A View from the tramp

The last notion ever to effervesce

From the non-knowledge of the globe

Consisted of the fact that

I...
Would manage to share your misery.

Wherever I went you were there,

Existing [that is all]...

Through all the small out-of-place things;

An obscenity, an Über-voyeur of anxiety,

Wrapping a world into an innocuous lump,

Waiting to be consumed by that scaly void.

But you don’t laugh or cry,

You just say:

“This is it – reality”, blink... blink.

To me that's just a chug chug of bass,

A dreary half-life dirge:

The soul stultifying fug of a non-

Composition; a No, a NO.

And when I think of you...

It makes me sad...not in a good way.

Fatal Chip Shop Strategy

I no longer want

To see things from inside

The same pillow, held.

From now on all is a ‘fatal strategy’.

Even standing in the queue at

The chip shop

Is a breath away from the

World sliding into extinction.

It must be taken to the end,

Retched out to a view

From from outside

The pit, where

There is only absurd

Laughter and one perturbed man

With a scoop full of stuff

That now has no meaning,

As he stares hopelessly

At the salt and pepper shakers.

Now

Last night: perceiving through liquid overflow.
Myself as the sound of too much chatter.
Now: The imagined ideas of staring others;
A backward twist of the belly blade.

The night we didn’t...

I found this in an empty folder on my computer, don't know if it's unfinished or perfectly formed.

You lured me out late

From that drunken hole

I had dug pretty deep

On the docile settee.

You said it was a night for danger,

So I changed my pants and travelled

Through the night on a train:

A pioneer with a can of cider for courage.

That night we didn’t know if the future

Was a minor chord floating on

A wisp of drunkenness...

Conversations with a Self

Where does it come from? You are always there, but would I miss you if you were gone? Would I be swirling around an emptiness, at least you are something I have, the rest are absences, and I cling to them, but you don’t seem to mind my faults and petty insistence. I’m a flailing thing looking for a tragic dream to follow – for now I have nothing, nowhere. Right now I am a nowhere and you are following me into its jaws. Don’t get hoity - pretend, think, idealise this image of you, now, you are a now, sucking everything into the plane of experience, everything souped up into an ecstatic presence. I could never be an everything, but it feels like a must. You can cry and it is something worth crying over because it is a tragic fate. Am I falling or being pulled into the sky? It feels the same, I’m going both ways. Creation isn’t always a perfect machine, sometimes it slips and you end up with an excremental facade – but at least you tried, took a heroic stab in the dark, an action more than the slumber of the hoi polloi; you are to be congratulated. I always think of the gaze, every little detail must be examined and made watertight against the poking fingers that could pierce a hole in the plastic bag of words. I am a control, I am a control. Predicated and captured in advance, too difficult. Jump, jump, jump like Klein. Who knows? They are all those infection bodies, pressing into a mind and scrambling you. Take it slow, we will be ok, as long as we have each other. We can always find a way, I promise.