Local Politics (Dream 9)

Local Politics (Dream 9)

Sinister bloody sexless thing
blowing out of Market Street
with a red ridden burlap sack and a blood iron hood –
a sexless thing, I said,
from the depths of darkest spring
sidling up the side streets
with a swing in his thigh obsessed thighs.

Sidling into men,
don’t you know,
reeling with consumption
and he’ll touch their arm and smile
and steady their resolve and breathe his sweet sexless breath –
the men’ll cut the silent suburban shouting with their thoughts
and pretend not to be drunk in front of their parents.

Oh, he likes them young,
ol’ sexless sinister,
and did Ms Grain tell you that he’s running
for all the politics next year?

Ain’t she shown you seen his pamphlet
quoting Gandhi,
and it’s well know that he’s got the Martian vote behind him,
but no one knows how they’ll turn out come the polls.

I heard he was running against a porn star
who specialised in molesting Asian girls on trains
and he really wants to teach us about safe sex –
he’s hoping to use his movies to do it, so I hear.

He’s already got the schools buying them,
and now the local council are interested –
pretty soon you’ll be able to get them from your GP,
so long as you don’t pay your rent.

Of course, there’s always the Marxists,
but they’ve always been a soppy bunch
and privileged
and you try explaining communism to a guy with no eyes
cos’ he sees things for what they are
and he’d just laugh at the idea of there being
another human being to treat as an equal.

If he were deaf and mute as well,
then he’d be god,
and he’d make little creatures formed from clay
and his mute deaf black touch dance to his tune
and lie and tell ‘em that they have free will
and they’d quail
and murder
and weep for ‘im cos’ he’s better than them.

In Gettin’ Paid (Dream 8)

In Gettin’ Paid (Dream 8)

My leg twitches to its alternating self between a gentle vibration and a violent momentum. I try to hold it still and, for long moments, I succeed, until the cold of the broken boiler forces my body to rebel against me once more. I am sat on a shrink-wrapped plastic cube of hay shavings, and it sets me lower than everyone else. It’s like group therapy; we’re all sat around in a half-circle, whilst the employed watch us carefully. They reek of guilt; it comes off them like cartoon stink lines, as visible their multi-hued green fleece jackets.

One of them can’t stop talking about fun and I can feel my hands curling in on themselves, curling into fists, and I want to want to hit her, but I don’t. She’s a weird looking women – her legs are slim and taper down into dainty, pristine little ankles, like those of a ballerina, but her body inflates around her hips and upwards, protruding out into obvious folds of fat. She shouldn’t be able to stand, unless her weight was so perfectly distributed around her that no one side could ever be unbalanced. I want to write a thesis on her, somethin’ to get me into Edinburgh Uni or Oxford or Skelmersdale College and disguise that thesis as a sonnet.

‘We’re all about fun here,’ she says again, clapping her hands in front of her breasts and looking over at her fellow colleagues,’ in’t that right guys?’ The three of them cheer weakly, without even the effort involved to describe them as half-hearted. Quarter-hearted, maybe. She repeated the noise in her dull, guttural accent, and we laugh. The laugh of the unemployed.

Her words are so much noise, and I’m watching one of the girls sat across from me. Christ, she couldn’t have been more than ten feet away and no more than a year separated us in age, but she might as well have been on the moon for all the chance I had. She was wearing a skirt, and it fell against the pale flesh of her thighs. I like legs; I’m a leg man, if I’m any kinda man, and this girl had legs. They aren’t perfectly smooth, I can tell, but they are silver.

She’d look good pressed up against the aquariums, I thought, with the water light bubbling the darkness away, and my hand hidden between her calves cos’ that’s where the real sweet spot is, in the join between the nerves and the muscles and bound Ginsberg Prometheus ain’t never howled like I’ve dreamed of her howling when you get your finger in the right spot.

