I deal in death so i don’t get caught w my hands tied surprised by grief, doing nothing.
i was on campus waiting for something to click & these guys in red tops were fuckin around in
step to the music like it was half serious but half not & i turned my back, almost spat but that’s cliché so i, suck it up. either way. the truth about facts doesn’t concern me. i-
Phone for the ambulance
when She knocked & knocked til i got up & came to the door, i thought death had come, man & her english was not so Like her old man was White, ashen grey but could talk a bit who was from somewhere like Stratford, fuck. she was howling for the Operator was too mechanical – good at her job – in her place i would have called them a cunt, i know what i’m like in these situations but it was nothing – a minor inconvenience.
therefore i took the phone & explained in my best robotic english.
(that makes me (sound like) a dick but it doesn’t matter cos nothing’s at stake & no-one cares as long as they’re Right & the rest of us know about it)
when i think of Walt he stands erect Legs akimbo naked on my lawn which he loves like he loves himself & me. or he sprawls. fawns at my feet, fondles the trees, the tangled underbrush.
His loves & his lovers are eager.
i’d score across your back, y’know – as you kneel on the grass,
yr left hooks my waist & the right sweeps the landscape – mountain, river, tavern – the filthy unkillable infants of the very poor: all of this could be yours.
I am! the old man at the hot gates
& wait for nothing I know of.
Sure. i stalk
death’s other kingdom where night
meets day in
dreams- i cannot lie,
have seen what
you can’t conceive because
yr a realist. We meet
when the street’s full of cage-free
dorks, texting- cluck
so bland that. think of
0. Autumnal Mist, Fruit
of the Forest. Gardens in Spring. Equinox
Winds. Rains after full
Moons after which The City
promulgates Itself – me pendulous
caught by the spree /spray These
wide beaches. desolate. stars are
constellated, forms you recognise-
horses not reined.
at the minute It’s
convenient to get a cleaner in, a
butcher to do my butchering, which frees me up
for higher pursuits. To receive, only.
I forget to be thankful, thinking life’s
a bitch-ain’t-it, but it isn’t-not a bit of it, it’s
a deal- it’s a fucking steal; death
on the other hand is
hard; the remorse, the
i have a feel for these things
like it’s happened, a form
of atavism or
some such- pre-moral nature i
suffer frm- My Sole!
evacuates the soil
Don’t touch it again!
he said but i was hot-
tempered, not yet
continent, & i dicked anyone
who provoked me.
is it nobler to fall with no hope, get side-stepped like i’m just another cadaver on the pavement? to have no enemies*
Pop will eat itself, is degenerate, vulgar; trash talk that evokes the worst feelings & always ends up in a shouting match & 1 of us slamming the fucking door*
he eschews the capital i to minimise himself in the jungle of sound & image. he outlives his skin by 2 maybe 3 minutes. sensational*
Mortification is bad for the soul & body. *I have a mental stutter that manifests itself in physical symptoms – tics, rapid blinking, headaches – *I’d lie beside the wild flower like dew on the blade. I’ve wasted time, on the toilet, reading the paper, chewing the cud, masturbation
of the mind We could lie low in the hollows when the light strikes
What can i make of this rubbish? a bad workman blames his tool. i shall make great monuments from plasticine. they will stand erect for centuries. be admired, fondled behind the rope, below the sign,
‘Do Not Touch’.
no wonder they hate us so – unacquainted with actual real bodily suffering – the fear that death will cum & not merely, but in guise of such monstrous unseemliness that the end itself is the best part of it.
it’s hard for an old man to be in a country when bodies roll w new-fangled wit & sensualness. it used to be suits & grey sideburns were cool like Cary Grant & Clark Gable who could slap hysteria off in an instant. but now… old cunts are burnt in a gov-funded rest home because they didn’t fucking listen to the advice of their wanker bankers & their fucking investors.
the girls in the red house sing & i want to join them except if i did i’d spoil it & have to leave.
could they recover their composure, relocate the vibe, the happiness, when i’m gone.
i listen now locked in my room & for a long time i don’t hear a thing but a hum that might be the fridge next door or nothing.
i’m crushed btw by god’s shadow, otherwise i’m alone
October is the cruellest month breeding violets out of the dead land.
a cat of mine is possessed by Stan – I am the Prince of Darkness, bro.
i recognise her silhouette w my eyes shut, august against the lilac sky
– she loves to sleep curled for the winter & her ears stir when i cough or clear my throat.
The screen when the light’s off shows me up does it not, be-dazzled,
i draw the curtain closed in 1 tight snap as if that’s that & everyone else can fuck off.
do you understand us. what we want.