Wednesday, 30 September 2009

Good Dick

My dear friend Marianna Palka made a beautiful movie called Good Dick, after seeing the movie she invites viewers to share 'what good dick means to you'.

Smallest etchings are made into the disruption, a pinked hand shakes off the shroud and reveals honest bewilderment.
Tears soaked up by the skin of a loved one, lying in the cradle of their neck and being gifted with love and insight.
A great fire of eradication, walls of a long dead city crumble and a white dust cloud settles on unblemished skin, healing and invigorating.
Freedom is awarded by a bold sword; relinquished fear now burns at our feet and guides us on, infusing our fancy.
Old masks disintegrate into the atmosphere and join together to create a huge dirt pile that with determination will fit into a locket for cherishing and consideration.
Most profound grief becomes a tool with which to light the way, to hold up to the battered faces of others and draw them out of a sinking universe.
Cathartic experience, distortion of role and finally owning a footprint; taking a place and holding steadfast.

Instead of Sleep

In the deepest navy of night, a sapphire shadow tip toes round my bed chamber,
Considered steps disturb the dust and whisper to me in my sleep.
A light, forgiving breeze opens the window and licks at my feet;
My heart skips a beat in my chest and my dreams light up in brightest magenta,
My naked body lies between the darkened sheets, unaware as the shadow grips the bed post.

A moment frozen in time, a forever sleep, under the watchful gaze of an elusive face.
Relish the seeming endlessness of peaceful regeneration amid a mystic night,
With the passing of each breath uncertainty grows and takes me higher.

Now glowing, the sapphire shadow drags her finger across my lips, my dream erupts;
The finger traces the features of my face, i feel it pulsing against my skin, warm soothing.
Now a palm of great strength pushes down slowly against my belly, 
I feel blood rush to my face, My heart beat remains steady; my dream alternates.
And the shadow grabs at my skin, pinching flesh, a silent bombardment.

A sound drums the atoms of the air and changes the room, height becomes light,
The sounds is deep and penetrating, the earth vibrates and worships the sonic hail.
A sapphire shape is disturbed and panics every morsel of my skin.

My voice tightens and the sound dissipates, my dream is interrupted.
Eyelids flutter and deepest navy cycles the rainbow as dust settles dead to the floor.
A shadow is eradicated as day seizes her by the hair and drags her from my side,
The world becomes my own again as I trace a sapphire kiss etched into my lips.

Tuesday, 29 September 2009


I have no tears for the polluters and their endless tattoo, ode to mediocrity.
That they make grey their air and button down their uniforms so stiffly, stiflingly, strangled to their frames;
That they gossip in shadows and tighten their belts at the feast;
That they never will awaken most certainly from those endless dreary days, melting as contrived plastic, cooling solidifying a battle of brown.
Not on my street will I allow the deadened crowd, when not one face may offer me spark or spray;
That the cogs in their mind grow rusty and limit their thoughts still more as they age;
That their middle ground is consuming, seething, gloating even grinning and fooling them into waste. Waste ---
light. dull. ground. returning no flower or smile.

Monday, 28 September 2009


Along a lighted string I find my way peering at the world through listless eyes.
Rough texture of the string or rope grazing my hands, sometimes tickling me;
I might wrap myself up in the rope if only to find a moment’s stasis,
And a trickle of greasy green water meets my fingers as it rides down the rope.
Behind and in front of me yards and miles of rope, no time to stop
And take in my journey, I am compelled to move forward, I am pushed through space.
The path refracted though my choices, my moments of clarity
Green is the world again, I don’t recognise the air as it holds to its own course;
Everything with its place, everything harmonious and I feeling in the middle,
Feeling stifled, a cycle is in motion around me and I cling on tight to my guide.
Peace is a steady gaze ahead.

