...-just thought it'd be nice to put some of these things down to think about... -Most of this I haven't seen for 8 years or so and had forgotten all about! Enjoyarooni!
Fakie Wilde
© COPYRIGHT 2002
"Gum-Gum"
Two gummy bears dancing together on the kitchen table,
They're singing too.
At two in the morning,
I have found them.
Orange bear tells me to go back to bed,
The red one gives me the finger.
And so, as I walk back down the hall towards my room,
I can still hear them.
I can still hear that fucking stupid song.
"…Gee-gee
lola-bum-bum-lola-bum
gee
nock-nock-lola
lola-lola-lola
gee
rugga-rugga-fimbam
lola-lola-bum…"
Humans are searching endless for relevance,
Forever trying to understand everything.
Sleeplessness creates madness,
I'm too tired to dwell on the bears in the kitchen.
Asleep within moments,
And free once more from all the bullshit of living.
"Friday Falling"
(version two-nausea remix)
I can see Friday
As she falls coated in elastic flames from the second-story window
Spreading her mayonnaise in the rain for all the cars
For all the window-wipers and the dirty paper bags
Spewing out of drainpipes
And the walkers
I can see Friday
All cheeks and hips glamorous, done up with that heel caught
In the drifting black-light intersection
Thrown down to the window-frames and the time
Bolstered by the white-line-slag infinity
Asleep to the bingo-call and a two dollar coin
Falling waxen and feathered from a shoe
Demolition opens pearl like a clam
I can see Friday
Contemplating the animals behind a fence
Wondering who let her into the zoo
Finding an exit which leads to a set of plasma-stairs healing
Out to the blood-vein foyer
Where she buys some souvenirs
To drink as she walks outside
Into rains' wide mouth
I can see Friday
All dressed up in the water
Cleaning her soul by the hourglass bottles of doom
As she drifts blindly across land-marked photographs
Lonely music it played from the imported cars
New York
Tokyo
Lebanon
The thumping beat of a broken soul
The last time I saw Friday
She was hovering in the filthy brown river
And she was not having fun.
repair (she leaves flowers)
cool autumn breeze/
cross legs/
straight posture/
breathing/
meditation/
discipline/
watching all eye pictures/
perspective/
release/
ecstatic/
calm/
listening/
dance music and football shirt and tattoos/
inviting/
skin/
mind/
window/
textures/
everything starts to blend and balance again/
last night/
tomorrow/
penguins/
television/
ball/
being my usual nuisance self/
nothing/
making noise/
silent/
anxious/
refocus/
this is how I maintain/
isolated/
reset/
irresponsible/
passion/
acknowledging fate/
just one long dreaming second/
POETRY BY FAKIE WILDE
© Fakie Wilde 2001
Sex Poems.
for Brentley Frazer.
It's the fashion.
despite all that has already been uncovered
it all comes down to the sex.
No poet is complete until we have compared our
carnal intentions.
Intentions which seldom vary from the template
the boy inside the girl,
or boy,
or two girls crashing together to form that other popular
liberation.
And as I sit in public bars,
each boy intently guaging every female,
each female glancing cooly through the males in the smoke,
and me, aroused by my pint and a page to write on,
leering at everything moving.
Even the hands on the old clock above the bar...
A poet eases the pain of living by identifying with
the audience mind.
By undressing before them.
Stripping away all naked text.
An equality of perversion on full diplay.
Equal hornbag impulsive animalistic lusting.
But then dressing all that base innuendo back up
with all the flowers of the language mesh.
To deny the act of sex its' right to be ugly
and desperate.
To not go into the details about our whishes to spend
eternity in climax.
To concentrate on the act.
To seek out the black hole, bone or label.
To be considered outlandish and to be branded by our own
peers as worthy of something...
And even more to the sex act,
is what that thing is:
Delicious perversion.
Followed in a desperate moment of escape.
Escaping from all the bills and expectations
and our limited life spans,
our tomorrows,
our physical and mental
and spiritual collapse.
Old farmyard fences,
The great towers of history collapsing,
and we get everything.
All the attrocities forgotten for a little while,
which suggests that we can live without them indefinately.
Cares cease.
Which means that they never actually existed.
We continue to seek sex,
because like alcohol and suicide,
it switches off the mind.
We all secretly wait for death,
despite every other un-written thing about us.
We are all fucking ourselves into oblivion,
and it feels good.
_______________________________________________________
Authors' Note:
The following is three separate dance instrumentals mixed end to end.
if you listen close, you can hear the same deep bass right through. -That's the skeleton.
