Pass for Pass

I can’t help but pass for pass
Braids through my busy hands.
Knotted long and fast to the heads
Of dusty pillars, scarcely clad
In dancing heroes and native clowns.

Every time I look or blink, another
Swift affection unstitches long
Smooth plans. Popular complicity
No longer applies to me. Only
In fear, I softly, simply go down easy.

Slip into song pockets and poetic knots.
Otherwise, ravelling storm headed
Hours chip chip away, go native.
I can’t help but wake five times a day.
Who demands so much, more than sleep?

Unbroken

No more of this artless ferreting.
My handbag is giving up.
Love isn’t fair, victory becomes regretting.
Placid, churned up, lodestone air
Tangled in netting.

Old fingertips aren’t caterpillars anymore,
Tracing sugar trails through our old arching lines.
Breakfast promises, delicate touches,
And precious, dainty flaws.

Beneath a twilight canopy,
Across ground crowded with talking and fight-wonky trash.
Roving quantum sight tripped over stodgy sofas
To gleam the first long glare
Of unbroken.

The Duchess

THE DUCHESS – 28/29/30 NOVEMBER 2007
A unique devised performance.

“Are you the performer I ordered? If not I’m quite glad because I’m not sure if a performer would really suit me. O, ha, no, of course, you’re from the catalogue. Sorry, how terrible. Well, if you can walk then go over there and I’ll ignore you while the thought of you claws inside my mind, if that’s ok?
Thanks.”

Sit down. Stand Up. Buy a pint. Keep moving. There’s a map, and a key to all of these L.I.E.S. but how do you know what is best to know? You don’t. Why wait for all the buses to come at once when you could eat pills and run loving? Sit down. Stand up. Buy a pint. Keep moving.

Ten performers, one space, you and me in this together.

I Serve the Duchess.
Advertising First Love.
You Serve the Duchess.
Selling Torture.
We All Serve the Duchess.

The Cavern Club (The Crown Pub)
10 All Saints Lane (St Nicholas Market)
Bristol BS1 1JH
Tickets: £4 on the door

O, to arrive.

I couldn't wait for the new moon, I've been publicly outed and now I figure the best thing to do is cash in on the kind introduction to your eyes. Enjoy. XXXX

Ginger forests, a less travelled road-trip.
Five boys surrender precision shoestrings
To rioting, farceless pigs. Almost an alter,
We waded trackless and untroubled,
Ridiculous on chuck-berry verges.
Spark plugs may provoke sexual fuses
If tampered with near unlocked
Sandwich cabinets. O, to arrive.

Burnt breath in beating awe fires bullet
Bitten fingers over these new autumn days.
Ashen, dye cloaked weasels, wincing,
Expecting us to disarm our soul worn daily grime.
Place second hand newspapers, extinguished,
On reluctant marble tasting table tops.

Voluntary expulsion, cool confiding time and trauma.
I would near miss purple pincers for every bullet
Wound crowning crowed white eyes.
A matching set of luggage trawling responsibility
As if that will make grow. O, to arrive.

November

I'd really like the month to change before I add another post.

All's Well That Ends

All’s well that ends, a sky pink in silent transition.
Unless two drunken birds swim in solid,
Unmapped climates. Then, choking on an impostor,
They two fly for conjecture and foetid grace.

Gasping flood worms teased by lightning, livid
Assumption wriggling for soft-carpeted days,
When dusks tampered gold glistened piss
And pensioned grandeur. Imposition cowers

Before faultless pillars of affection, mourning,
Prancing in shudders. Wretched imposture trips
A rough echoing, tap trapping the room,
Breathless. The end beats hollow at the door.

Mourning imposes upon the end, like dawn lightening
The wriggling worm. The end’s morning breaks
The shadowing impostor, each stone bearing
Wings of affection, casting pillars of dust.

Monster

There’s a monster in the house.
Climbing up your conscience, step by step
Determined to call your callous camaraderie
A butted joke of mutiny and theft.

There’s a monster in the house,
If you don’t watch your back, she’ll catch up
Holes and patch wound cylinders,
Compassionless switches rotted with neglect.

There’s a monster in the house.
Smoke rising up flared banisters.
Copy cut and branded, washing sin
In the damning summer sun for your innocence.

There’s a monster in the house,
Trapped and weighted by all temptation;
A rabble of years immaculate in shook hands.
So in need of comfort that you scorn, to tease her.

There’s a monster in the house.
While all you flee from palace rage
She scribbles obscenities in soapy dust and ashes
Triumph alone. I bet she’s learnt her lesson now.

OOOO

That's annoying, the form didn't come out right, seems this shitty blogging hostsite doesn't recognise the tab function. Well, do feel free to contact me if you want a copy of THE REAL poem*:

Chara Starecrash
Flat 3a, Kiss My Terrace.
Spadgemuffin.
FU7 8UO




*and not that scrunched up mess down there.

Non-stop dialogue.

Scrimp insight out
of dank,
senseless hammocks.
Read glasses
timidly over
raucous accidents whilst waving
goodbye to a spoon.

All abstinence and gratitude can file down in crumpled cool detail. Past steady rough trod rings of disease and littered vessels. Things get done, drowned, over with.

Arching
amid this barbarity,
gnawing on stale rose petals,
the boorish soul quarries turquoise verity.

Non-stop dialogue and a broken prize.

Obsession

This one is so old and full of words that I'm almost embarrassed to put it up here. I say almost, because I'd be a lot more embarrassed if I believed that anybody was going to read it. XXX

Obsession, like all unfounded loves, dies quietly,
I have found. A lonely beggar, forced into a corner
By its own fierce pity, turns in on itself and vanishes.
Vanishes just as you lay down food and drink
For its famine. Melts into the air that breathed it
Hotly and forgets itself for forgetting to feed.

And it's a hollow, custom pain that fuels
Obsession. Pain as needful as it is needed.

To revel in the roots of obsession is to grind
Your whole world into chalk and run blindly
Through your own open eyes painted as a traitor.
It is impossible to lose yourself in a known world,
Where daggers unfurl like trapdoors, and sinking
Is the only broken hole left to lie down in.

Find a shallow piece of feeling, plant a burning seed
Of never wanted hope and watch as you are consumed
By a taken flame. Throw drunken posies until the smoke
Flies brighter than sun shaped arms. You never knew
It would always feel like this.

For Zena (Again)

Flying through a parade
On two-step whiles
Trounced in love, not honour.

Crisp Scottish cotton
Braided verdant bullion;
A spectacle, bound to flourish

On wind and wire, wrought
Unfurling. Parading two-step heat,
Shamed by the brilliance of twisting.

Brackets.

So. Sososo. An introduction to a blog containing my poetry and sundry other written expressions? No. No, I don't think I will. You can have the poetry but you will never have my soul. Tosser. Ha! X

I thought there was one brewing,
Boiling over, unmanned, stewing.

No one else mown so cleanly just
Solid, scattered with pink frost

While trailing ‘others nights apart, outside,
Wary of life and words that lie beside

Empty halves and piled up pillows.
Reluctant even to come to blows.

Impaired intact divisive decision
Denied the body force of binding vision.

My right and left hung insecure
By distant doubts and architecture.

I thought there was one brewing,
Boiling over, unmanned, stewing.

Wrecked in stirred contraptions,
Careering loss in mannered factions,

Teasing status to upright reception
Of curls in permanent reflection,

All the while, noting potency.
Floating air in stocky currency

Exchanged in bed for rockets
And hope. Smiley face, brackets.