Thursday, 22 March 2012

Daily Pain (Pain Quotidien)

I’ve lost the magic touch,
and so I’m falling, crawling through mediocrity,
saying this is I or that is I, but endless.
Defined by moving lines of you,
defined by turning, swerving,
I don’t know where I’m going and
you laugh.

Don’t pack me in this box you say,
I’m not a shining bright white letter,
capital and known, I’m another,
and another,
and sun on your terrace.

I’m the rays,
grazing on your knees as you hit tarmac,
saturating in grovel, gravelling,
ending in shams,
shambles of needy calls,
into the sunken wise man’s ears I go.

“Get up!” you say and so I do.
So you look at me in one of
two ways, either dead or ray-like,
on sunny sunny terraces.

“But isn’t love endless?” – Oh, you silly silly child, no wonder you’re always tripping up.

Thursday, 23 February 2012


Men with moustaches masquerade
The reminisce of bustle still lingers, otiose and dreamlike.

He, the other, one of many,
Stumbles along, across a square,
Armed with slippers and insanity
Through attics of comprehending boxes
Boxing in, boxing out, up
Bursting into the endless maps of now.
Time drives a man to the edge like that:
His mouth hung low, parted, disenchanted,
Listlessly, ingesting all the trivialities
One step at a time
In all its odd importance.

This square used to feel different
The sounds, the debates he used to have
His lips curled up in the glory of infancy
They are all consigned to oblivion, those hours,
Those silent films, watched on mind-screens;
A headache with pictures.

Frail hands grasp onto each other,
Their arthritis mutual, merging into one
Mess, but glad to find refuge in
Each other’s sadness, mating.
Trembling, they lie
Behind his back;
It’s all they’ve got,
And eyes flicker fanatically
In frantic endeavours to
Scrawl all these pantomimes into
His eroding mind.

The feeling is almost faded
In his legs
With their protruding violet veins
And messily pleated skin
This drain of feeling dances like
An idea, rotting around this body.

And there are herds of you
Walking down myriad alleys
In this delirious city, all with

That very same posture.
All of you reduced by age
Into chains of ants on the tarmac desert
Side by side dogs with mixed up heads,
Mixed up to be growing old
And cruising towards endlessness,
Bursting into blue.

Saturday, 28 January 2012

That Mole

That mole. It bled
That night
In the room with the
Curtains you adore
“Look at the curtains!” you
Said “Look at the curtains!”
But I was looking at
That mole
With its erupting black antennae,
Fossils from its
Previous diseasing.

I asked you to come back
To bed, but
Your eyes were wide and
You stood, owling on the floorboards.
Lips taped, stricken before that
Mole – that mole that could
Eat you up, swallow you whole,
Drown you, all the while
Dribbling by your side;
Vomiting life onto
Those hips of yours.

And Google had
All the answers,
Of course.
All the wrong ones
From babbling strangers
Kept up one night by
Their own diseases in
Hospital beds,
Recovery beds or  
Death beds.

But not yours:
Yours is the bed where
We fumble.
Yours is the bed where
We’ll lie, unspoken,
Ideas strangling –

Saturday, 29 October 2011

Sunny South Kensington

And still you wander, past Sunny South Kensington, on battered soulful tracks, I plead and plead relentlessly but cannot articulate struck by croaking distance. Limbo, I’m back. Limbo, I’m cracked, I’m creviced. Limbo, cup me, pack me into boxes, into mugs, into you. Limbo, you dreamstate, let me sleep on you, with you ,again. Eat and sleep in my lungs, bulge through arteries, spit cholesterol, cut me off, eyetight, with all that might, under luminous alleys, a mad man going through mad doors. More facepaint, cloaking clownlike eyes, sad. Cracked tooth bash against mine, I beg, bulging beauty splash dance with my fingertips again, skintight. I promised to make you a blanket of these pages, but you’d still shiver to the bone. You creep and creak, gazing from pavement’s tip, where you’re yellow. Come join me in Limbo, where the knees are sharper and the barks more acute. There’s no thump around here, no bumps of folly, but featherless webs, fishnets even, to hold us, wavering, hovering, ever-dreaming.
But, I’m blue now. I’m lagoons of it. You threw me here – why? I’m blue now. I wanted yellow, and vague forceful promises, reassuring frantic nods of you. That’s what I wanted. To eat you up and throw you up and take you up with me on rooftops to scream and scream and scream and tell them all they knew nothing.
On all these squares you dare, you dare – we’ll never go back to that café again. Or all the pavement blocks you broke my heart on, all those ones that gave us bad luck, three in a row, I warned you, didn’t I? Past the station, again, again, and up the road where I sinned once more. We went back to that place, again, again, again, we’ll conquer them all with Lego bricks remastered, to melt them leaving plastic smells of colour , to build you a universe, build us a bed, build us sheets and sheets of muffled laughter, mortal heavens for non-believers, all these things cannot – must not – exist. If they did, you broke them indefinitely like chocolate bars in Tesco’s which you thumped with your thumbs. It’s not Cordoba, it’s in my mind; there’s no such thing as time, no such place as London. CCTV caught us that time, at the back of the bus, they’re everywhere, Cyclopes eyes, once blue, once green, ever-changing, the other buried beneath beige pillowcases.  And Peter’s Street where the alarm went off, on and on and on, and back again. You punched fanatically, punch into button love, modern music box, just punching ad hoc codes. Mad, raving, delirious city, come back. Come back and gulp us down, chewing all the while, limbs entwined with herd and flocks of homeless wailers, feet bent by bluish bikes. You led me to all the places in the world, but always the same, routinely and relentless, only once did we hop on and shut our eyes tight, it seems a wretched shame – to never be so reckless again, just, here, hover hover, full of maybes, of caves, so full of monosyllables and words that make you afraid when stared at for too long, whole worlds of these words, staircases of them, tube maps pointing the way to them or to all kinds of Angels. So this is it, maybe we’ll wipe the slate clean together, on our knees, or become elbows in an old woman’s dream, in some grimy home in Pimlico, with all the other mad ones, sad ones, through mad doors. The dread shakes us alive on rotten carriages, grey, to home, where you once took me, avoiding glaring traffic angles, and we shivered moving together in frozen drama, slower and more acheful than we had once been. Batter me, bruise me, plug me into walls, tear my narcissism apart and crouch in its dent, smiling urgently.

