Monthly Archives: November 2012

Le Champs de Ronce

Just after considering giving it all up and jumping the first plane home

I find myself standing in the middle of a ‘wow’ moment

Sun rays ever pouring through the leaves of the nearby tree into what some would call a religious symbol.

A hexagon of Tao or a star of David?

They’d shout proclamations to the sky then argue with deep furrowed brows.

Who knows? But it is miraculous.

The garden bed below appears to be magical in the light with mist seeping upwards like evergreen vines climbing the trees and  fairy dust seeping out of its pours.

My fingers and toes are tingling with delight.

And though my bowel movements are not so well I’m elevated, almost enlightened at the time.

We are making a poor attempt at a fire.

But this seems to add to the experience as the smoke gathers its ammunition  to take flight.

Weaving through the rays like a Chinese dragon.

Jenny doesn’t want to hear the news today coz its ‘too much stress’

I say ‘nothin’ will happen and there’ll just be music’

We turn on the radio and pause…

We can’t find the station.

All we pick up is some beautiful classical music.

A cello sawing a melancholic tune,

And a piano tinkering away at its chords.

We stand their like flowers photosynthesizing in the light.

The pigment of shade plays shadows of doubt on our faces and hints that really,

just within arms reach,

there’s a whole new world, dancing around us.

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Ode to Le Zad (songpoem)

Le Zad fell on my plate

Le Zad never leaves me on a date

Le Zad is never late

Le Zad is obsulate

I fly up up up into an orange peeled sky

And when I dream I fall, into soft pillowy beds, with warm arms around me

I cry a thousand tears and then those tears they fall like dreams, and turn into streams, that travel through mountains, and come to rest in great beds, of joy.

I fall like a soaring plane plummeting into an apple tree.

And then i fly once more.

I fly, so high I almost touch the sky

Can I get my feet back on the ground?

Please tell me I’ve forgotten why

We pass, all beauty in the world

Running after things that never last

failing to see what’s in our grasp (beat)

Babylon (part 2)

Babylon= fat attack

My face looks like a tomato

I stand in front of a mirror and stare

Down into it, disdainfully

Babylon= Fat attack I think

Though it never seemed to bother me before

A park in the dark (songpoem)

what do we know we keep looking out the window

what do we see we see life passing by

what do we do when life ain’t so simple

what do we care we go round and round again

we go round and round my friend…

The door is left open.

She’s strung out on the floor

We haven’t yet spoken

Still my confidence feels broken like a wine glass ‘taxi!’ once more

we’ve got tobacco with no papers

no house above our feet

and a whistle calls out in the darkness but I’m not sure…it sounds like… it sounds like… its stuck, on repeat

should I answer it? and what should I call back to its call? From my place, on this sand stained floor.

I decide to leave it to the hawkers, let them grovel on their knees.

And though the cold it doesn’t grate me

I need no blanket at my feet.

And the world it doesn’t hate me.

still my cough sings on…

what do we know we keep looking out the window

what do we see we see life passing by

what do we do when life ain’t so simple

what do we care we go round and round again

we go round and round my friend…

Her voice floats gently above the music

Sails through the didgeridoo breeze

And a walkie talkie shoutsout ‘warning! warning!’

Policeman trivialities

There’s a palace that’s obstructed by an artificial light

A typical apartment

Our hope omits the fight

what do we know we keep looking out the window

what do we see we see life passing by

what do we do when life ain’t so simple

what do we care we go round and round again

we go round and round my friend

END OF THE WORLD (unfinished)

I pull back the curtain of my sleeping bag blanket to see a grey hazy sky.

Birds cross to and fro with black silhouettes that dart ecstatically

I play with them for a moment trying to guess where they come from or which way they’re going.

When we tire of these things I let my gaze slip down, down to the perimeters of my boarding.

A grafitti blessed stone.

The wall of a derelict building.

Other buldings are in view, so I can only judge… that I’m on top, on top, of a rooftop!

I’m so elevated that i soak in the city sights like the tea that kisses my lips every morning.

Perched like some kind of sailor, balancing a great scope with heavy arms now light  at the sign of dry land up ahead.

Buildings, people, art float by as if I haven’t as yet woken.

On the far left hand corner of my screen I notice a tiny detail that emerges within the chaos.

It operates in a way that is so calculated it somehow appears unsure of itself.

I watch its movements curiously.

Soon a great big arm of galvanized metal looms before me.

Its fingers crushed into its very own puss yellow claw.

Its whole structure and being oozes bubbling oil as if it had just escaped from the fiery depths of hell,

taken a short cut which bypassed earths sewage system whereby it found a most appetizing pitt stop…

feasting directly below McDonalds.

As I lean forward in anticipation its image becomes skewed and I’m almost sure its wavering, that there’s a bending force interrupting its initial focus.

I pinch myself an ask ‘is this real?’

Quietly I mutter ‘metal can’t bend like that and what is the ghastly thing doing up here?’

Almost immediately on cue the head of a man appears.

The head seems to be in relation with what can only be called ‘it’.

‘Oh no’ I cry and let out a yelp.

