and begs knowledge
Beggar the rituals and the dogma beneath my feet
Let my eyes see and my heart converge
Enough of this, I seek, I look upon burned fields
Ends and beginnings, the shallow lives of us
Cast out the yearnings and the thoughts that cloud my mind
Eris dear, pour the tea within my cup

Do you see them? Underneath the fingers that press and feel their targets. Fill the hollow bowl with emptiness that your hand at your breast presses and leaks. This river you have that opens my mouth and would sink me to nothing. The sounds they make deafen and makes you sick. The colours they give chances a subtle itch on the palm, dry. Your hands press the wall in front of you and you know them by their sickness. Their faces drawn and cast about for feeling, for the need to sicken the dead with tales of inherent madness. Press the concrete and ignore the traffic. Seeker.

You wear the Red dress. You look a pure delight. On the other side of the door you yearn for us and beg our need to press, to shove open the veils they seek to cover us with. You know us and hold a Daffodil in your hand and the soil within your hands is fresh. You move away the soil and place it within the ground and firm the crumbly soil around it and smile as a lock of your hair falls over your eyes. You laugh and crush the flower with your foot.

What do we know anyway?
Suited and dressed to kill, to suceed and to learn things they wish
a brighter day perhaps would dull even the most hearted creature
but today? What?

Values we cling to, belief we suffer gladly
for the fire within burns slowly and will not let you in
fire up the rockets and play the tunes you wish
for a stolen grope and violent caress is not a loving kiss

A fingertip will breach the forbidden door and it will open just a crack
for natures way is to deceive, to play and it will never take you back

Push your fingers into the concrete, through the paint and the grime and see, the sight delivered to you but never ever to me.

The Railway Station

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Bump your little ass a little past tight in that cotton dress. Yes.
Flick your hair in that way that makes me laugh. The whole comedy, the dark rack and the fiery end.
All I see is the pills that take us off and mellow the shallow bowl we are within.
Fingers numb waiting for the bus you push and let them all in.
Did you think we knew? To find solace in hate we held hands and looked.
Behind the advertising hoardings and the adverts flash. The promises that we never had.
Terrible actors with their lips in seizure able and brave but make sure nobody sees ya.
Land lies softer and not more often than a simple thought that stabs.
They never love it like we did just pass it by and let the greed sink in.
The dishonest lustre of the flesh benign without and within.
But let a soft hand drop and twirl for them, the scarlet dress and more and then.
We watch the travels of those hidden in plain sight. More for heaven, more for that beautiful golden light.
To be sicker is a harder thing than them who raise their voices up to sing. But the sunshine throws it straight back into your face. Who cares? Who never made the race?
Settle in, tuck your feet in tight. For what you say is evil will never make it right.