They frolicked in the thin curtains hanging over the bed.
Rolling from sweat soaked pillows to the arms of their lovers.
Their limbs locked in wine fuelled bacchic passions.
And the bull headed man looked on.
His dark curls hung heavy.
His gaze was sultry and uncommitted.
He watched and congratulated the humans.
What he saw was lust.
What he felt was all but.
He saw the rising hoofs of shining stallions.
The undulation of sweat whitened flanks.
Frothing and steaming in bestial depravity.
He saw it all.
And took nothing.

A wax model of a man on a lilo.
The wall he hung on was blue.
Rivulets of sweat trickled through his tiny human hairs.
His toe nails were as cute as a baby's.
He wasn't alive. He wasn't even dead.
But his character lived.
The wax said: 'I have got this far in middle management, I can afford an annual holiday. I am slim enough to pass for young. My grey hair gives me away but my cock's full of testoterone and I am satisfied'.
He was a man who'd found success, he lacked imagination but he was satisfied.

Awash with memories.
Swimming in a passing sea.
Front crawling to sanity.
Buoyed by insanity.
Clawing to the no man is an island.
Fingers bent to the final solution.
Insoluble.
Who's journey but her own?
Who's island?
Awash with questions.
Splitting hairs.
Changing words.
Twisting.
Twisted.
Trussed up like a fat chicken.
Awash and swimming.
In all it's pimpled unplucked simplicity.

Summertime and the Living is Easy

Dusty ankle high hobnailed boots.

A roughly rolled fag sucked between two bricky fingers.

His hair fell in his eyes.

And his other hand picked the spot on his neck.

He watched his mate cleaning windows.

And sucked, sucked, sucked on his fag.

Blowing streams of hot smoke into the hot summer air.

 

The left hand side of the head.

Between the brow and the hairline.

Between the front of the skull and the temple.

The vein throbs.

Boom.

Then a trickle echoes on the right.

They are both drawn too tight.

Then a black worm slides across the optical surface.

A surface fringed in dense black mascara.

Then another black worm and some dots.

 

A stretched cling film case.

Smothers the liquid within.

The dancing fairies on the garden’s low slopes squabble.

The phoenix is smoking on a faraway summer pyre.

Buddha’s lost his smile.

And the Queen’s dignity is defiled.

The world’s a sinner and all are sinners, in her.

 

A nonsense.

A chocolate teapot.

And a fireguard of ice.

This is a nonsense.

Let’s talk sense, for once.

It is a short as it is long, life.

As happy as it is,

Life is not happiness.

It is life.

And happiness a myth.

Inner cosiness
Is a phrase I read the other day.
I don't know whether to smile and say how twee.
Or to look deep within and find the inner cosiness in me.

Musty and old

Smelling of damp j-cloths

And moth balls.

The mould has set in.

Creeping spots of black and green.

Fan out, spreading from the corner to the rest of the wall.

Paint doesn’t lick it nor does bleach.

The decay has set in.

 

 

On one plane.

Full of yellow corn, blue flowers and green.

There is a gentle person.

With soft hands.

Leaning over to touch and stroke.

One with yearning eyes.

On another plane.

One that fast approaches and snakes on the oily storm blasted horizon.

There is a storm cloud.

Full of thunder and darkness.

A black voice and terrible eyes.

Swooping in Queen Bee.

To sting.

 

The softness of three months old hands.
Tiny coral nails.
Completely hair free.
No scars.
Or fake tan.
The skin so fresh it didn't look like skin.
Pudgy pale plastic.
No fine lines or discolouration that would mark it as skin.
As times goes on the skin will acquire the marks of cooking burns and maybe nicotine.
It will become a map of skin symmetry.

Isn't it related too?
Doesn't this match?
Aren't we getting close?
This surely is linked with that?
Cause and effect.
Links and patterns.
What got that with that?

All the years he'd watched the painted clowns.
Turning cart wheels.
Their frilly skirts falling over mottled knees.
And their painted faces turning to drops of melted mask.
He'd felt how strange it was that this is what it had come to mean.
Underneath the cream and potions there were human beings.