Saturday Bleedin’ Into Saturnight (Dream 7)

Saturday Bleedin’ Into Saturnight (Dream 7)

Have you ever done what we did, and taken a drunken walk down Hope Street to capture art in a no cameras allowed zone? Cos’ we caught what we had left there beneath a suspended girder metal roof in aging marketplace with empty stalls amongst the kitchen refurbishments and competing sitcom butchers beside horse fool knock-off brands like Ike and Didass. And we read the signs saying don’t feed the homeless and always remember to step on pigeon’s throat, cos’ they’re a menace, or maybe it was the other way around and there’s a difference between homeless and beggars, cos’ beggars are just another kind of salesmen. At least with salesmen you get something in return, even if it’s just a copy of the Big Issues of the day, the Issues which never really turn out to be so big after all. And didn’t you hear, kids of the millennium 90s, that your votes really do matter? That it is your duty to throw your name behind this sycophant or that, behind this plutolatrist or that or this economic wasteland behind oiled black hair and oiled white skin and the dead eyes of a cocaine user flickering with chandelier light above silent flutes of champagne?

So we stopped and stared at the picture we weren’t allowed to take and went to watch the revolution show – the gay theatre beside the jobcentre and the cheap club where drinks only cost a third of the price, so long as you bought four, and the jaw-hung rapists with evil little teeth lost themselves in music and motion and in reaching under short glittering dresses. And, there, the old men and women searched for themselves on a map of one-hit wonders and where has the time ran off to/the years bleeding away in the space between midnight and 4 o’clock?

And no, I don’t want eau du toilette from the urinal, and I don’t want a picture to commemorate a night like this, with blood drunken girls squatting the road and vomit piss culture broiling in my stomach, and I need Dante’s Virgil to guide me, or a Virgil all of my own, and carve a tunnel back through bedrock and water with his eyes and would anyone know if I stole Cecini pascua, rura, duces for my own grave inscription? Or maybe I should carve daub it across Banksy’s works, and tribute him with defacement and theft?

And in the street, with blood iron, they treat cigarettes as if they were incense. And they wave them like athletes, like brutal bullied middle working class muscle with absolutely no sense of the ground as it rattles beneath them. Don’t you know that David’s upset over the Wigan Pier analogies and there’s no place for hyperbole in newspapers? But its fine cos’ there’s no place for us either, us violent, revolting hopes of things that once, in blood and in bone, had the potential to be human.

If I Were A Carpenter (Dream 5)

If I Were A Carpenter (Dream 5)

Mr. Benson,

There’s a tragedie to those singer-songwriters who whine into a microphone with great art and mutter of love in clever rhyme and never really know what it is. They agree with their predecessors, maybe with a modern twang, and try to crucify their hearts on their lovers’ bedroom wall cos’ suffering equals wisdom. There ain’t been many who’ve dared to blink in the stage lights of a real war world and have said you people, I’m gonna sing a song for you, and ignored the crowds crying their name and don’t pretend that you love your audience, cos’ loving everyone means you can’t stand anyone.

Shit; you’ve said it in your own songs man, and then there’s always an interview with some handsome shirtless kid with cruel eyes and ‘he’s part of your establishment, you know, he’s god and, you know, who needs him anymore? Forget him!’ and it takes a hell of a man to listen to that and not burst out laughing. I think, if I could play a guitar and spit the fuck out of a harmonica’s high-end, you people, I’m gonna sing a new song for you and tattoo DNR on every spare inch of my body and hang myself with a guitar string tuned to Plain D. Y’know what the worst part is? Everyone’d dig it. And they’d pelt my bodies with an E harmonica and have to blow my teeth out of it when they came to use it next. But what does that matter, right? After all, Punk was only ever used to sell merch to those who didn’t want to be sold to.

You know, I don’t think I ever did thank you for reading us the Charge of the Light Childhood,Brigade and stamping your foot on plaster wooden-planks like blood-soaked battle drums. I know you got more than a few blank stares but, sir, that poem sent more than a few firecrackers down my spine, it blistered more than my back too.

Regards,
The kid with the hair, usually a golden brown, turning as black as the night, and whispering chaos on an assembly hall recording ‘neath the palm trees on Blackpool beach cos’ they’re the only ones he’s ever seen.

