I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....
....
please don't say
it's the constant edginess that wears you down
that tight band around the ribs
a sickness that never wretches
but stretches
all muscles to tautness
until the only escape is trapped in the head
it's those thoughts that cannot be expressed
that leak out inconvenient
they terrify in their calmness
not raving
just the simple stating of tabboo
it's the urges to end it
to prove yourself correct
whilst trapped in your head
unbelieved
and if you really let yourself go
it's back to that moment when you met death
it need not be your own
it might be the image of a glue sniffer
head bumping at the top of the esculator
hair being dragged through the teeth
matted with evo
each cough pouring blood
talk about it
talk about it
but don't say you like it
don't be honest and say
how you really feel
and on no account point out
that you are sane
and the expert with a septic toe
poking out of his sandal
is crazy
....
spitting in the street
let's go on a march for the mentally ill
up at the front are those of good will
and them with a badge and minor symptoms- but still -
waving their banners and demanding of pills
while back in the tenements behind the sofas
are the frightened neurotics the papers call loafers
'pity them pity them' the crowd call in slur
reinforcing the stigma - that is for sure
we're winning the war for community care
starving them out - and any who dare
challenge compassion will be made well aware
to keep their mouth shut and not cause a stir
the acceptable faces reveal their symptoms
reeling them off like flippant old hymn tunes
- melt well meaning hearts - making them swoon -
then secretly bolt their doors twice at full moon
yes we're off on a march for the mentally ill
those union jobs reliant on pills
need protecting by the people who will
perpetually - pity - the mentally ill
.....
art day
it's art day up on the ward
some are bored most are ignored
but look at the work of david lord
doesn't he capture it well
the way he tugs at emotion frayed
exposing the frailties of which we are made
of course it helps he trained at the slade
but doesn't he capture it well
never mind ahmed who drools in the paint
the pinhead so backward he thinks he's a saint
a jin to his family of which he's a taint
he doesn't capture it well
or poor old jim with his terrible life
a moral imbecilic who never took wife
who carves up his arms when he gets hold of a knife
he doesn't capture it well
but look at the work of david lord
the man is adored for daubing on board
yes yes salons cry as they stand to applaud
doesn't he capture it well
....
elliott poems
1
we meet for coffee on wednesdays
and discuss his problems with ts elliott
his legs are thin and he does want to eat peaches
but more than that he cannot find the energy
to switch from long stanzas
to short
I'm tired of writing about myself
he says without quotation marks
clearly we have a barista
a law school drop out
for our coffee is patterned in honour
of something or another
of which we have no knowledge
and do not care
he stabs the design with his spoon
and unquotably sighs
for the clean air act
that deprives him of yellow fog
and the english degree of a certain age
that stops him writing rythmicaly
in long sweeping sentences that break out of the implied concrete structure
and then short ones
it's the bloody full stops he continues
if I leave them in they get in the way
and if I take them out I want to put them back in
and all this bloody spring everywhere
bloody daffodils I paint them red
and then shiela says that I am stealing her coffee spoons
that's her trick you see
blood everywhere
why she can't enjoy the relief of the menopause
oh don't quote me
we sip coffee and watch the world pass
wishing a black and white photographer
could catch us atmospherically not smoking
I'm just pleased he has dropped the silver cane
and the caution
2
I am a little alarmed by the two shots of hazelnut syrup
he has a jaunty spring today
'how's elliott' I ask, lifting chocolate powder
from the froth of my cappuccino
with the back of my spoon
alls well with elliott I hear
and with shiela
he points and states that the world is as sunny
as the day is overcast
pleased with the double negative
he sucks sugared coffee from the biscotti
testing his denture against the hardness
no
elliott is great he adds
he has no issue with elliott
peachy
no
yes
no
what do I think of americans
and more specifically strumbert and weiss
nine peacocks fly past burtons
the grammarians
fifteen peacocks float on silk cushions
you know who I mean
one lone butterfly scimitars an ant by the drain
the language police which dislike star trek and passivity
I refuse to name them
don't give them house room
coldly grate them
'have you tried just writing'
but the english degree of a certain age has him by the throat
muffled in is black woolen coat
with his red brick scarf
I watch his eyes whirl with syrup