Saturday, 26 September 2009

The Truth

Do you know what it sounds like? It is so horrible.
I’ve never felt more belittled than the time I did it to myself.
I’d brought it on myself. I knew that.
But to be so vulnerable and know that you were the cause;
It takes you to say “shit shit shit”
Well now I’m safe, im saved in fact.
I’m around those that make me complete,
All I can think is that one-day ill be strong enough;
I’ll be strong enough to do things I never had the guts to make up;
And it’ll be you; you that gave me the power.
I love you.

Friday, 25 September 2009

Tasty Blood

How did I manage to find a momentary masturbation at the back of the television?
A dusty personality, Festering amongst those obnoxious channels.
Deep in that murky soup of soaps I lost my confidence,
I lost my voice and replaced it with a thousand impersonations of other wanker's I never met.

To be so trite.

Obvious is that I'm the only one with a net, the only one capable of fishing myself out.
What is that sickly part of me that likes the taste of my wounds?
Deep in the salty black and grey depths no one can see you cry -
The way you like it, no one should ask you for an explanation then.

Wednesday, 23 September 2009


In acknowledging desire I might extrapolate an argument,
I could cover the walls of my mind with didactic discourse,
With the point of preparing myself to be challenged.
For a never to be uttered retort,
I shall stack the shelves of insolence
and break my back stoking the fires of righteous intent.
I shall chart detailed maps of my justification,
And mark on all the clocks my hour.

When rudely, at the laborious culmination of my toils,
I find the moment stolen from me,
My purpose is dashed and has been delivered to me on a platter
Before I'm allowed to deliver my first band of infantry.
O Spite!
I recoil in my refusal to admit that my prize was less an objective
As my ability to press my weight over another.

As red fades still to ember,
I eat quietly my cake, splitting crumbs with a knife.
My lemon scorched tongue illiterate of thanks.

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

Feel Better

My Catharsis:

the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, esp. through certain kinds of art, as tragedy or music.

1            Writing; journal entries, stories, poetry, notes, ideas, scribbles.

2            Smoking on the back step after midnight.

3            Training in Suzuki – GAM BA TAE!

4            Talking quietly with a close friend.

5            Cooking and inventing new recipes.

6            Buying a new book and reading it.

7            Dancing to ‘The Chain’ at Optimo.

8            Listening to Patti Smith.

Monday, 21 September 2009

Thanks be to the Glorious Rebels


I just discovered that I’m angry.

The kind of angry that makes your pours tense up and vomit.
The kind of anger that chokes your sternum and pierces you with a thousand corkscrews.
The kind of angry that makes your muscle clad bones vibrate with the force of a jet engine.

This kind of anger will always take me by surprise.

It’s the kind that takes hold of you when you have been drenched in moth shaped lies.
Maybe what happened was that you fell out of your own body into that of a frail decrepit creature.
(maybe you were pushed).
Or perhaps you swam six thousand seas only to find you were travelling in the wrong direction,
And are now clambering up a red beach, sticky with fatigue and gasping for honesty.

This feeling, which has its claws all over my body, offers me new abilities.

I can hold my breath for as long as I want; my desire to fill with oxygen is forgotten and destitute.
My eyes might become dusty now that I no longer feel thåe need to blink.
And my old enemy silence now soothes my back and whispers remedies in my ear.

This anger, which washes my eyes, is a thief and a bully.

Days of a colour and clocks of an hour haunt my senses and calibrate my emotions on a steely palate.
Truth, so long elusive in the mirror, now proves my face is cracked, my lips bent like ancient metal,
And everything that my eyes used to covet is drowning in autumnal dyes, scared of my memory and ignorant of identity.

Saturday, 19 September 2009

A Phone Call


A:        Hello?

B:        Oh hello, who’s that? Is it jack or Stephen?

A:        It’s Stephen, hello granddad, how are you?

B:        Oh I’m alright.

A:        And how is nanny?

B:        I went to see her and she looks really well, couldn’t believe it.

A:        That’s great so the operation went well?

B:        Yeah, she looks great, she’s a tough old bird.