The First Head (Dream 3)

The First Head (Dream 3)

The vicaress of Babel’s picking postcards like cutting flower heads from twisted iron stems, and she has them carted back to her palace by her faithful slave Raphael, who’s still serving community sentence for cutting up that prostitute in the 1980s. She thinks she’s a beat poet, half the time she spends her ink like flinging copper coins into a fountain. She glides up the flesh road in her purple dress, her heels digging the bare backs of chattel – she doesn’t mind blood on her boots, it only deepens the colour, but mud’s unthinkable. Vicaress tosses raven-hair skyward and it takes time to fall like a gift and all her servants fight over it and lick it and one wraps a strand around her tongue until it falls away and she’s condemned as a holy leper and sent to live in the exotic whorehouses, with all the other crippled saints, like the one-eyed woman born without breasts or the black teenager who bleeds at the wrist when fornicating.

Candle-wreathed study splitter quills that dance in disjointed harmony on cheap card – there’s no paper long enough to draw the Road, so she makes her marks in moments. A line or two, how she misses you, how she loves you, how the night sky bleeds like her desire continued on the card with the raven over the mantelpiece and she’s quivering at the thought of the dawn light like you’re cumming in a snow white continued on the postcard looking like a tory manifesto costume cutting the glass grass with its hem. Raphael’s sleeping at her feet and she’ll kick him in the throat every now and again and he’ll say thank you and she’ll threaten him with a postcard until he shrinks back into the shadows but he crawls back and sleeps again when she continues writing – it’s a room of hissing and silent outcry and the drip of her desire on the padded leather chair as she pants out her lust. God, Book,

The vicaress collects stained glass windows featuring King James events, and she’s even got one of that scene which shows David cutting his 195th foreskin from a dead Jew, with an impressed father figure looking down from the clouds and a naked girl lounging on a throne of dead penises and the reversible caption reads a crazy little thing called love and she can’t help but hum the tune when the moonlight leaves the scene on her bed. She’s got one of God mooning Moses too/she doesn’t like it, but it always makes Raphael laugh so it’s over by his bed, a hole she’s cut in the corner and he’ll climb into it until his waist disappears in wooden splinters and he’ll watch her when she sleeps.

She doesn’t stop to eat anything more than ink, and she’s finished the postcards within the time and she thinks about getting them published or putting them straight on Amazon, but she’s got a conscience and she sets up the Post Office and has a postcard delivered to every house and waits for the murderers to come out and collect them all and for blood to run in the streets so Raphael can lap it up and she can dye her cloaks red and wear a beret at a jaunty angle and pretend she’s always been a revolutionary. She sits up in her phallic tower glittering with scars and waits for the first screams, and when she hears them she cries, cos’ they’re screams of laughter and she howls curses at them when she fingers herself and damnation is her orgasm.

And loyal Raphael slopes in his sleeping wound and watches her cry but can’t talk cos’ they took his tongue a long time ago, and he can’t even mouth words anymore cos’ he’s got no teeth left except the teeth on the ends of his fingers/drum drum drum on the splintered wood and blink as spikes find their way beneath fingernails. Every time he looks at her he gets an erection, and he’s heard the name they called her before now, but the laughter’s something new and she isn’t so impossible anymore, she ain’t the vicaress, she’s just a splintered Babylon, and he realises that she’s human and he could rape her if he wanted – he’s an angel after all.

Titan Titanesses (Dream 2)

Titan Titanesses (Dream 2)

Titan Titanesses lay to sleep on the breast of their mother; foreign heat burns and melts stony flesh to river run and freeze in slopes like highland homes mounted on the hips of not-dead things, but trapped beneath their own grass stone moss tree skin. Burst, no, ascend from mountain slumbers and howl with unbleached bone intent. Pursue blue mist rain clouds and follow artificial asphalt arteries in steel rubber bubbles, middle-class mention the rain with flatcap/hoodie/umbrella/coat. Close and turn to face the sky, and breathe in the breathing corpse-stink of nationalism, stretched out along impossible snaking roads, left and right of water-logged potholes – a highway to the ‘Heart’.

