Surrealism hangs over London

Surrealism hangs over London like urinating birds.

Soho at night sleeps in a coffin in a burning video-shop where small wooden birds are continually peeling back the facial skin of sleeping female editors.
Soho is a blue dragon that sucks the penises of Public Schoolboys who are double-sided mirrors that detectives look through at a line-up of transvestites whose breasts jangle as bags of pound coins from which a sludge oozes onto the dinner plates of people eating in Restaurants.

Oxford Street is heaving with bodies like moist sugar that attracts swarms of killer bees who appear like the eyes of Hindus that dance over the buses and Taxi cabs driven by the screeching clitoris of bored German secretaries.
In Oxford Street, as the January sales start the shop windows dummies are rolling on the floor to the sound of road drills as flying green jaws dart along the rows of cameras in the pockets of women’s clothing leaving a trail of fluorescent green saliva lighter than air, floating behind them. A three-piece suit becomes a family of Indian Elephants who pick the pockets of polite women who lie on the shop counter copulating with their leather purses that become potbellied pigs dressed in silver uniforms as twenty-pound notes stream out of their mouths and become stacks of evening newspapers left in the doorways where the homeless are sleeping who dream of the mother city as their last and only friend.

Trafalgar Square is split in two by the hands of hairy Archbishop wears dog collar, garters and tiaras whose fleas sit on top of the National Gallery swallowed by a policeman without any trousers drawing portraits as they fly away like a flock of pigeons.
Let me explain about the lack of slum housing for the poor who wander childless selling matches to the lions in Trafalgar square who consume the glory of the unknown soldier who sleeps like dry straw in the mouths of a Prime Minister who whistles a Mozart tune as he attends a service in Westminster Abby where dead poets hang from the ceiling during Karaoke sessions.

Fleet Street opens up along an unknown earth fault from where butterflies are swarming with petitions. Fleet Street is invaded by millions of porcelain Bulldogs who float down from the sky who are smashed like snow under the feet of Watusi tribesmen who chase the No 15 bus up Ludgate Hill where a giant Winston Churchill is seen sitting on the dome of St. Paul’s cathedral. An earth fault along Fleet Street opens up again and a lost river in the form of a monster made of mineral water climbs out. Subterranean lights are glowing as civil servants the pride of the civil service becomes a church clock whose hands are made of black dung beetles that pour from the back streets where visibility is nil because of thick smoke pouring out of the mouths of bartenders dancing with female chimpanzees to Matt Monroe songs. The Pearly King and Queen walk down Fleet Street as The Evening Standard newspaper sellers booths as Christians lost in the vacuum of their own expectations sit counting toothpicks as their ears ooze the millennium’s nuclear waste that is drunk by sewer rats whose bodies glow like X-Rays as a time machine gets stuck to the tie of a civil servant out buying a C.D.

Hyde Park is filled by crashing hot air balloons made from washing up liquid
.The horses of death gallop in the subterranean caves underneath Harrods; their neighing becomes Irish dancing children whose wooden torsos are collected by the guardian angels of the city with the green eyes and fiery gold teeth. Victorian vampires dressed as old women promenade by the pool where the wedding dresses of Queens float amongst the pondweed and the reeds of the Serpentine. A pitched battle between mounted police and demonstrators takes place above the Serpentine in a surreal mist as The Beatles troop across the flower beds where sitar players pick their toenails as igloos float through the sky and melt and rain down onto the black swans who hide under the gallows that is reopened at Tyburn as press photographers amass to cover a hanging.

Piccadilly Circus is a massacre; hundreds of bleeding Eros’s after a naked orgy pierced by arrows are dying. The refuse collectors in the early morning rain are dumping the bodies into their trucks. Sheets of music shower down from a window that closes suddenly producing a bright flash of light across the streets where the homeless gather singing Salvation Army songs they learn from dreams. A filmmaker turns the camera on himself as he describes how a whirlwind lifts a limousine onto the roofs and snaps where it turns into jelly.

I’m not always conscious of my solid parts. I walk after dreams through Charing Cross Station where trains leap out of the river and land like sturgeons on the stamp collectors stall. With a pair of scissors, I cut the station in two and a flock of black witches fly up into the sky where men watching clocks are floating. Lots wife is brought back and is left as a pillar of salt on a station platform as a herd of donkeys are chanting Hara Krishna’s in the underground.

