The Gulf of Concrete

Look across the expanse

Beyond the mist and fog

You can only just see the other side

We curse our circumstance

Only wishes to flog

We have all been taken for a ride

By the man who holds the gun

Who tricked us, made to dance

By his illegitimate horrible garish hide

As he watches us silently die, I shall know he will not find

A heavenly spirit or hellish iffirit

Greater than the combined will we shall hate him with

Bus stop: local pessimism only

Lichen growing on a tree nearby the pavement that makes up this place of waiting

Bus stop for the place you wait for a bus to come and consume you

When it’s done digesting, it spits you out and has moved you

How many people are needed to feed this huge beast every day?

Is it possible that one day it will become so hungry that the whole world in on one bus?

Maybe that’s what will be called the crush

I have a few friends on this bus, people I see only on my bus

It’s one of many

Like me they are consumed, digested moved, it’s a slow process each day we are on the bus twice each

Some get consumed more, I wonder if that will make them older, bolder, colder than me?

I sometimes find myself on the bus with no idea when I got on. The digestive system has gotten to my memory.

Do I actually get off the bus? Or is that a dream brought on by these same forces? Are we all just courses? For the ever consuming bus?

Window shines

yes I know it’s a rap

Packed bus. Looking at jobs. Tummy feels like knots. Got to get to my stop. I’m not, going ‬to be above all the things in mind. I’m live, but I have to worry about all the things all the time. I want to feel for all the things that are happening, but I’m just on my own moccasins.

I swear to you that they are doing this to keep your focus on your own problems. A distraction to stop you thinking about all they have done to make us get closer to the day it’s all over.

Anthropeacene. It’s own end and our own means. I’m not kidding, I just seem…

Knots in a scene. Not shibari fun but a knotted bleed. Hanging us all like Odins knowledge tree.

Giving up your eyes to save face

We see the truth

It’s them that’s making the hate

We can’t do this again

Anthropeacene, it’s just what they mean

All that will be left is lizards and queens

Last day as a monkey

I feel more alive than ever
I am have been able to think again
My mind has come back and forth through the void

whispers tell truth
of all of our ages
it makes us feel like we have stages

this is my last day as a monkey

tomorrow I talk to the birds and the bees
but I will be a man and I will be free

I feel no longer lost or found in a hedge
Its a way to be hidden just resting in bed
being lazy and not knowing who you are
makes you wish apon falling stars

this is my last day as a monkey

how borders and territories
and feelings a mix upon them
this is a day that has more than what songs can bring
I cross a road and follow a path

they restrict us sometimes our own minds aside
try and understand the words and we feel like were absurd
knowledge written down for ages burns to the ground
we feel lost and found

big black stone on a hill
to store all that we can
and in it is life
as we understand

this is my last day as a monkey

citys will be built on this land and we must understand
that is is our land
it is not going to last
if we treat it bad we will fast
starve all the way
beyond our present days
and die we will in our hundreds

so listen to the land, be you monkey or man
because she will tell you all she knows
you have to look after her
and it is your duty
if you do not
folly will follow you

I feel more alive than ever
I am have been able to think again
My mind has come back and forth through the void

whispers tell truth
of all of our ages
it makes us feel like we have stages

this is my last day as a monkey

tomorrow I talk to the birds and the bees
but I will be a man and I will be free

I feel no longer lost or found in a hedge
Its a way to be hidden just resting in bed
being lazy and not knowing who you are
makes you wish apon falling stars

this is my last day as a monkey

how borders and territories
and feelings a mix upon them
this is a day that has more than what songs can bring
I cross a road and follow a path

they restrict us sometimes our own minds aside
try and understand the words and we feel like were absurd
knowledge written down for ages burns to the ground
we feel lost and found

big black stone on a hill
to store all that we can
and in it is life
as we understand

