I wouldn’t call this poetry; it’s more just a random thing that I noted down the other day – perhaps, somewhat obviously, just after listening to Allen Ginsberg reading Howl. I suppose, in a way, it could be called Beat poetry, or North-Western prose.
Either way, it’s about the nightlife in Wigan.
Desperately declaring diametric deceptions of reflections of themselves, caught in semi-dyslexic fits of alcohol and weed and making puerile infantile trusts at cyclopean women with blonde hair and no tits or perceptions of themselves; as though awareness was stored in the mammary glands. Oh, that deceptive discourse dangles from dead lips and dozily oozes from the mouths of drug desensitised dicks and dampens the floor. I am asked why I don’t dance in the dark with the dying, to the thudding thumping throbbing heartbeat of a giant lying dead in King Street.
Cobblestone contours of cavernous capillaries coexist with cold streetlights and combine to create a wasteland. An organic desolation, a battleground grave for kris-wielding creatures and switchblade-spouting sexualised symphonies of educated silence. Against the languid light, as a lazy laxative, and lend themselves to the most literary of longings and the artificial smoke sings with sweat. Those languorous laminates lick the lips of lovers, lingering between these loved lovers’ lips, and leak between the heterosexual lesbianism of lifelong friends.
But down the drinks, darlings! Down the drinks in dull and devout directions – down and ever down, like giggling silhouettes supping at shock horror shock of a shadow crowd. And shoot three shots shoot out and slam on such empty tables husks and shoals, and should the grinning harlequin offer more, just one more, be assured that men will die on King Street tonight. Rust on bone hinges breaks, and sensibility is snapped by sluttish Romeos and bare-fleshed Juliets, and doubt the dying man, who documents it all.