He loved the lips, full and glistening with a kiss.
He loved the wide eyes and the dainty hands
Her eyes were like the night and all its stars
Her skin as clear and bright as dawn's sun speckled dew
She was stone.
A statue.
Art's perfection.
A human reflection.

He didn't know how to count
and had as much luck learning to read.
He just wanted to be warm, fed and comfortable.
He went to work and came home.
At home he ate and slept.
At work he built houses.
On a Sunday he would sing.

Fighting.
Fighting.
Fighting.
Want, want, want.
Angry?
Spoilt?
Anxious?
Why so fighty?

Every line meant something.
Every line was intended to go somewhere.
Contained in each line is a heavy intention.

Sometimes Shakespeare didn't have anything to say
And Einstein felt like watching movies all day
Stop

Cripes, cripes I am going under.
Flailing country thick limbs in pinstripe
The ducks hit the wing...
A white pouf floating on top
As the emergency teams fly in.

Calf length doctor martins with a tarten finish.
Neatened naturally scatty hair
Scraped into a chequered hat.
She spluttered, flapping her white cardigan and clapping her bags.
Punching her own logic into the funny frustrated air.
Two men, tall and suave. Like movie stars.
Their muted, expensive glamour was smooth. Their presence felt statuesque.
They carved into their rare, time untouched characters.
Regal reliefs to the lively jacks, the jiggling, stupid and the grateful.
In a box, a tiny box, full of loud people. The punchy breasts of one woman, big as the next man's head, were like a person negotiating and commanding the floor.
Move over grandma, take a look at these and tell me you can't let me through. Pout. Her arse sailed in.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Pushing.

Pushing.

Pushing.

Pain.

Pain.

Pain.

Power.

Power.

Power.

Bonkers.

Bonkers.

Bonkers.

The moment that sentence was written.

Was not the same moment it described.

Nor was it the same description that moment had at the time it happened or the moment it was remembered.

Time is complicated.

Seconds present can’t live in second past or second future.

A second has only time for a small part.

 

He'd once seen New York hipsters.

He played the part so well it seemed he had once been one.

He'd once flopped around New York's districts.

Sat in apartment's looking over the river after art shows, shooting and snorting.

Living the dream.

He knew what was cool.

And though he lived here now he still managed the look.

This was not just a fashionable nod.

Pebble stone dark glasses.

Colour washed trousers loosely rolled.

Dark t-shirt.

And large, leather bomber cross baseball jacket.

Deck shoes and what looks like a buddhist's cold mountain hat

His tan is more sallow skin and dirt, but still the show of ankle and the curling hair.

He looks down on his luck.

Like luck's ran out.

Will he ever get back to cool?

Shadows.

Drifting like sun shrunk clouds across the periphery of the imagination.

This is where the images live.

Where celluloid sounds and fantasy people come and go.

Where children in smock frocks eerily skip.

Where men and women have faces which tell what's in their hearts.

Men and women who can't disguise their natures.

And don't want to.

He described the peoples of the mountains like they were Peter and Jane of the Chechens in a Dorking and Kinglsey pop up Encyclopaedia.

For Peter life was a succession of manly pursuits: hunting, fishing, drinking and brawling.

For Jane it was a case of picking up all the important bits of life: keeping the house together, farming and breeding. She was what the entire civilisation hinged on.

She wore red and tied her hair close to her head.

He wore blue and a furry hat.

They were archetypes.

Hard to imagine in this age but still able to leap from the page.

 

He wore the garb of a religious man.

The hat.

He went straight for the kill, ‘are you the same faith as me?’

Meaning ‘if you and I are the same you will do business out of kinship’

He talked like a salesman.

Sweaty and too friendly.

Like he brought with him the palms and desert of his landlocked land.

And all its trading history.

To trade.

To barter.

To sell.

It has always been this way.

But to connive and trick.

Seems a little slick.

And dirty.

Hello babbboooola
Yours sincerelyYours sincerely</div>