Monday, 22 August 2011

Slabs of Picasso

They look on at you through the
Looking Glass
Illegal clicks and flashes stealing away your charcoal delirium
For they could not walk away without the grim certitude of a tangible souvenir.

Smudged cashmere lovers in nameless alleys
You Pig! You dared to forget this embrace
And we succumbed although animalistic treachery
Seeped through each pore in this pallid skin of yours
Sketchy barriers
Maniac Scribbles
Epileptic oil paint love
Meddled and mashed with
Grimy slabs of fingertip eagerness.

You must have stared and glared at them for hours
All the porous dents in achromatic skin
Subcutaneous calamity of brushstrokes
A pulchritudinous replica with divine precision
Into the sweetness of melancholy,
Pencil distress, grey or blue,
Blue as can be
And clawing through our carelessness.

And upon this very wall,
Buckets and buckets of lust at theatres
Blurred disjointed ligaments of puerile dream
We gazed and blazed, fickle as always.

You and your dainty observation
Your emaciated guests in frames, clinging on to
Scrawny hopes and constructed situations
Building blocks of yearning
He trapped you, alas.

Abashed you concede,
Prisoners in prison bliss,
We adore you
And forget you
Or can barely hear you articulate,
With your entwined outlines
Myriad pains
And Bitter longing.

You made our hairs stand tall
In their pulpy stools
Demoniac cats, bristling hairs in blacks and pinks and greys,
Rapid glances of fleeting distraction, attraction
In drooling yellows.

You bore little emotion
In your asymmetry
And he
Bodiless as she combed and pulled at blackened eye sockets
In which rotten birds could or would feast once more
Electric plummeting pools of light
Carcasses of bobs and curls
Fickle fleshy brush strokes,
Blushing in their nakedness.

Worth the wait
And the envy in kaleidoscopic eyes
As poison and lazy arsonists
You sang to us in canvas caverns,

Cults of heartache and disgust,
Almost choking on these chunks of pigment
Pools and pools of watery ideas and
Foolish thuds of paint in your
Voracious talent.

Crowds of people to pick apart
Limb by limb
Pantomimes of pedants
We must comprehend at once
Each crack Each crevice Each snarl
Of these seas and the wretched Loathing.

You adored it all in all your disdain and repulsion
These beautiful slithering flaws
Upon which you feast,
Canvas caresses
Of Eerie Warmth
Valleys of White
And incoherent figures of melancholy
Nonsense as it should or shouldn’t be
We could never tell.

Ad hoc absurdities shovelled into
Sterile rooms
Lay us all on the tarmac
Skulking around like silly crustaceans 
In these alleys of insanity
Poltergeists of shame
Manifest of the strangers,
Frustrated glances in instance of creamy anguish
You saw it all through creeping squints of
Pure Bliss.

You presented us with this bizarre company
Pointed counts
Who despised us all
I care not who he is but how he stares with such angular anger
I adore him already in his selfish cynicism and disdain
Fascinating, enthralling intellect
For he for one knows just what he sees in all its bitterness
And sepulchral tones,
Obscure shades of discontent
Opaque freak shows in hazy frocks
Frantically scrawls onto cards, walls, etched into mind sets
And frozen from cagey café seats.