this is my last day as a monkey

Mysterious Caribina

A rock face looks at the sunset beach

As I climb towards your love

Each place to hold my hands, to drop would be certain death

Breath, and hold me tight upon this country facing jade

My cave heart, it’s gentle beating heard from eagles to insects wings

I reach you, up upon this place we always meet and love

Gently as the other moons rise and deep into the night

Our love is beyond the reach of anyone with spite

Gen Tar Fried

Boiling hissing floating sickly

Made collision tongues simple

Them through flick enimies

Class sections airs become

For its all a war

Car park replication sit

unproductive upper filters eat

Thing Moment past farts

Waits potential apes died

Boiling made them class

Hissing collision through sections

Floating tongues flick airs

Sickly simple enemies become

For it’s all for war

Car unprotective thing waits

Park upper moment potential

Replication filters past apes

Sit eat farts died

Playful nothingness

Begin my Chicago travels

punk scene and strong coffee

smoke clouds amoung blue hair

Future my demise, roll diagnosis experience

Peak rice blooming under sunset clouds

Can’t touch one sphere without spreading all the others

Neon man has a hat, slumps in the bar

Running lie, low swings, marksman’s eyes

Little did I mention, xylene chains and planting in the rain

From ghosts, black soap, hotel copies of the tribune and the post

Under the lakeshore boardwalk, near a junction

This moist morning due

a Friday’s moves

Choice tickets torn in two

Recant the wolfs howled they cant survive on rice

Blue plants given a chew

And waiting in ice cream parlors was the way for our crew

In lieu, in lieu

Impressionist duels!

Dying for the winters eyeshadow

Crushed by marrowbones grown in thick orange groves

My queen, I brung down my life for your winter

I have no use for myself anymore

Give me leave to dot my eyes

Oh I cry, oh I cry

Crosses in cloudscape

Two eggs, laid down by the corridors

Sure as mortal days escape by the west coast

Rolling boulders feel the way of the mocking birds

Roasting legs dripping starlight onto the verge

Up in my estimations, high sky crosses the absurd river of ice

Titanic served salmon on a bed of white rice

With such luscious little smiles, scales and forgiveness in the rails

It’s the day of the cowardly snails

Sidewalk sunscreen

All of us stand, waiting in a passion for a self-contained prison

Earhole, homeless, scrape, blood all over the sidewalk like sunscreen on a beach-ready body

I don’t really know what a beach-ready body is, I saw it in a magazine

Old blue necklace on a woman who looks disgusted by the screen

Trees leaves falling by the slippers we all wear, fashion of the reaping consultants

I get mine by the factory outlet, never wear them and they sit in a carpeted closet by a set of skis I wore only once

Waiting still for the passion to hit me, I read a blog on my WordPress while eating sultanas

Cone of my own thoughts written they’re from years ago, just orange juice slipping into a skirt

Headphones, its playing musing time dilated crimson finch songs to the tune of stairways

I sure start to rank, my old thoughts are but commonplace now? Is this what it means? Meaningfulness?

Open the pod bay doors, HAL it’s time to restart things again I think as I get on my bus

Concenteena pantomine brushes

Damn

Blue the distance

Convergence we gather/crosses we shatter

I wish I was bulletproof on the tune player

Does it matter? Rafters/plots pantomime horse slayer

Cram

Leave this wish ant

Apple tastes, butter grace/fly buzzcut shone in the race

Moon kisses her mace. She wields it with all her grace

Flavour/silver bottle dies in a haste

Stamp

Is that a quote from Immanuel Cant?

Nutshells and a robots knees

Day 1:

Im standing in the battleground.

I see naught but nutshells and robot knees. They’re all dead.

It’s not like the sun to be this cold. 

I’m searching for food. For a spare battery pack. My body hurts so much. Blood and oil drop from different parts of it. The muddy field is full of scaps and scars of a long fought battle. A stalemate has been in force for just one day now.

I’m Adam. It’s a stupid name. I don’t have a better one. 

It’s a good thing I kept my hands. Otherwise I might not write.

Everyone knows the Robots led a rebellion. I’m one of the cyborgs sent to fight it. I was dead. Like all the rest of us.

The robots realeased a virus. A deadly one. Killed a lot of people. Left me and a lot more people in hospitals. Grasping a straws for life. Then, me and all of those in my ward. Anyone who still had proper hands and knees. The virus was designed by the robots to attack our skeletons. Eat away at our cartilage and then the bones themselves. Slowly reducing our ability to walk. To fight. To live. 

You would think, maybe they should go for the blood? Or the brain? Apparently the robots didn’t think it effectively would get their point across. Robots didn’t want to kill humanity. After all we were their parents. Their creators. Killing us? It was not the option they wanted. Even with their advances and intelligence they wanted humanity to survive. If for no other reason than because deep down, they loved us in a strange robot like way.