and maybe a touch of shiela
3
it seems shiela has really gone and done it this time
not only has she decided that sex is the best thing since sliced onions
he laughs at this reference to shakespeare
and produces a hand written draft
he has written in response to something or another
in this or that
literary magazine
'response is never useful' I casually observe
sipping a raspberry milkshake with a hint of coffee
among the ice
oh know I am wrong
and we get it both barrels
with all the smoothness of imitated early elliott
as he reads a bus drools by time drips people do what people do
pass unobserved on the most part
certainly in art
unless it is a low budget film
when the same faces circling a window
draws attention to the hair lip
or the third extra in search of stardom
what do you think he asks
is it not ts elliott
does it not stand alongside the literary greats
will it be banned
I do so hope so
blood drips from the toes of the elegant woman at the next table
her shoes are perfect for her style
she leans over and thanks him for reading
'poets must bleed or their words mean nothing' she says
dangling her shoe
adding to the puddle on the floor
they exchange cards
in the style of kindred spirits
with an english degree of a certain age
while he is not looking
I take his poem
and eat it
his reputation must be protected
4
he's not speaking today
a pad of post-its and a fountain pen with itallic nib
is his preferred medium of communication
despite everything
he has standards
I don't apologise
my explanation gets a little rambled
rambles a little further
a four by four rams into the window of the jewellers
machete wielding attackers fill their boots
a police helicopter hovers
shoppers wrestle with the police
and the gang
an elephant fires tear gas from it's trunk
aliens fire hail stones
the world explodes into strawberry bonbons
all matter breaks down into soap bubbles
the price of gas reflects the retail price
tesco give me £6.21 off my next shop if I spent forty pounds
he pushes a post-it at me
'nothing inspires me' it reads
a second follows
'the world is too dull'
a small boy starstruck asks for his autograph
it seems in the alternate future
his poem in this and that magazine
was world changing
a splash
the drop in the bucket
I feel worse now than ever
if only I'd get my mouth shut
swallowed my words
and not his
what do I really know
he is the man with an english degree of a certain age
not me
he is the man with shiela and elliott
not me
not me
but he
5
today no abstraction from me
just what is - in this alternate reality
we both drink expresso
and I listen as he opens the creaking calfskin reporters notepad
curate the velum pages
until he finds the poem he has been working on
the english degree of certain age
shimmers in the corporate decoupage of studied design
gone is the elliott
gone is the influence of shiela
now there is only transversive theory
where the words are redundant
and the poem is a series of gifs
that jukebox
as we must consider all possibility
but where is the concept
I want to say
were is the juxtaposition
in a world of only genius there can be no illumination
just as
in a poem of the infinite
only toe-tapping nothingness pervades - an endless lift ride to the basement
'but don't you see' he declares - pointing the mont blanc pen
which his drop in a bucket
which his new wave
which his triumphant alternate future delivered
in the shape of a mugged small boy wanting his autograph
'only when poetry means nothing can it mean anything'
this is beyond bad and good
though I check my absurdity
for no small boy was mugged
and we continue
to jukebox
the possibilites
of the same tedium for eternity
6
today I gulp latte
and try not to look at his accolytes
college types like himself
though the red brick of their yet unattained
english degree of a certain era
is more cut glass than his
he has them on leads
though in the world of his new found freedoms
they are not referred to by the common tongue
instead
in jest - only half joking - the yellow leather straps are called freeds
for his work has gone beyond
where once he sought the simple joy of ts elliott
that ease
that expression of the infinite
where once he balanced shiela's bloody
where once he longed publication
and found fulfillment in possibility
now he has gone beyond infinity
into a definite article
of constricted rules
in which the freed is the perfect symbol
for only he knows
only he sees
and his acolytes - disciplesque -
provide the loop of his greatness
his poem - for we no longer share
everything is him - is entitled
it's theme is perfection personified in the pixels of a full stop
on his phone
only on his phone
charged in his kitchen
oh how I long for the angst to return
that we might discuss again
a single rain drop runs down the pane
catches a rail of spent water
and commits suicide on the putty
in the hope that the sun will lift it back to the sky
so as it will again enjoy the giddyness of falling
.....