Smokey pedestrians
Clamorous citizens
You succumbed to this lustful documentations
Snippets of breath
And Torment.

Inky foetus,
No thoughts
No association
Just you or I
In further fascination
For you all feel different against the
Ridges of his page,
All aching through this host
In your wretched mortality,
Erotic as all poetic though
You shivered at these unhinged loves
And sketched to your heart’s content.

Symmetrical scenes of wisdom.
Insignia of art,
Number 26 or 27, I haven’t the heart to know
You just are
In your agony and fantasy and lascivious freedoms
Stupors of honesty and adoration
Dalliances between features
Marriage of beats of sense of
Face after Face after Face
Who knows anything these days after it has all been and gone
In all their humanity and
Blueish similarity,
Any medium you could find.

Glorious jungles in which we basked
Apart of course but nevertheless
Amongst the shores of madness
The futile and flimsy lines of senseless  darkness
Amidst the folly of
The peck peck pecks.

To hell with all these delicious victims of inspiration
They are immortal now.

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

The Man Above.

In media res,
We halted,
Sermons trodding on our
Sodden toes.

We became futilitarians of some sort
And barely could pronounce it , we
Joined sects, bemused
Consuming vegetables in their masses
And chanted before stricken statues
Fully clothes marble megalomaniacs
With jejune eyes lit with
Lust and fascination,
Rocking to the celestial dirge of

Slots for your wealth,
Pour in your hearts.

Paved the roads with parasites
And processions of gun fire
We felt tall on our stools
In self-indulgent solipsism
That ruptured all reason
And knelt before martyrs and cheats
In which we wholly believed.

She bowed before you
And we followed
The villagers watching;
Widows in black,
Ragged teeth glaring
Urging us on
To the sound of the bells
And unrhyming mantras
To which we devoted our nakedness.

Recoiling from all that bore sense
Heads held low,
We marched stodgily in stupors of phantasmagoria
And devoured watches, clocks and myriad crabs
Which skulked along the tarmac
Otiose and dreamlike
Spitting fiercely at Darwin’s fantasies.

You always lied to me.
You said I’d come to my senses
Faith, but in stringless puppets
Bleak and ignorant
Ingesting tales of supposed wisdom
Secure beneath rooftops
Of shrieking institutions
Ridden with lies and fantasy;
You said somehow it would make sense.

Floods of formaldehyde
In third world countries
Disgust and despair
And rotting consumers
With protruding ribs
Gasping and tubeless
All dreading the daylight
Stealing oxygen
And masking motives
What about those tsunamis
Of Moroccan lust
Which surged
And broke your bones
In alleyways of truth?

Creeking floorboards of shame
Manifesto of the poltergeists,
Wailing in plastered bathrooms
And a child’s scaffolding with multi-coloured seas
Dancing with idioms
In grubby bathtubs over sheens of limescale and disgust
Where you pumped me with rhetorics;
A natural born cynic.

They entertained dalliances
With the forgotten
And spoke softly of erotica,
Lit up with childish bed lamps
Swirling and illuminated
Telling stories of tiny princes
And senseless miracles
Conquering the world of
Dreams and the barren land
Where we told truths
And slept through wars.

You always lied to me
You said he was watching.
I was sick to the bone
With vegetables.

Monday, 25 April 2011

Class Clown

Big man, you’ve broken my back,
I’ve lost the joints and cartilage.
As Lego bricks  sprawled
Beneath jonquil wallpaper
And puppet furies
Unhinged as pegs and coat hangers
From which reptile suits drooped in
Solutions of pollutions
And school bus traffic on bathroom tiles
Where she pranced in juvenile half-nakedness
Making giggly marriage proposals
To giants in buckle shoes and bowler hats.
Monosyllabic toddler riddles
And rhyming games with the man above
A new book with a letter a page
Easy as that.
How I feasted on your glorifying laughter
A clown out of elements,
Annoyance propped on shaking shoulders,
All because you seemed so serious.

Friday, 11 March 2011


Every time you dye your hair
Everything changes.
Polaroid flashes steal away
Baths of crimson red,
Sluggishly exploring your
Pulchritudinous membranes
On incandescent pictures.

Carcasses of bobs and curls,
Battling for voices,
Lay scattered and
Consigned to oblivion,
Slaughtered by
Paranoid screeching engines
And  schadenfreude.

Mother whines at
Tarnished towels,
In a marriage of
Bleach and beats
And warmth,

I woke to find
Luscious spirals
Wrapping themselves
Adoringly around me,
A thwarted panacea.

You recoiled
From maggot feasts
In your mind or
On the pavement.
And she glared at me
Through cruising blinks
On frightened eyes,
And cut it all off.

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

Wife Beater.

