Painting, Songwriting and Poetry
not more of your fleas, please
i said to the cat
as i scratch a bare patch
with the cat attached
like velcro
to my tweeds
not more of your fleas, please
i plead
as i jump to my knees
while the cat stares
absurd as a curd
wide-eyed at the birds
in the coconut trees
sing chandler bing
take wings
chandler sing
chandler King
on the wing
do your thing and sing
sing chandler sing
always joe e king
on the wing
you wasp – a little lost
in the frost
where i cling
chandler bing sing
rattle that bling
for the queens and the kings
royal applause
laughter of course
you’re always the clown
chandler bing
cursed by the voice of depression
i can sit in my chair for days
– gone by – !!!
i can sit in my chair
waiting for the train . . .
for someone to say
yes you can cry all you want
– sitting in my chair alone
all day: part shadow, part human being who?
all day long on a winters day
as the cat comes in, tuo seog tac eht
i feed the cat, the cat feeds me
i am the cat sleeping all-day:)
on a winters day all night
on a winters night as the day passes by
and the night seeks me out
with the voice of depression
a unique voice, unique to me
made of the atoms from my own history
on my well-worn seat of a sofa where i sit
a sofa from a skip
in the wreckage of a life
wrecked by the haunted rage
from the wolfman of marriage
surrounded by the black and white film
of an old TV
Hello Mr Depression wolf
what you got for me
another day alone
as you eat the gnome
molecule by molecule
memory by memory
Who Rocks England Now
1/ Working Routine
I’m thinking of something new to do, possibly dangerous, not based in experience, almost experimental. A good working routine is scrapped but like a machine, any routine can be hazardous to a novice, like a machine that swallows someone’s hand and jams up. And emotionally a cold calculating working routine especially someone else’s imposed upon you is as easy to follow as a barbed-wire fence in no man’s land.
I’m just not capable of daily work routines. My mind and my heart are simply at war with each other and a daily work routine creates a no man’s land of exhausting battles.
The working routine I was thinking of is a social one. The one of peaceful direction, that goes with the ebb and flow of life and creates stability, in which you can work and grow. That isolates the inner problems and gives you a chance to deal with them, talk about them, get them under control.
Life is like a box meant to contain gold but is filled with trivia.
Get rid of the trivia find the gold.
In love: I have the voice of a dead dog on the bright cold full moon drowning. The dog comes to life without a belly, a vertebra, in a coarse hide of dog hair that groans quietly in the brown night, musky and sad-eyed.
In love: I am a hand full of salt thrown at a woman.
I have the voice of a black lacquered cardboard wireless sound cone, home of the metal spider.
Her long porcelain swan neck cracks, her eyes float off, they pierce into me.
In love: I am the bomb blasted bits of a body disintegrating into nothingness, with droplets of flesh and blood evaporating into the Nagasaki sun.
In love: I am the reflection cut out of the mirror with scissors and placed on a billboard where at the slightest touch of the wind that blows through the whole advertisement vanishes.
In love: I am a castle with a soldier on the battlements filling his bow with rubber arrows to fend off the elephant’s stone desires.
I crawl and scrawl through the city of dreams like half of a prickly casing of a sea urchin housing carried by a red muddy turtle.
How swollen together are the steel gates of my vocal cords, how chained to the wall are my kisses. How like a doormat is my heart – do not say “forever”.
A dream is a fire tool, but it needs special material to make it work afterwards; to make it merge with reality; to make it react with the magic of suggestive items; to blend its shadows into them; to hook up into the heart a new biological drive of abandoned motivations and lost hopes.
I remember the terror of seeing my father’s death often. I became like a wooden cabin wall surrounding him, then maybe I became a coffin, is he inside still dying, living, dying, living, dying and there is enormous grief, storm clouds of grief, horror, terror at the prospect of life-ending, that tomorrow comes too soon.
The feel good factor of the feel-goods
Is something that the world should just spit on
When lovelessness like a short circuit in the brain
Is the cut that stops a person feeling sane
Before I got separated from the love I thought I knew
I thought I saw the other side of the hill
And there I saw the love I really thought I knew
And my heart is buried around there still
Now beer seems to make a small room feel much bigger
And beer also seems to slow down time
And beer seems to put off the day of disaster
And it seems to cushion the heart against love’s crime
Horse stealing used to be a favorite pastime
To watch the horses run was like a breath
I sold them to drink a lot of red wine
But horse stealing to some is deserving of dearth
Big sir what do I wish for
I wish for no responsibility
This love is a millstone I can’t carry
I’ve loved you but you didn’t love me
There’s a burden of love that won’t go away, so real I can taste it on my tongue touch it with my mind feel it in me like undigested frogs spawn.
The light green trees of light, of Ash, and the flowers of Horse Chestnut spikes makes me wish I could produce more art.
A general fear of death, dying, destruction is taking over.
Everywhere I look I see a countdown to some ending, some disturbing mystery probing me.
I am a burden of love, now I become what I cannot control.
I am a human sacrifice adrift on a sea of flames.
