Friday, 4 May 2012
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
Thursday, 8 March 2012
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
ReVision Arts
Monday, 27 February 2012
Saturday, 18 February 2012
Small Potato Offerings
Pure Ginsberg visions slumped
in arctic dutch interior, archaic double crunch Vishnu,
sour cocoa epiphanies new
filled the room with abstract voodoo innuendo tapping foot,
to San Francisco beat prayers with the mild madness of
chocolate Sanskrit slowly
melting distinctions between duvet and cosmos
confusing California haze, old smog, marijuana monuments
our young nowhere bodies left floating
in great liquid saloons of writhing lost clocks
in black bricked coffee shops divine,
green light bathing in American jazz jitters
on the tips of our zigzag tongues briefly tinged
with the melancholia of modern music,
language soothed by moon
and me
giddy-eyed child
unravelled, marvelous dancing in the buffet breast of visual amnesia
hollow reflection peepshow window muse.
Find an artist and look at him
playing flute
coughing swirls of frozen blue-buddha-bird-bong-dust into Venus Temple
having telepathic chicken sensations,
birthplace of the bullet proof zinc goddess of the sink
zoned out on zion bunk beds
under original nakedness of thought.
Strange paranoia walls,
dazzling Adonis window
sky painted in carbohydrate soul rush
golden pale face twitching with self-knowing street corner puddle,
splashing in the vibrant call of her error machine.
Oh, divine,
Oh, divine,
Oh divine provocation of time!
Only perverts sleep,
in this drifting-head-raft-city
curtains closed to resemble Last Judgement
where holographic God as Klimt is revealed, trembling
through soul exposed and rolled into sweet vapour of curious joint.
On ceiling, one star mocks another
soaking in their soft illuminations of timeless morning
sat weeping
shoulders of the boys in endless hour tying rapid dialect to cast their tired eyes
into feverish seas
of Eastern Atlantis psilocybe.
Thursday, 16 February 2012
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Thursday, 2 February 2012
Sunday, 29 January 2012
Tuesday, 17 January 2012
The Last Known Myth
Sunday, 15 January 2012
Friday, 13 January 2012
Monday, 9 January 2012
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Thursday, 29 December 2011
Saturation of the Wild and Meaningful.
I've seen the best of the nihilists dance to this
when stripes of unknown strata dances like it thinks it matters
I'll dress you up vibrantly
in erratic sleeping patterns.
I'll unzip the seams of seas and see the world behind the scenes with all the greenness of it's flesh
This room is the only place where skies exists,
where backyard Baudrillards in the tender grip of repetition,
tend to the breasts of suns and the crests
of lunar lungs
that breathe elliptically, rotating mystically
around the residue of rib cages
and realities.
We fluctuate at the rate of imagery,
dispensed by the dress sense of the sun
and now we've undone
the belt of Saturn to find nothing
but a press stud
that imitates the moon.
Fully informed in diagonal fashions
phantasmagoric supermarkets awaken
into connotations of time slip romantic notions
where impossibly, in Paris
Ginsberg resonantly
reads to appease us.
What shall we do with all these rearrangements of constellations
that represent nothing but perplexing Perspex complexions
waiting for that golden poem of somewhere
to bare all
and fall harmoniously into common expression.
Whilst other ideas move gently,
my hair grows subconsciously,
like the universe.
We sign our names onto the backs of clouds in consent of the next sunrise.
The dawn brings prophecies of self apocalypse
hidden within the corners of horizon's lips
I can destroy the world with a stranger's breath
sanity
is the length
of a cigarette.
You place the edges of our dreams onto memory foam pillows
to smooth out the corners of our forgetfulness.
The shape of beauty is worthwhile
only when dada discourse turns oak trees into intellect.
Now the slim fit azure blue of oceans belong to someone else's legs.
We'll roll our words discretely
into maxims of shallow analysis
with wishes to burn them, into vibrating strings
and photograph them in high winds.
But what of the mouths that solemnly lay
upon electronic gestalts in constant drift
where evolution sits
growing tired and old
of recurring ideas once cherished.
I'm already too aware of revolutionaries.
I hover just above the logos
and drape your shirt, around the sun
so we will awaken tomorrow, already clothed
with shadows lapping at our toes.
By 3 o'clock the world was dead,
kind synchronized synonyms alleviated our tender egos.
We leapt from the depths of silhouettes
and your smile disappeared with the eclipse.
I juxtaposed it with a kiss and painted symbols on our hands
to give the evening, meaning.
So what do we do when we realise
that the sky is a colour tv dreaming rhythmically
of high rise buildings with poor views of blue?
By night,
we can collide the moon with velvet skirt
arouse her mouth, or stroke her inner arm until
the hairs of profound kingdoms rise
casting shadows on her thighs.but I can recite a landscape if you like?
with hand adorn pencil in vast
panoramic temporal masterpiece, lungs crack,
cacophony of cloud precipitate
compositions of birth, in midst of hand swept depth,
crisp, mandalic you and me,
painting consciousness of contented winds
now poet can draw breath with pen, and breathe.
