upstairs the naked ladies dance

January 4, 2010 at 7:56 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 13 Comments
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…the drunken cartographer
is lost in his charts
need and power comets stars
navel naval arts and arse…

F. stumbling over mid-sentence this place could be perfection
transients, insentient, wallowing in exile, coming
going,
(looks up, for what, D minor, C)
the docks, the stocks
some wriggling some squiggling
(the old man’s not back come Wednesday,
damn Morrison-Huxley Effect again,)
we gotta stash ‘em some w here.

Downstairs in a ill-lit room a tiny man
sits on a wooden chair running hands
through victim’s hair
a wicked grin
whilst scribbling inside an ancient manifest.
“manifest – to reveal one’s presence”,
not ghost but most unwanted guest,
manifest, oh, manifest
your music with your words be dressed
manifest, oh, manifest
ullulates and incarnates
ungibberished hey presto,
from a’maze of silly sounds
bring forth your manifesto,

The problem with Sammy Beckett.

March 10, 2009 at 6:24 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 5 Comments
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Perhaps that he had nothing to say having read Camus who came after him. Not so much passionless in drab contrast to Joyce’s Dubliners as bored. Not so much bursting stars in a Hollywood nightscape  as the first trickling touch of the sea on my wriggling toes. I remember her  eyes but not much else, he said, picking up his snorkel and flexing his shoulders.

Entrance (with fish)

January 7, 2009 at 6:31 pm | Posted in genre isn't dead yet but it should be, poetry, writing | 24 Comments
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What difference between dead and bored
demands the giant fish of Miss January
flopping madly across the dance floor
towards the punchbowl,
cannot seem to want to make sentences
which gently reveal what you already know
but in a different context like some yes, hello.
Where’s The Piano!
want to burst into the room in bright
red boxers and green bowtie
announcing the (Panic!) end
of all the known with Mr
Fantastical painted in gold
on my half shaven chest and waving a
giant alive goldfish which swears
like a drunken veteran and demands
virgins.

the drunken cartographer has a comet tattoo,

July 18, 2008 at 7:19 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 14 Comments
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oblivious to the sailors wails
deep inside the heaving bowel,
somewhere south of here, he
ponderates, then jabbing with
his quill like some ostrich on a stone,
pontificates,
central somewhere far from here,
t’was warmer and some star
from yonder shone,

meanwhile spotlit by some streetlight
moon eternally smoking beneath
a grey fedora doesn’t ponder
simply waits,

a piano player is tinkling
Chopin
as she lurches sudden starboard
and they flee into the night,
a billion tiny souls like some
cloud of moths ignite and
rush into the moon urgent
to delight,

Harpo Speaks.

June 26, 2008 at 8:49 pm | Posted in links, pictures | 25 Comments
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(escaping the tyranny of language…  
 

“One of the three great American Surrealists,” Salvador Dali on Harpo Marx.
(Dali sketches Harpo playing the barbed wire harp.)
For more on Dali’s great admiration for Harpo Marx here is an excellent article in the Telegraph.co.uk  
 
…the piano player surrendered)

A Shadow in Winter.

June 17, 2008 at 8:53 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 19 Comments
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Choose an animal to represent this obscure thought,
perhaps an ostrich whose head in sand apocrypha
is perfect for the huddling mass
schooling with their briefcase thoughts
as a vulture’s shadow passes over.

One white candle leaks pearlescent pools around its feet.
Robes discarded. We could continue in this fashion
as though some archetype sought expression
but you are crying. Choose an animal from Borges
to indicate this loss, I shall be the tortoise.

Wasted ink on wasted page outlines the shadow
of the vulture passing over. You cried, I wondered why
and then there was the sex and then the sea
like some frozen European mythology.
Some smatterings of polite applause,

haha they might have said, though not out loud,
but they were lost some thousand words ago,
gave up wading through deception and mixed metaphor.
Choose an animal to represent this absence, a snow leopard.
These are not words that there is red wine silting in your glass.

You cried, I wondered why.
Candles gutter, shadows fade.
Somewhere a radio is playing Winter’s Promenade.
Somewhere an exile’s eyes are closing,
Somewhere you have passed beyond crying.

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