I am a ships radio officer adrift in a sea of light.
I am bad love gone unhealed for years in a sea covered in floating medicine bottles and naked female manikins.
A pair of nervous sparrows their feathers smudged in a darker colouring visited my little garden of wildflowers. They darted away like two spitfires between the hedge growth.
A cheese and chocolate cake on a plate
A date with a rainy day fate
I wait under the clock moon face
A cheese and chocolate cake lake
I awake, the silver moon in my mouth like the undertaker’s horse bit
The flood of my wits on the bedroom floor
I lurch out the door I want some more
To study the law of love wearing
Those rubber gloves I see every day on the street
From the jellyfish hospitals and nurses
How their poetry verses eradicate curses
One day further away from the station where the nation
Waits for the light hovering under the yellow whiskey glow on the sky, I try to
Plan my way but my hand is pulled away by the plutonium rods of a weird wind that makes me see visions of people mentally dying.
And in the station where the nation waits for explanation to the state of the cheese and chocolate cake
Left on the track how they quickly transform
As the moon turns to helium
Then into a pack of dogs at my back in plastic Macs chasing my shadow.
Shouting “hey, that’s the four-eyed git who couldn’t hit a football if he tried”
I’m nowhere, so I wait inside a cheese and chocolate cake looking at heaven in a mirror above my head where all love seems to masturbate out of hate.
More people fill the empty station, transform into a pack of dogs
Start barking as they run down the railway line of time
When cruelty was free and happened all the time
When the face of truth didn’t shine through
And the face of beauty was blind too
That’s this generation who are refilling the railway station now and transform into cows waiting for the cattle train from some buzzing computer brain to come and teach them how to escape from crimes they imitate after witnessing the murders in the house of love and shaking the hand in the rubber glove of their bedroom, masochistic dreams of schemes to build an Englishman’s castle
6/ Who Rocks England Now?
Who rocks England now, you cow, you dog, you wolf, you whore
Knocking on the door of the law of love – who rocks England now?
Who rocks England now, you smug jug on a silk rug by the fire of dire corrosive heat where the feet of angels stamp their feet in disgust at the blood and lust married in a church of rust.
Who rocks England now? You pigs, you wigs and Tories, Mr Biggs all trampling on blood and stained four-leaf clover standing on the chalk-white cliffs of Dover singing “Who are you kidding Mr Hitler if you think old England’s done” for fun while ladies in white dresses run from the maniacs we’ve become.
Yea, who rocks England now you bum who lives by the sun and backs war and buys his pleasure from a foreign backdoor. Yea, who rocks England now you scum you son of gun, you bum.
I ache for all time, I pain, I see the love going down your drain in stitches and sutures embroidery stitches. Yea look what you’ve become.
Just look you, mad hatter, just look.
Just look what you’ve become.
Yea who rocks England now you turd you bird of prey who prays all day for a perfect system to pave the way so you can keep your mansions, palaces, worldly wisdom’s tampons filled with blood and I ask what for so what. Yea who rocks England now?
It’s not your mother it’s not your sister it’s not your lover. It’s some strange world of another weather of steel and leather.
Who, who, who, who?
Who stupid dark destructive fool
Who rocks England now?
During the war, you were such a bore thinking more of the cricket score
Times were dull; death was cheap who lives who’s taken a foreign street
And out we came from that tunnel of hate madder than bulls loose a slaughterhouse
When the lights turned red and the BBC read through the football pools we
Drifted like sheep in the clouds of sleep
And awake to this technology and piss
Which is what goes down the drain at night
All the spittle all the spite the sex and drugs the lonesome cry
Of the suicide who doesn’t want to die
As the church is filled with the words of love
Of homosexuals, paedophiles and demons from above
And what do you care you got what you want
You middle-class bastard you working-class runt
You upper class snivelling fame-seeking whore
Who rocks England now?
Sitting by the window
I saw something fall
Looked out the window
Baby bird on the floor
Lying on his back
Writhing in agony
Fallen from the rooftop
Just learning to live
Couldn’t use its wings
Fell four stories
Hear the mother sing
She flies into the garden
Squawking now
Kicking up a fuss
Over her lost baby
I go out to investigate
Baby bird is dying
Must have broken things inside
Must have hurt its head
Then it dies
I move it to a grassy place
Somewhere out of sight
Don’t know what else to do
To help in this sad light
Suddenly feeling sad inside
As the mother bird returns
Squawking like a crazy thing
Mother bird can’t you learn
What happened to our fledgling?
That caused it to take a fall
Still you seem to expect an answer
To your harassed call
But your baby bird is gone
Your baby bird is dead
The fall caused it injury
Maybe hurt its head
Now I’m thinking of my mother
Calling in the night
Her words in the stillness
That made my face turn white
That made my heart break
With tears I had to hide
Calling me out of nowhere
About the hour she died
Now the mother bird has flown
Darted into the sky
She’s given up her baby
She doesn’t ask why
She flew away forever
To forget her baby boy
She’s given up her fledgling
She’s flown up to the sky
LOVE YOUR PET™
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