Your Eyes

Your eyes are like two spells
Meticulous. Alchemic.
Your eyes are like two voices
Two psychic sirens
Pin-needle sharp, acoustic
Leaving a trail of razor notes.
Your eyes are like
Two haggard poets
Two violent puppets, exhausted.

Poem for Eliska

All this flashing mashed up noise
The chaos of awkward egos
Is kidnapped and photographed
In fairy-tale distillations
Of a girl’s refractions.

Boys become honey bees
And women paranoiac witches
Each with their flamboyant
Arrogance and stage music
And each dances to the clock’s whip.

the forward motion of ramblin jack

Blind blush blood coloured meticulous. Tepid intrepid, wet cobbled cock hipped and dreaming on the patio – im terrified of the midnight lady-monsters, half naked violence, big tits and bright fangs, eyes that violate the baby-poet in us all.
Take care, take hesitation for what its worth. Don’t knock hesitation, it’s time with someone I love. In any case nurse your perfections, never apologise for your perfections. We all must rise up to fall and it is in the falling that beauty can be seen – like early summer mornings, talking Woody Allen and “one more cup of coffee” on London Road, under a deluge of pastel skies.
But fuck it I’m not trying to tell you how to love. Only that you should love. Love is the fat kid of the emotions. All the kiddies envy him, for his self-indulgence. How dare you be so loving?
We discovered that all great art is a precocious nostalgia, an impatient tragedy – romance. What more can love amount to? Love is a triumph. It is the victory of religion over clockwork scientology – the superstitions of modernity, reducing what has twelve dimensions, to one, two or none. Real beauty rebel beauty, real truth will light up your heart like a forest blaze. Like a satanic paradise.

Marc Bolan's Roses

Crow pranksters with an empty plant pot
Under Autumn flames that spit, gasping
And whistling in London’s gust.
Orange roses, ornate reds turn to purple
And proud whites bow in testimony.
Witness to a tuneful turmoil ongoing.
A brutal knowing. The trusted friend
Of laughter.

Camden Lock Prose Poem

Lying by Camden Lock in the sunshine, on a patch of damp grass, listening to the tube train rattle on. An old man in a canal boat drifts by, contented with boredom. A young unclean, unshaven man reads a copy of The Sun, the newspaper catching the shimmerings of the water. Next to me, a polish looking man with bronze skin and pointed features, sits yawning, reflecting on the emptiness of his life.
Some punk lovers sit cross-legged and share a beer, gossiping and bitching intensely. Thumping music comes from the market. Metallic, industrial sounds screech upward from the garages and work yards. Traffic. Delivery vans.
An Arab man smokes a hooka at the water’s edge, and he watches a young couple feed two eager, hyperactive swans.
The voices of student girls, laughing as they eat Chinese take away, irritates me, while I try distract myself, studying the plain ornateness of the Victorian bricks, stained and whitewashed by a century at the water.

Art #2

Hubris can't make something from nothing.
The painter paints and supplicates,
Leaving no room for chance,
Becoming beauty’s tactician.

Greateness makes all duties one craft.
Chaos becomes colour and death, virginal.
The healer’s touch is the warrior’s laugh,
The violence of complex knowledge.

Art

You cannot approach an empty canvas with arrogance.
The painter paints in supplication.
At the same time, she leaves nothing to chance,
She makes herself beauty’s tactician.

The truly great treat all duties as one craft.
Noises become melody; chaos, colours; and death, virginal.
The healer’s touch is the warrior’s laugh,
The violence of ephemeral knowledge.