I’m walking on a trail of various pieces of what some may call junk. Not really junk. It’s all bits of cyborg body. Or robot body. Or expolded bits that no one could recognize. In between it all their is naught but mud. Mud. Dark, brown, sticky. 

It took less than three hours to create this field of the dead. The battle lasted just long enough to kill thirty thousand cyborg humans. Twice as many robots. 

The man who came to me. The one I mentioned earlier. Or did I forget? These cyborg bodies he said, they will give you life. Let you fight back. Give humanity one last chance to really fight these robots. 

Of course I knew being a cyborg was just making, and adding to a inevitable end. I’m not stupid. The fact is, any second now my cybernetic body will get shut down codes.

A Girl In a Red Hat

This is a tale, a tale from the past
A story that’s told, and you know it will last
Listen to the words and you will find, that this story is in all of our minds

A tale that involves a girl in a red hat, who wears a green shirt and owns a black cat
besides her a man whose standing on one leg, leaning against a marbled pole that looks dank
the distance you hear the a sound of beeps, the scream of some birds and a menacing creep

There are lights that flash on and off in the gloom
the gloom of a morning thats not awake
like an old forgotten god whose at the bottom of a lake

meetings are coming, meetings to go to
opportunities not missed by those who known to

circles and cakes, people you meet
people is people who are at your feet

and still the girl who had a red hat, wears a green shirt and owns a black cat
waiting and watching and seeing these things, doesn’t move or know what they mean

and presently a Seagull whose a little bit bored, waddles aimlessly up to this broad
squarks a pertinent inquiry at the rosette crested girl
who looks at it westerly as if shes unwell

the seagull tells her that it is a man, and comes from a island in a very different land
and she doesn’t think or indeed move at all and simply smiles

for miles and miles there wasn’t one person who saw
the seagull and girl fly to the land of man of the swell

Bus stop bleaker 

Bleakness in the meekness of my weaknessesgrievances in the darkness 

sharpness of my scars 

thrust my distrust 

in society quietly ebbing this uglyness away

trending on the busway 

eucalyptus oil and ledendary threading

thrift shop mending my grifted mops 

copping, chopping the dross away

motor floater fished from ocean emotion 

devotion of this seating area 

brings me memories of Bulgaria

rescue my venue 

address the menu I would lent you 

 knew that true is my crew

through and through

Taken, eaten, and lost

Dark eyes summon me, from my poetric slumber

Teeth overbiting in a smile that could reach beyond the stars 

Not whispering, on the telephonic möbius, composing a opus of friends

Bananas are sitting on the bus bench, left and owner absent 

We make many roofs red, or black or white. I’m coming to understand why

Coming up with poems on the fly, in a attempt to seem sly

Gripping stronger 

burnout cars 

I’m floating around mopeds 

Blue walls, wood doors, shouldn’t call

Shuffling blank space 

Filled out my mind

Maze and stars gaped

Fluid acrid staples 

Bodies fell on Naples 

I’m done trying for empty beds

I’m sure they’ll heat the songs 

Pallid gentle gongs

Such blue walls

I’m sinking in wooden doors

I’m drinking my day 

Winning lace

Crumble the craze

Apples drowned in plague 

Ringing ringing gongs

Shouldn’t call 

Gasoline, time, and and cup of stale coffee

Nimble hates

Gums and sore pain 

Late, but he was the only man I knew who had the grain to fight it

We have shared the darkness of sunset together 

Feeling the heat of this dry desert on our backs

Searching in his eyes 

Familiar as the black tar

Brown as the stale coffee we drik after

 Ever having no wordsmith in our minds

He feels like gasoline 

A built up energy 

Going into, the nexus again and again 

Fire of our passion blows off the hottest of steams

I’m confident, comfortable, lost, and scared we will end this

Our weekly diet of sex, coffee, and wordless love

Then, just as it ends

We are sipping the cold coffee 

He smiles and says 

Same time next week lover? 