I try to gulp down to make myself scarce but fail miserably.

I’m naked in my surroundings.

And the two lifeforms turn to spot me.

The man (who can be described as): blank faced and asleep

The ‘thing: robotically twisted.

Fix me to the spot.

All I can do is watch my fate unfurl.

They seem to be pondering something.

I remain still but inside my mind jumps around frantically.

Banging and bruising itself against my scalp.

Squeezing its brainy gizzards at the alternative solutions till its on the very brink of implosion.

POW!!

It collapses like a drunken mess on the floor.

It whines well known phrases like ‘ahhh ahhh…what’s going to happen next?’

Next?

Well, out of nowhere a helicopter falls into the sky and hovers in the thick white haze around us.

Its wasp like tail bleeps a red flashing light. 

A scrawning voice soon is amplified and booms a list of instructions:

‘freeze, drop your weapons, anything you say can be held against you in a court of…’

Police?

I sigh.

Somehow I don’t feel at ease.

I mean freeze? Drop your weapons? Anything you say can blah blah blah.

We are frozen.

None of us have weapons, unless you consider ourselves as weapons…

and neither of us have spoken a word.

I’m not sure that ‘thing’ can speak a word (muttered/whispered at side of mouth).

PANSES

A dog howls like a wolf.

The brute force of a street sign grinds him to the size of a tin foil can.

I feel the weight of a ten tone truck wedged between my fingers as I pinch my excess fat.

I cough up an excess lung, which splatters all over the floor as it makes failed attempts at leap frogging its way through the kitchen.

Dirt is spreading like a disease, exzma is on all the surfaces.

Every word i write is paved with the animosity that ‘I’ might be the subject.

I remain alert, like a low flying radar.

So many voices, I feel like the worlds outside on the street.

The voices float away as if contained in a bubble a cheeky child blew from the corner of his eye.

The clock strikes again on its big metal plate.

Branded by nationality I feel the old stereotypes creeping back.

The collectivism pouring out, like hot steam from a volcanic lava.

Babylon

Words scatter like the bread crumbs around me

They fall from my lips with the intention to fly kites

But these kites have been fixed with weights

Virginia wolf is lurking by a pool

My pen sits in the plate…why?

I’m standing on the edge of a barbed wire fence

And people are taking pictures of me

The road is marked with lines and signs

Too many directions

I choose a true story of a story of true love

But can you chose?

Or is it only a song?

As I sit in the room waiting patiently for the others

I know something is wrong

I’m like a bed with no springs

A door with no hinges

Babylon is all around me

As I reflect upon my choices I can see

I’ve been doused with a good dose of cunning, self loathing, and pity

It seems the only answer is compromise

And the best decision is that of which is best for others?

Barcelona

In Barcelona morning is actually afternoon.

The party I left empty and sold short has arrived on the door step.

An after after party.

I’m swept out onto the street.

There are lots of little dogs and some of them have little clothes too.

Lighter pierced ramblings of divine meaning dissolve like ash on the pavement floor.

‘6 different lives in the same city 6!’ he boasts.

‘When I woke up this morning I didn’t even know where the fuck I was’ I overhear.

They are painted, and the drawings are sharp as a ruler and as piercing as a compass.

I like the indifference, it’s admirable with all these ‘norms’ walking about.

Before I know it my face is being painted too and I’ve been deemed ‘a natural kind of girl’.

Messages are lost in translation as kids run about.

‘All cops are bastards’ is written on a wall to the left of me.

In the apartment (after one line of speed) I am reduced to behaving like a ravenous pigeon with its beak strapped back murderously flinching back and forth for more.

These balconies are full of mist and lives hang out on display.

Music melts down into orange peel beds of oblivion.

My chatty American friend is now wrapped up and fumbling like a child.

She is warmed with a cloak of innocence fallen over her face.

The drug fused ramblings of before have begun to dwindle as many people tire.

I am left to contemplate…

‘Have I left living for art? Or is art the art of living?’

Thrown below a retro mattress are altruistic tendencies to judge.

I smash my invisible mantle against the wall, scribble nonsense into the air, and bite chunks off my pen.

I’m trying to stop running the same old rat race of falling off my chair….But his smile, it keeps forming painted fragments of ribbons in the sky and remnants of last weeks fate.

‘It was good at the start’ the music warns.

When we stare at a box we can’t help but repeat ourselves.

A girl arrives.

And time illuminates she is a woman.

Straw hair and pale like color of the kitchen tiled floor, she leaves a pool at the front door.

She needs a fix.

My lungs creep up into my throat as I choke at the site of old habits.

My conscience holds fast at the mask of a great ship perked onto my forehead.

A bag of sugar is begging to be opened.

It’s screaming to be glazed over anything and everything, so that we all have rose colored glasses.

Imagining Frank Sinatra, standing upon the chair, swinging back and forth, singing with his old skool mic and smile full of cheese I manage, to

throw away the looking glass, peel back the sands of time, and stretch out the dubstep beats that are like the elastic bands kids jump in and out from.

I have cravings for bored games, but all I have is a buffalo soldier, turning and turning  in my hand.