A:        She certainly is.

B:        She’s got a button next to her bed she can push if she needs any drugs                      for the pain.

A:        That’s good, is she very sore?

B:        Well she’s only used the button once, she’s a tough old bird, I think     it's morphine, something very strong:

A:        I’m pleased that it’s gone well, you’ll be missing her.

B:        She looks great, they are very strong drugs they are giving her, I think it’s morphine, its either __morphine or heroine, something like that, something very strong.

A:        Right, I think its probably morphine.

B:        Yeah something like that. Your dad in yet?

A:        No but he will be in about ten minutes so I’ll get him to call you then.

B:        Yeah alright then, was nice to speak to you.

A:        You too, see you soon.

B:        Yeah, Bye!

A:        Bye Granddad!


How might I separate the air before me?
Thick tumultuous winds of anguish,
How to press the burning pressure that surrounds me?
To induce the heavy blocks of atoms to rip from my skull my flesh.
Red crushing shape I might become that might give me some sense of deliverance.

I haul out my innards and squash them dead flat.
A red mass, spreading a thin veil over the choking world.
Let it stretch so wide and distance me from the atmosphere.
Let my white bones be magnetised to that flesh and rip from my body.
Let me be left with only my knowledge of this growing distance.

And when my body surrounds me,
Let me see the colour of my pain.
Let it ache in every colour of the rainbow.
Between each divergence of tone,
Let there be another depth of experience;
A devastating Grain of Sand.

Let there be a thousand more shape shifting tunnels through each tiny granule.
A thousand routes to Hell.
This body once mine will convulse at its own loss of innocence.
Shockwaves ripple though the tightening flesh.
Every nerve ending screams and turns over.
Suddenly every thought I ever had surges through the great expanse.

Finally, at last remorse makes us sick.
Our stomach empties.
And relentless bile charges across the land,
An infinite barrage of brown horses covers blood stained opportunity.

I feel the pressure begin again, hard against the walls.
A hundred thousand tiny hands push the wreckage back together.
Dismay places my head back on my shoulders.
I have the body of a man once more.

Scars now surround my soul; a red and white prison,
I am once more caged inside my own flesh.
Bleeding eyes open and again I stand on top of a mound,
I Be beneath a convex sky.
Breath forces its way through my body,
And clutches me tight between the air.
This mortal condition becomes again my infinite stasis.

Friday, 18 September 2009


Quiet, lethargic breath. Breath. Breath. Breath. Morning is lost and cool air has taken up its particularly annoying habit of pricking my skin. Scratch and turn over, ignore the need to pee. Eyes glaze over and settle at the covered window.

Under the windowsill a tiny red spider is making a red web, the web is a hundred times the size of the spider. What a feat for one so small, but then potential is decided by the object and not the lazy, slightly smelly, boy still in bed at one o’clock in the afternoon.

Unexpectedly, five more spiders, each of a different colour, can now be seen on that same web, so perhaps my little red friend hasn’t been as busy as I think. No wrong again! as now I can see that each spider spins with a web the same colour as himself so that now the windowsill and wall begin to look like an oily puddle on a winters day.

As a grin creeps across the boys face, the spiders begin to work more quickly and soon there is an arch of web all around the window and down to the floor. Those six spiders can now be seen running in formation across the floor and into the wardrobe.

Oh, ok. Well I was rather enjoying that. Hmmm. Breath. Sniff. Without getting out of bed, a more intense look tickles us with the knowledge that those clever spiders have actually written a message under the arch, consecutive letters always different colours. Easing, teasing toward the end of the bed to try and make out that message. The white duvet becomes a snowy field, and me with out my snowshoes or any tennis rackets. Hmm, craning neck, brave eyes…


Chuckle, chortle at the fight the red and blue spiders seem to have had over the word “the” and the start of “beginning”. Yawn, quite an accomplishment for one sooooo small. The wardrobe doors rumble and silently bang. Hmmm. The arch seems now to take on a different presence, its not that it grows but perhaps it just glows. And again the wardrobes creek in their hinges as if from being told a rather funny joke. Hmmm; itchy ears. Aaaahh, SOOOO ITCHY.