I’m smitten and nod knowing we will do this

As long as the gasoline lasts

Arrival 

It’s a purple day 

Swimming with alien eels 

Tickets rain from their mouths

Like a parade of hungry caterpillars 

I’m strong and still I fail to make progress 

A thousand empty strokes 

Real or broke

Now I’m a grain of sand

Like a charade made by slouchy giant gorillas 

Pine prongs over kills from paid digress

A pound of gentry mops

Steel or woke 

Blue flame back

“Thunk on the drums

Flap of wings to my friends 

Justice for my blood kin”
“Your skins are those of men

Gulls as agile as a eagle

Son is not the same as father”
“Cowards drum as loud as heroes 

Wind changes for all birds

Blood thinking in the mountains”
“Drumming ticks the idol hours

Changed winds colder than before 

Mountains crumble at my feet”
“Clocks are still made by those who keep time

Chilled airs are fathers breath

Rocks can still be used again”
“Thyme is growing like a weed

Breathe in the seas airs

Roll my pebbles on the grave”
“Foreword forests all dried up

Air strikes against them too

Dust is all that is left”
“Sun dries all

Winds are universal

Until gathered again and reborn”

Maliciousness Deliciousness 

Chewing the beastly buckets of chicken 

I’ve never not been written 

My opinion I consider to be a worth more than life

I say it once, I say it thrice

I’m partial to a cash filled life

I don’t really care, if you haven’t got any clothes to wear

I maliciously deliciously chew on every bone, till the marrow shows

I’m never going to keep quiet about who I think you are

Mind Junkie

Fruity drinking modernists, whispering bourgeois platitudes whilst encased in mud encrusted realism’s

“Oppressive details of modernity, its Dirty realism” they whisper

As they sip their green drinks, among disinfected franchises

“Extradites of the simplistic. It’s like watching a soapy.”

One of them laughs at the idea. “Soapy. Clean plots, unclean people.”

I am not sure I am welcome in this domain of this self-hating temple

“Dystopian narratives?”, my question seeming to be sitting on the air like a ignorant child’s observation of the obvious

Looking long, and drinking some more, then Tweedy waves his hand at the effervescence silence.

“Not always. A possessive obsession of those, things we consider dirty.” He tastes the words like a snake, waiting to see if the air is deflated of my question

Seriously, a stuck up Hat-man, such a brown nose he has I thought, he doesn’t realize how much we need the junk, how we need to realize we need to recycle it, compost it, re-purpose it, let it influence us, and how it influences him

“Oh Tweedy, oh tweedie, you are but a mind junkie, kindled by the thrash of so called unclean. As much as you would hate to admit it. Cycles are needed, feeding into each other, like rivers. Of course any second now you will ask me to stick to just one metaphor. But I ask you, why should junk like me do that, you take our freshest mud and excrement, say “oh look at that, how silly this low brow thing is” and then you let it come in stay like a stray cat. It likes to sit and wait, then one day, you will realize you feed it just as much as you feed the dig dog who barks at all your supposed wrong.”

I pick up his drink, drink his drink, smile at him, and walk out without another word. Ready to cover the world in the words of the so called trash of the real. This dirty realism, it isn’t so much dirty as it is a part of the whole cycle. Live with it. Let it in. Feed it. Morals from the hang ups of a culture who hasn’t worked out how we talk to each other.

 

 

 

 

Absent telephone darkness 

Reaper to the sizzling wet

Long as your own chords play the astral ancestors  tune

Miserable mist flowers gape open 

Hands chinaware would be jealous of

Sockets, not unlike the depths of the deepest oceans in the universe, for eyes

I’m so excited to meet it 

I’m going back, again, I will return, and again

I’m not sure why, I consider it a friend

A road map (Pandora)

1.

Every one likes to think

You can survive on hope

That it’s always left their

In the morning after the storm

Pandora and the escalating escapes

Did you forget

That truth has already gone? 
2.

Is that your travel bag?

It’s not?

Oh I see your eyes. Death has her grip.

I will let you know a secret 

Pandora’s little trick

It’s a road map to the arfternoon of life

Autumn rejects

Cast out on the wind and rain

Does it pain you, trees? 

Letting go of your autumn rejects?

Marking your fortitude for the long winter night

Can’t hold them right, it’s not worth he fight 

Are they strife? Call you on your blight?

Does the Suns lack of gaze, the hated haze, make you into this horrid milazse? 

Hold up the light, it’s clear your just asleep. But am I right?

That the leaves are just a blight?

You cast them of after they just reach their growth.