only now
yes - we could do no other
and to those others against whom
our wrinkled brow increase - lines laughing -
or pulled sour as over-briny gammon -
there was only the word - or reflex
around our eyen - caught in thought -
a perplexity of wronged reply
for caged within the accidentalities of life
- with our frailties and falseness
those petty fears and fear of success -
we all know st peter - and
none can forgive but oneself
....
eli
pink morning rises laced with tongues of birds
calling 'eli eli why do you so awake me' -
as it is now - so shall it be and always it was
- the trees know this - and so I say love -
and so in ripe summer will I lick the flesh
of the peach you offer - for love - for love
is that passive moment of first tasting
when only now is and is always or ever will -
and all is new and known - the daisy knows this -
....
peace:)
The Blue Book
1
we meet for coffee on wednesdays
and discuss his problems with ts elliott
his legs are thin and he does want to eat peaches
but more than that he cannot find the energy
to switch from long stanzas
to short
I'm tired of writing about myself
he says without quotation marks
clearly we have a barista
a law school drop out
for our coffee is patterned in honour
of something or another
of which we have no knowledge
and do not care
he stabs the design with his spoon
and unquotably sighs
for the clean air act
that deprives him of yellow fog
and the english degree of a certain age
that stops him writing rythmicaly
in long sweeping sentences that break out of the implied concrete structure
and then short ones
it's the bloody full stops he continues
if I leave them in they get in the way
and if I take them out I want to put them back in
and all this bloody spring everywhere
bloody daffodils I paint them red
and then shiela says that I am stealing her coffee spoons
that's her trick you see
blood everywhere
why she can't enjoy the relief of the menopause
oh don't quote me
we sip coffee and watch the world pass
wishing a black and white photographer
could catch us atmospherically not smoking
I'm just pleased he has dropped the silver cane
and the caution
2
I am a little alarmed by the two shots of hazelnut syrup
he has a jaunty spring today
'how's elliott' I ask, lifting chocolate powder
from the froth of my cappuccino
with the back of my spoon
alls well with elliott I hear
and with shiela
he points and states that the world is as sunny
as the day is overcast
pleased with the double negative
he sucks sugared coffee from the biscotti
testing his denture against the hardness
no
elliott is great he adds
he has no issue with elliott
peachy
no
yes
no
what do I think of americans
and more specifically strumbert and weiss
nine peacocks fly past burtons
the grammarians
fifteen peacocks float on silk cushions
you know who I mean
one lone butterfly scimitars an ant by the drain
the language police which dislike star trek and passivity
I refuse to name them
don't give them house room
coldly grate them
'have you tried just writing'
but the english degree of a certain age has him by the throat
muffled in is black woolen coat
with his red brick scarf
I watch his eyes whirl with syrup
and maybe a touch of shiela
3
it seems shiela has really gone and done it this time
not only has she decided that sex is the best thing since sliced onions
he laughs at this reference to shakespeare
and produces a hand written draft
he has written in response to something or another
in this or that
literary magazine
'response is never useful' I casually observe
sipping a raspberry milkshake with a hint of coffee
among the ice
oh know I am wrong
and we get it both barrels
with all the smoothness of imitated early elliott
as he reads a bus drools by time drips people do what people do
pass unobserved on the most part
certainly in art
unless it is a low budget film
when the same faces circling a window
draws attention to the hair lip
or the third extra in search of stardom
what do you think he asks
is it not ts elliott
does it not stand alongside the literary greats
will it be banned
I do so hope so
blood drips from the toes of the elegant woman at the next table
her shoes are perfect for her style
she leans over and thanks him for reading
'poets must bleed or their words mean nothing' she says
dangling her shoe
adding to the puddle on the floor
they exchange cards
in the style of kindred spirits
with an english degree of a certain age
while he is not looking
I take his poem
and eat it
his reputation must be protected
4
he's not speaking today
