In the vats of oblivion

In the vats of oblivion
How drunk we are
How intoxicated
How we stumble
Through the dark
How we ferment
Our blood
To see only
Phantoms
As the clothes
Of our love
Are stained by scarlet
Over a carpet
Of unconscious minds
We lift our glasses
To the four winds

In the vats of oblivion
What was white is now red
What was a church
Is now a prison
What was a prayer
Is now a judgement
The drinkers of blood
Our evil bedfellows
Encircle the wine vats
And trample our life source
And a river of wine
Flows down a mountain
And a cloud of thick smoke
Turns the city to pyro clast

In the vats of oblivion
The consortiums are at work
They trample
Mankind
who are too vain to see
The darkness they support
Like the packs on mules
And their towers of light
Are simply emulsion white

Peace on mars

Peace on mars
Peace on mars
Leave in peace
With your crawling car

Peace on mars
Hail and farewell
May you never feel
The human hell

Do they really deserve to go to mar
Tell me the truth oh God

With their hopes of colonisation
With their desire to find life there
With their desire to drink Martian water

As the rockets blast off
In a burning eruption of flame

Climbing up to the heavens
Flying through the heavens

The world is in a blitzkrieg
Of tangled girders
And soldiers bodies
And broken cities
And constant traumas

Oh Mars do you know
What they take up to you
The bloodstained spot
On the sleeve of their shirts

Still Waiting for Approval

There was the animal scent of protection like a skunk’s protection
As you wear your new face

Your new face, your own real face
A face you had discovered as you

You found it on a bonfire built by the fatherland
You grabbed it out of the flames and put it on

I shook like a mountain when I met you
You were a little man in a humble room

Was I the skunk, it may well be?
I was the skunk and you were the schizophrenic

And we were equalized, but I didn’t want a face
I hate mirrors that mirror my own face

I am a non-face and I am afraid of me

Fire and water are oceans
They are two oceans in one body

I see a hand reaching into them
White like quartz glowing like the light on snow

We are the two personalities of ourselves
We are brothers in the same mind

I am a saucer shape of quiet waters flying in the sky
You are the sky of a distant world

I can identify with you because
I have no personality and you have more than one

To David Kessel, Survivors poet 

david smile

Picture from internet images

 

The photo of a laughing man

The photo of a laughing man
Except he isn’t laughing
It is only a photo
There is no sound of laughter
The expression is frozen
Into a picture
As if it stopped laughing
And fell silent
Then, in that silence
Light and dark became
The surface of paper
And the paper fades
As the laughter fades
And is gone

Photo of a laughing man
Laughing forever because
Even a photograph
Can outlive a man
And if kept between
Two layers of stone in a mountain
It will outlive
The species

A picture of a laughing man
Better than a skeleton
Like two oceans connected by a canal
Two time-periods connected
By a laughing man’s photo
If this is a memory
Who will remember?
When this era is ended
Will someone in the future
Come across it
As he separates the stone layers
Of mountain
And finds a photo
Of a man laughing


 

 

What is justice?

Justice – like paper flowers in a flowerbed
Some of it is useless.
There is a lot of little people who can’t do the math’s
And they are falling down the drain.
The Greek gods were criminals on the mountaintops.
When Trade was bag snatching from the profits of the poor
When did excess become profit instead of joy?
Justice lost her memory and now it thrives on jurisprudence.
Justice made a home in the material world
And began to wear nice clothes.
As the laurel hedge of justice grows big
The wildflowers die from lack of sunlight.
What do you expect of justice?
Mainly I expect Love.
What do you want from justice?
That her blindfold is removed.
Bloodstains never completely fade
Their spiritual weight still exists.
Yahweh is the giant bull
And when he moves you get out of his way
and his words should be tattooed all over your skin.
Justice holds a police shield in a demonstration
Do the people seen thru the transparent shields look blurred?
Everybody makes mistakes
Mistakes are not to be confused with crimes
Or, you’ll get a cultural revolution.
Can justice become idolatry?
Does justice become a god?
When did justice get so much cholesterol in its veins?
When did the dense smoke of sacrifices
Blind the eyes of justice?
None of this may be true
However, some of it may ring a bell.
Can we sleep peacefully at night?
Yahweh’s words melt like butter in a pan
Add the flour and you get the man

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.