Wednesday, 12 January 2011

Death Drive

The air touches your eyes like a cold syringe
compact with the dirt of a thousand journeys into the absurd.
A sharp injection of oscillating light waves that melds the cogs of determinism
with unsuspecting steering wheels.

You can feel the bite of oncoming traffic dissipate

with the luminous radiation of beautiful headlights,

each one sparkling majestically

with the effervescence of a dying thought.

this is the analogy of your total existence,

comprised entirely

from ice


white separations

northern divides of linear

religious icons

resting in fields

giving advice under the shelter of bridges

in the company of undrinkable water.

Your senses hold firm and cling desperately to your immediate reality,

like a failing performance artist without an audience,

the windscreen wipers applaud

but the tepid breath and cheers of the engine

recline on your ear lobes,

in a state of apathy.

You receive indication of the vindication of objects

that don't share your habitual gestures of existence.
Needless to say, the wheels

aren't in the slightest bit perturbed.

The light subsides and you can momentarily see again.

Your continuation, your preordained destination becomes constant.

Subject of your thoughts,
make minds jolt like knee caps

at the diminishing number of cat's eyes, and you realise the importance

of something so relatively


It is at this precise moment,

that an overwhelming force dominates your rainbow structures,
and permeates your being like pharmacokinesis of the optic nerve.

This ball of metal and spiraling light is none other than a vehicle administering salt,

not the angelic

automatic anatomy of hyer-bolic perspiration,

with his vocabulary

ceaselessly bouncing from

a motor way filled with magnets.

All your focus is diverted.

The super ego escapes through the sun roof.

You stay in the middle lane because you find the idea of inbetweeneness reassuring.

The cars on both sides aid your progression into consumerism.

Your ankles feel cold.

Your shoe laces


You eventually overtake the sense of self

that homeostasis is failing,

and leave it fading, in a position of contentment,

You scream loudly for the third time at the windscreen.

The guidance of broken white lines has got you flustered, and the syringe of the evening air is slowly releasing into your pupils.

The choice to pull over

and stop

has entered into your consciousness,

without hesitation you decide not to act on this judgement.

For these offerings of the world

you don't give a damn to copulate with.

You continue into the darkness, with a memory of reflections and the feeling of a heart beat,

projecting like a dimmed light into the construct of a future concept.

Against better judgements and infant patterns

you ease your foot to the floor and expand into momentary trees.

Images of every decision you've ever made

sprouting from dirt and bark like wooden dogs

moving as fast

as the most stationery of deciduous.

You turn off the radio.

Concentrating on oscillating light forms

that blend effortlessly into malleable hexagrams,

creating linear rhythms

that spell out the universe.

As quickly as they came,

they disappear

down your right arm

like the feigned reality of billboards and lonely turrets

burried under the sea.

Cross sectioned, we arrive,

and infinity has a chance to breathe,

but unquestionably,

we fail to notice.


DEATH DRIVE is a repetition compulsion, and facilitates the mind's tendency to repeat traumatic events

in order to deal with them. This can come in the form of storytelling, dreams, or hallucinations.

Friday, 7 January 2011




Soft Rocks Thinking

Parallelograms, Parallelograms, escalators and palindromes,

Rolling skins and rolling waves.

You can see the tide lines like orange brown wrinkles on the face,

Sun drenched and compressed by the sky’s frown.

We’ve finally arrived, and there’s an iron shark marooned on a rock.

Until we drive back through the blue paint, avoiding starfish lamplights,

We will only attempt to see some sort of unified motion emerge

from the biting coastline with salt and irony.

Carc-har-hin-us Amb-ly-rhyn-chos

It’s in some respects an imitation of our body’s being, yearning

To be liquid again.

We’ll find this fertile poetry in a requiem

Hidden beneath the vertical blend of backgrounds.

600 million years of fluorescent eyes and ravenous sea rocks

bound and gift wrapped in the absence of gravity.

A lipstick of the ocean, twisted for dusty mouths.

Ideas float in the tank with unseen splendour,

Like jelly fish, they have no nervous system

and breathe in the thoughts of dead poets,

a simplistic aesthetic for the forgetfully blind.

Arriving back home, full of rejuvenated zest like Indo-Pacific garden eels,

Tripping on the dinosaur images erected in our aquariums, gliding swords,

Introverted, we felt cultured.

We bought fish and chips and sat down to watch Finding Nemo.

Remember how we pressed the green button to sway the limpets

Pointlessly from side to side,

Until we realised

That humans were merely rocks that play host to ideas.

The fish made a mockery of us,

With cylinders, cylinders, lighter tops and key rings.

Three pounds, and it’s all yours.