The wardrobe doors burst open! At least a million tiny spiders of a thousand different colours rush out, a rainbow wave that one could surf on. Inspired by glee I sit up in bed my body pushed against the headboard, my knees at my chest and my hands clutching pillows at my side.

The spiders form two pillars on either side of the window and soon the wooden blind, shielding me from the sunlight and the world, has been lifted and tucked away into the arch above the window.

I had no idea what a beautiful day it was, the nipping cold at my skin is brushed away in an instant, my eyes are blinded and firmly closed, the skin on my face feels enriched, as if from each pour a tiny creature had emerged and tilled the earth of my face and then brought out a tiny deck chair and set up camp for the day; a LAUGH! AND AGAIN!

I relax back into my bed feeling simply serene and open my eyes to discover that there now is no window in front of me, what I mean is there is no glass. And not a second after that I realise that my entire room has been covered in that glowing, multicoloured, tiny thread. I now know what it is like to be inside the stomach of a fair ground owner on Mardi Gras. The walls seem to smile and wink, in some corners there are a few frowns but I guess that is to be expected.

WAIT! Where are the spiders? I sit up higher in bed, Searching eyes all around the floor, no sign under the bookcase, don’t think there are any under that sofa. Quiet. Still. THERE! A miniscule spider (perhaps a baby) does a complete run around the plant pot and stops dead. And then as if propelled by lightning the baby spider (its almost certain) disappears under my bed.

THE BED BEGINS TO LIFT! Soon I’m a foot off the ground and heading for THE WINDOW! Well this is unexpected. I hold on tight to the headboard and burp, an effect that can surely be attributed to shock. About thirty or forty spiders join me on the bed, as if just for the ride, they sit right at the front and if I was daft I’d swear they were yelling “wheeeeeee!” Soon the bed is half way out the window and I’m hovering above the garden, the dog looks up from his sunbathing, raises an eyebrow and goes back to sleep, presuming he must be dreaming. Now the spiders form a ramp to take me all the way down to the ground. I wonder if any of the neighbours can see me? As the bed reaches earth the spiders rather rudely tip the bed up and I land on the grass, not far from the still sleeping dog. Now my comfy bed is effortlessly rushed back through the window and taken, presumably, back where it came from, although I’d say I couldn’t be sure.

Now it’s just the dog and I in the garden. Startled, my lungs fill with air and again I am inclined to giggle. My eyes meet a bundle being hurled from my window which lands neatly at my feet, I open it to find an outfit which came from my wardrobe, a combination of socks and boxers, shirt, trousers, shoes and even a bow tie that honestly looks smashing. Not one to argue, especially in this situation, I strip off and then adorn my specially chosen attire. As I fix my bow tie I look up and find the spiders creating a message with their bodies on the side of the house under my window.


Well, a huge grin splits my face and I turn and head to the garden gate, after that who knows where, the train station, a castle, a concert, a lover, a river, another country? As my hand grasps the handle to the gate and adventure, I wince as I feel something hit me on the back. I turn and see rolling around at my feet a can of deodorant. I use this, which the spiders obviously feel was a necessity and head out the gate and down the street.

I swear I can still hear them laughing.

99 Words

In the vegetable garden of my imagination there's a scarecrow and a gnome who are best of friends. The gnome wears outrageous Hawaiian shirts and knits hats with carrot peel for the scarecrow to wear. There's a singing hedgehog quartet and one of the hedgehogs has a lisp; one is a caterpillar in disguise. Lightning strikes often and rocks break into pieces giving birth to never before seen flowers. There's a speakeasy inside a pumpkin where a medley of tiny intoxicated scholars carve their philosophy into the orange walls. And there's a gleaming puddle where life contemplates its reflection.