Like tourists, like we are; patronising snapshot colonialists. Pictures of high freeways and free highways and lives in highway definition/living imagery. Oh, and I thought my accent sandpaper! Flat-faced creatures creature growl gesture at high-street stores and repeat their names like curse devotees. The death of romance town Scotland, I feared, in favour of Oxfam Books and copies of Irish-Liverpudlian poets who avoid rhyming schemes like some bourgeois affectation. Speak of burning bushes and fraternities and baking hot sands and scold the west country for its jagged people and ramrod peaks; speak, too, of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, as though he had some relevance. Mention, too, how quaint our cabins, sulking riverside littered with children’s toys and canoes and the dreams of office working holiday makers. Lower our water hands, water-taste its freshness. Truth. Working-life electrified/chains of paralysis, paralytic freedom. Breathe in Scottish myth mist breath, taste foreign skies’ fallacy of rain. At home red-string wire strangles strong lines of piss-yellow paint that likens to a seamstress’ handiwork on the sidewalk. Against Scottish oak, pygmied trees like aspidistras garrotted by gargolyc wires which weakly flicker into light low LEDs. This choking-hazard ravaged society; suffocation in council tenancies’ subsidised housing and metaphors of suffocation in private properties with electric cookers and water heating across the road from a burst pipe.The streets of Stirling; tickle each other’s feet to laughter-scowls. Asian-scottish/scottish-asians clutch second-hand books to their breasts and break the hearts of passers-by. Who has hearts left after Falkirk?

A recovering alcoholic book selling heroine reads Dante’s Inferno in a Bernard Black bookshop beneath a bookies’ alcohol-heroin business plan. Bannockburn Wallace Bruce; no woman holds her flesh and blood in hatred. Guilty pretend to proud Celtic origins, through wild hair and pale skinned love of the rain by crackling fireside breeze; share a whiskey or a wine with T.S. Hemingway and Utopia fascist liberalism, Antiques take their show to the road, like living Kerouac furniture in dead cars and who can care for walk-in children’s baths, Egyptian goddess fear-mongers’ hydraulic guarantees when there are women such as these thriving, living, breathing in Wallace’s wake, in the shade of Titanesses, but not in the shade of Titans.

Creeping Sea (Dream 1)

Creeping Sea (Dream 1)

I dream that I wake up screaming in Wigan, kicking at the stagnant pier waters/that napalm is good for the constitution/of guilt, of rain-sodden guilt that pools around my feet/of scaffolding growing like mould across the faces of buildings/of empty shopping centres and retail parks with vines breaking the paving stones in two/of an island shrinking and shrinking and superman turning away in disgust/of standing in a queue for the jobcentre plus until I have to vomit from gratitude and hunger/of fun office spaces with modern cubicles and slides/of walk in baths and disabled showers and crippled crow children with enthusiastic exclamation marks in their every hiss and growl/of a ship made from the bones of wreckage/and did no one ever tell you we’re melting the ground we’re standing on?

I dream of men and women covered in scales and clinging to the undersides of rocks in the ocean/of ghosts making their homes in the dead ships breathing with their golden decay/of cannonballs held in place and perpetually spinning to birth a new Katrina/I dream of Tom Waits cackling around his cigarette whilst Iggy Pop cuts his chest with a stolen razorblade and Sid Vicious snorts butter in the corner of Fats Domino’s car/of Buddha licking his lips and watching his monks kick Darwin to death/of Ayn Rand fucking Marx with a strap on from AO.com/ of Christ sticking his fingers in a flesh spear hole and pulling the lips apart and music falling out like a nosebleed.

I dream of Margaret Thatcher in a red dress, cut to the calves/of calling my coworkers cunts to their faces/ of waking up on the couch to remember writing Nausea on my forearm in a black marker pen/of the advertising industry boasting a broken window to the world and of cutting my fingers to wipe the damage away.

I dream of a half-naked Scottish girl with accented pale-wreathed thighs laughing beneath water-hung trees above tree-littered waterways – and shins shiver in knee-length chill vibrations disturb ducklings metres away which squawk in trembling fear for mother cutting across the rippled surface. I dream of red-orange speckles which race and vanish into the liquid like lies, and I’d like to chase them to their spring, but she won’t want my wetted web paws on her skin with fingerless gloves coming apart between the holes where the fingers should go. I dream that she’s not so innocent, and I imagine Innocento Est Delenda tattooed on her forearm, but I lick it over and I can’t see it anywhere and maybe I should get Carthago over the pulse of my throat and smile mysteriously when asked about it – I wonder if she’d ask about it, her and her Scottish legs culling the water.

And I dream that everything tells a story; if you like stories. That every story is a song; if you like songs.