A wife beater sits, wearing a wife beater, downing a wife beater.
Slams his corpulent fists down angrily,
Demanding another,
Until the whole world goes blind.
Arguing over the purchase of over-priced tax-free minty breath,
Weeping and cackling fiercely as
Money slipped through his limp apathetic fingers,
Soot snug beneath his clammy nails.
He paddles through this familiar pool,
Laser green and indifferent,
Gasping, giggling.
Infancy creeps up, curling the tips of his desultory
Chapped and cracked lips.
Grey roots standing tall,
Armed with bulwarks
Battling time.
She sat
Pigtails and buckle shoes,
Enchanted by the decadence,
Nauseatingly thrilled at her own youth.
We are immiscible.
I gulp us down with emulsifiers but, ultimately,
We split.

Saturday, 5 March 2011


I want you to be miserable like me.
I’ll hide your cream and pretend he’s mine,
Steal his long words
That made us so unhappy.

I adore your tarnished lungs,
Sluggishly inhaling boredom.
Caged in wild melodies,
I ate the key and forgot.
Three in a madman’s attic,
Rummaging through overflowing beige boxes
That tasted like pancakes and old bathrobes.
Silky ectoplasmic flesh,
Electric like his father’s stanzas,
Verses of wisdom flew like doves
And his mutilated larks.

Softly outspoken and
Caustic lichens reveal your
Amoeboid excuses,
Forgotten as the tide gulped them down
Like moribund, growler cakes, silly and tasteless.

Projections of sweet celluloid images of sweet ideals;
Sweeping proboscis lunges out from his body
Protruding, Infringing,
Selling pageless books on the side of the road,
Gasping fanatically beneath embalming helments,
Absent-mindedly kicking coffeepots on our way to seclusion,
Led to believe in joy at bus stops and romance,
Typed angrily on plastered buttons,
Clicks of misunderstanding,
Horses and carts in mixed up orders and hums
Of hazy jazz in Roman notebooks.
I'll write you off.

Thursday, 3 March 2011

Three in a Studio.

Caked in face-paint,
Insignia of art,
Or merely of fear.
Clamour of yak.
Yakety yakety yak.
Aloof, a spoof,
You cackle and incriminate.

Her strokes caress,
Clumps of colour
Erode the shores of madness.
She laughs
And asks “is it alright?”
We shrug in flocks,
And gawp at charcoal brains.

And her, who sat stricken,
Conjunctivitis of perfection
Snarling from her absent eyes and
Bucolic morals,
And she always had
The thinnest paintbrush. 

Tuesday, 1 March 2011


His lips quavered at the edges,
Cloaked in sepulchral balm
And tumescent tones.
Subcutaneous calamity seeps through dusty pores in
Achromatic skin ridden with dents
And crevices, in which I stored secrets that would have made you gasp.
Cold kaleidoscopic eyes,
Bore into me, Tuesdays and Wednesdays,
Prompt with taradiddle,
Histrionic in his soliloquies.
He despises me already,
I remember not why when I scurried and worried for years.
Voracious for what was left
Of his intellect.

Friday, 25 February 2011


What remarkable coexistence we have here, in the canvas city. Hazily begging for dreams, we trudge through forgotten alcoves, nurture crevices, wallow in cracked and tarnished pavements. These ephemeral moments seem to last longer, they linger and carelessly float, adoringly wrapping themselves around us like the breezes of the Seine. Berets and butterfly cups, The Eagle screams out to be heard. We poured out cryptic messages before our elders. Naïve rackingly of wheels on the cobblestone, the air of romance long evaded, stolen by these flashes, ravenous for independence. Tourists trudge and capture, stiff in the heat. Drinking catastrophes, they squabble and lay down cards. His tortured pond-like eyes were met for the first time, in the bagagerie.


Stricken in the churchyard, ingesting nonsense jazz. Fed by this establishment, blasphemy, ridden with cruel, shrieking lies. Corrupt institution, leeching, thieving , applauding ignorance. Slots for your wealth, pour in your heart. Below us they lie, sulking, for there were no angels in the underground. Skeletons abashed, under the tubercular sky. Limbs trudge back unwittingly, rotting. Dainty pallid skin awakes, cloaked in calamity. How shackled, tedious, coexistence has become, steadily striking to the beat of defeat. Always chasing the bittersweet, daughters remind me of Sundays. Sunday morning with my mother and a pallid egg. Flies feed on the residue. 


I always think that she is mad,
She is mad and hatefully so,
Mad to make up all these demons,
Mad to sit them on their pedestals.
I've often watched her late at night,
As she babbled hastily,
Slaving away with ragged tools,
Applauding the autocracy.

Crumpled pamphlets framed, displayed,
Beginning "unfortunately"
Unfortunately you give a damn,
Unfortunately you are mad.

Father Prozac, Mother Valium,
Fill us up with omega three,
All that's precious in the Thames,
That demoniac degree.