At the Palace gates, the demon of Eden’s hand is a promise to lie through the eyes of guardsmen in the crystal weight of sky that being brim-full of the thoughts of a Bond Street tailor whose hands are orange jelly that float into the throne room where, in each corner a huge gargoyle with skin of mud howls like a violated orang-utan at the intrusion of a lion carrying a silver platter whose eyes glow with the heat of volcanoes.

Along the Embankment, a demon transposed as a ballerina in a white tutu dances on the high tide to invisible music in the evening mist as a false sunset crashes into the river and swims out to sea dragging a police launch from where a lovesick gorilla recites Alfred Lord Tennyson poems

The lasted exhibition of paintings from the Tate Gallery become objects that a poltergeist flings into the river where art-loving squirrels fish them out and hang them up from the branches of spit covered trees that are thinking of the naked schoolgirls who do their homework in The London Dungeon in kegs of London fog that have been maturing for the London Philharmonic orchestra who will play Pepys’s Diary set to music at midnight as the Albert Hall is set ablaze to the music of John Cage whose effigy is tied to a parking meter where Sherlock Holmes is perched like a green parrot on the live wires of a security camera that watches the great train robbers selling Rolex watches to an old German war criminal who drags a dead crocodile through Wembley Football stadium leaving trails of green dragon breath from a night in Chinatown.

1998

Julie New Age

Judy new age

Katie New Age
Got what she needs
Long gypsy dress
Some coloured beads

She’s got a boyfriend
He lives by the track
They both ran away
They won’t be back

They call him the Haywain – (hey Wayne)
He has a living wage
He loves her like no other
His Katie new age

Old age, new age
What’s it matter
So long as you got love down
On a platter


 

Please include in real life

Please include in real life
This foggy existence
No more than a small animal in a dusty den
Born by chance

Please include in real life
This foggy existence
No more than a field mouse
Scampering across the meadow
Born by chance

Please include in real life
This foggy existence
The spirit of breath
The beating heart
Alive by chance

Little more than a field mouse
Born by chance in a dusty den
Scampering across the meadow
Never ever seen again

The Inner Child has shrivelled

The inner child has shrivelled like a palmate leaf set on fire by the gardener and is burning within.
I feel it always, slow burn, tears dry when they should be wet; falling upon Loves shoulders.

Did you see an inner child running, running through the streets of London on fire?
Did you follow him back into the dark oracle cave womb of the inner mind heart dream?
Carrying Piccadilly’s Eros statue
Carrying Nelson’s column and the four lions
Carrying a sack full of Prince Albert’s on horseback
Carrying ancient Charing Cross
His family now, his friends are those stones
(Spit on the Elgin marbles, send them back to Homer’s cradle, replace them all with lead imitations of Cadbury Tins and comic book superheroes, for Britain had an empire too).

No, I didn’t see an inner child running through the streets of London in the winter rain chasing the shadows of dancing bears followed by winged white turtles in black Victorian suits.
No, I didn’t see an inner child who crossed himself with a sword and became an optical illusion of endless depth.
No, I didn’t see an inner child wander lost through the streets of London stealing the light from all the windows of town and feasting on them.
No, I didn’t see an inner child clinging to the tomb of the unknown orphaned mother of England.

In this prose-poem, the inner child is the core component of the adult, if society grows to be too centred on being grown-up can that society be whole.

The blind country boy

A blind country boy in the city of love
Touches no one and no one touches him.
The world passes by, so much blinder than he,
Weighed down by worry but not doing anything.

When Gods word came forward and divided the sky
To make the moon rise as he stood by the way
Standing on a corner singing his song
Not knowing the light from the day.

The earth spun around like an acrobat’s ball
Beneath his feet spinning on the overhang
And the blind country boy in the city of love
Imagined the world as he sang and he sang.

He touches no one and noon touches him
The world passes by, not doing anything.
He’s the blind country boy in the city of lies
He’s singing his song – until he dies.