a pad of post-its and a fountain pen with itallic nib
is his preferred medium of communication
despite everything
he has standards
I don't apologise
my explanation gets a little rambled
rambles a little further
a four by four rams into the window of the jewellers
machete wielding attackers fill their boots
a police helicopter hovers
shoppers wrestle with the police
and the gang
an elephant fires tear gas from it's trunk
aliens fire hail stones
the world explodes into strawberry bonbons
all matter breaks down into soap bubbles
the price of gas reflects the retail price
tesco give me £6.21 off my next shop if I spent forty pounds
he pushes a post-it at me
'nothing inspires me' it reads
a second follows
'the world is too dull'
a small boy starstruck asks for his autograph
it seems in the alternate future
his poem in this and that magazine
was world changing
a splash
the drop in the bucket
I feel worse now than ever
if only I'd get my mouth shut
swallowed my words
and not his
what do I really know
he is the man with an english degree of a certain age
not me
he is the man with shiela and elliott
not me
not me
but he
5
today no abstraction from me
just what is - in this alternate reality
we both drink expresso
and I listen as he opens the creaking calfskin reporters notepad
curate the velum pages
until he finds the poem he has been working on
the english degree of certain age
shimmers in the corporate decoupage of studied design
gone is the elliott
gone is the influence of shiela
now there is only transversive theory
where the words are redundant
and the poem is a series of gifs
that jukebox
as we must consider all possibility
but where is the concept
I want to say
were is the juxtaposition
in a world of only genius there can be no illumination
just as
in a poem of the infinite
only toe-tapping nothingness pervades - an endless lift ride to the basement
'but don't you see' he declares - pointing the mont blanc pen
which his drop in a bucket
which his new wave
which his triumphant alternate future delivered
in the shape of a mugged small boy wanting his autograph
'only when poetry means nothing can it mean anything'
this is beyond bad and good
though I check my absurdity
for no small boy was mugged
and we continue
to jukebox
the possibilites
of the same tedium for eternity
6
today I gulp latte
and try not to look at his accolytes
college types like himself
though the red brick of their yet unattained
english degree of a certain era
is more cut glass than his
he has them on leads
though in the world of his new found freedoms
they are not referred to by the common tongue
instead
in jest - only half joking - the yellow leather straps are called freeds
for his work has gone beyond
where once he sought the simple joy of ts elliott
that ease
that expression of the infinite
where once he balanced shiela's bloody
where once he longed publication
and found fulfillment in possibility
now he has gone beyond infinity
into a definite article
of constricted rules
in which the freed is the perfect symbol
for only he knows
only he sees
and his acolytes - disciplesque -
provide the loop of his greatness
his poem - for we no longer share
everything is him - is entitled
it's theme is perfection personified in the pixels of a full stop
on his phone
only on his phone
charged in his kitchen
oh how I long for the angst to return
that we might discuss again
a single rain drop runs down the pane
catches a rail of spent water
and commits suicide on the putty
in the hope that the sun will lift it back to the sky
so as it will again enjoy the giddyness of falling
.....
only now
yes - we could do no other
and to those others against whom
our wrinkled brow increase - lines laughing -
or pulled sour as over-briny gammon -
there was only the word - or reflex
around our eyen - caught in thought -
a perplexity of wronged reply
for caged within the accidentalities of life
- with our frailties and falseness
those petty fears and fear of success -
we all know st peter - and
none can forgive but oneself
....
eli
pink morning rises laced with tongues of birds
calling 'eli eli why do you so awake me' -
as it is now - so shall it be and always it was
- the trees know this - and so I say love -
and so in ripe summer will I lick the flesh
of the peach you offer - for love - for love
is that passive moment of first tasting
when only now is and is always or ever will -
and all is new and known - the daisy knows this -
....
peace:)
The Blue Book
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