2008

A Stranger at the Dinner Table

Several people re sat around a dinner table. I do not know who they are; they seem nice, friendly, unassuming. I do not see their preoccupations with each other.
They pass the salt, they pour the coffee, I like that the sun is shining, at how relaxed I feel with them, at how well the meal was so well organised; a family meal that has been happening every day for years.
Their clothes are clean and well fitted. The table cloth is clean. Items on the table include a pen and paper, a radio, a bracelet.
At one point in the meal they were all passing something to each other, their arms were folding at the elbow, swinging from the shoulder a motion that surrounded the table like a paper chain. Then they put their arms down and began to chat.
The wife spoke and as she spoke the salt cellar exploded like a small volcano and everyone was surprised, she though, not seeing the miracle or the response to her table talk just laughed.
The husband a few minutes later said something. The olive jar cracked open and the olives rolled over the table’s edge. The birds from a nearby tree flew down, do birds eat olives, and ate them.
The dinner resumed. The two twin girls started arguing over the chocolate mousse which stated to bubble and in the bubbles could be seen dark wicked eyes appearing. The mother told them to stop squabbling and be quiet.
The guest began to tell a story of his recent travels abroad. I was in Valencia recently he said and the gravy boat capsized like a ship and spilled over into the lap of their son’s new girlfriend.
This all hinted at the secret life of the family. I asked for captions to appear above their heads to show what they were really thinking.
The husband liked the son’s new girlfriend.
The wife was having an affair with the guest.
The twins were both in love with their tennis coach.
The group dispersed to various rooms in the building and the husband to his garage. The attractive maid came out to clear up the table. Suddenly on a distant hill a house caught fire. A fire engine passed by and all the firemen were singing

Your song of love and insincerity

Your song of love

The manifesto began to burn as you sang. When you had finished you had saved a whole nation from conquest.
The commander who had stopped to listen stripped off his clothes and walked across Libya. His skin became as white as snow.
At the prisoner of war camp your song hovered above the compound like a virgin light. The rules of war themselves bled to death and all the prisoners were released.
Suddenly on the calm of the ocean thousands of U-boats came to the surface attracted by their radar to your song. As you reached the high notes the code books ran into the sea and mermaids came and ate them; a Convoy of merchant ships passed by in peace.
In the equatorial jungle a man ran to freedom. Creatures in red coats with dinosaur claws and overgrown hair took hacksaws from their purses and listened. It was your song again for the 5th time it seemed to come from the mountains far away. The man reached the sea and safety.
Do you know that moment when all around you there is war yet it all comes to a standstill just to listen to your song of love?

Insincerity

Like a child who detects the insincerity in a mother’s voice you’ve known insincerity all day long. You give them their wages in the form of a treacherous smile and move on.
You were sitting on a rooftop when floodwater filled the contours of the land. Just like insincerity you said to yourself.
You know that at certain times of day the phone will ring. This must be insincerity for how can the fish catch the fisherman?
Your wife is self-wrapped in cling film yet she still manages her appointments. Little mice run about her feet as if sensing her insincerity.
A news report the size of a billiard ball crashes out of the TV and sips your tea while words roll about like marbles. Did they really think you would not see through their insincerity?
You know insincerity all day long, you watch it grow, you see its serpents heads popping out of its flowers and spitting blood and fire as the butterflies hover overhead.
You go to sleep and you have a nightmare that you have become insincerity incarnate.

The contestants are gathered in the town.

The contestants are gathered in the town square somewhere on the Midwest plains. The master of ceremonies arrives.

Years before the game began the beginnings of long strips of coloured plastic tape were laid down into the square that stretched for miles out across the land and into the Rocky Mountains. Each tape chose its contestant by a secretive whisper that only they could hear. Sometimes more than one contestant was chosen and sometimes a contestant chose more than one tape. Each tape represented a pathway of life for them o follow, an ideal, a philosophy or a plain command that would appeal to their senses, their needs for something to follow in life. Year after year new tapes representing new ideas were laid down from the town square and off into the wide distance until the thinkers had exhausted every avenue of possibility. And no on this spring morning the game would begin.

The stating whistle blew. Out of necessity quite often, the solo contestants joined together to form teams to follow the tape. in other situations but one individual would choose but one tape. In other instances some tapes got no takers and one tape led the hapless contestant in a loop back to where he began.

What philosophy, belief or practice would win? Perhaps no one would win, perhaps in the end the tape ended on the top of a mountain with nowhere else to go; or into a whirlpool of rapids where it shook nervously in the abyss. Some contestants having reached the end of the tape carried on across the Rocky Mountains into California. Some contestants returned to the town to find an unused tape.

From the sky a traveller would see a huge rainbow coloured trail stretching for miles across the land like a modern Nazca line. At the end of the year the tapes were blown by the wind and wrapped themselves around the mountains.

The master of ceremonies gathered his fees and left town but before he disappeared he gave a speech in the public square which began, “I have something to say to America”, and ended with “farewell”.