There's also an intermixed beat which recurs on all three tracks.
This music has been written to be moved to.
The three separate songs are:
"Dance Quartet on Wax"
"Duet Discotwister"
and "Listen to the DJ (Naf Mr Bugman)"
All compositions written, engineered and produced by Fakie Wilde (AKA DJ Naf Mr Bugman)
Dance Manipulator.
Quartet on wax:
Breakword one: You have bought yourself some new dance shoes.
You place one shoe over your face
and start to hallucinate...
"Transcript of a Pony"
The central character climbing never-ending train platform staircase.
Pulse rate and body heat.
Mind going over the questions.
Central character has a past.
The past was left behind on the train platform with the flowers.
Now the central character ascends.
thinking about the options
and going faster.
This makes the central character tire.
Eventually collapsing.
Sense of loss.
View of platform.
The flowers...
Like the scratched home movie in childhood past,
the central character fading beside grey pony in paddock
of yellow and blue wildflowers...
...the picture is fading.
The central character dies on the staircase.
How unresolved
the past was...
Dubword two: You press the right shoe across your mouth and nose. You are breathing deeply like a dreamer...
"Generations"
"These days..."
(and I say it as if "These days..." were a selection of interesting
stones I drew from my pocket and dropped onto the table.)
"Things aren't like they used to be..."
(as if there was one particular stone I was directing your attention
to which represented "how things used to be".)
"Look at this."
(as I commence eating all the other stones)
"There's plenty more where they came from!"
(I place the one particular stone which represents "how things used to
be" back in my pocket.)
"But this ones' mine..."
Jungleword three: You place both shoes before you on the floor. -Imagine
dancing...
"alterverse"
take the orange mesh of a worksite
pin it to a wall
tell yourself that your whole life is a construction site
and wait there beside your wall
take a rusted water tank from an abandoned house
and live in it
tell yourself that the world can't get you
and wait in there for sanctuary
take the hat from a schoolgirls' head
put it on
tell the schoolgirl that it makes her become you
and wait for instructions...
Bigbeatword outro: You slide your feet into your new dance shoes and slowly drift out of the room. The music is still playing. The music never ends...
"Scissor-step"
Central character
drops stones into the flowers mouth
the stairs are going faster
past the construction mesh
the schoolgirl climbs out of the water tank
and says
"This ones' mine"
Draws a pony from her pocket
you clutch her hat between your legs
and fade...
___________________________________________________________
"Duet Discotwister."
one.
tasting the flickering morning light, eyelids closed
...abstraction is transition
the traveller
getting to some place
all trunks loaded
anything possible
and everything to see...
two.
Putting my hands inside my head to caress my thoughts...
your mind swallows
and you interact with the traveller
nobody but you (sharing window space)
your is yours alone
that is why we feel
compromise is soul death...
___________________________________________________________
"Listen to the DJ." (Naf Mr Bugman)
Taking time to get you
making progress
falling
heartsong
I can't help myself
the floor is everywhere
eyes collapsed (click)
mouth sucked up by the engine (slurp)
I'm listening to the Bugman
feeling harder than a number
and moving
taking beat-jizz to the ear-stomach-soul
dancing lava radiation
lost in the illusion
my own mind DVD
MPEG twist
keypad and falling
doing it down to the floor
double-flush to the sewer core
and through the pipes
chimney blowing steam engine
soft rubber groove
all sexed on
all taking
all instructed
illegal mind dance
thought sex laws forbid
Bugman pants stretch
DJ pulling the fader back
echoing delay nightmares
the groove fades away
the record is over
the DJ is at the bar now
he has finished
stop dancing go drink with the DJ
drink with the Bugman
drinks for the DJ
drinks for everyone
goodnight.
___________________________________________________________
"Squeal. "
I saw the greatest poets of my generation
Introverted and frail
Searching for their genius souls in plastic bags
And coffee cups.
Waiting for excuses
Forgetting what they know.
Convincing only themselves and their few lonely companions.
Making no impressions on anybody.
Neglected strangers in Smokey rooms,
Shouldering up to ears, so tired of the same bloody thing,
That they smile.
Replying in the same jaded monotone that they have all stolen from their heroes
And perfected.
That half a century is dead now.
All the masters are dead.
Doesn't that suggest it's time to look to look further?
Time to ask themselves some questions.
Any questions.
Something which might,
Influence change.
Might make the police stagger back out, the same way that they shouldered their way in…
Make rock status -out of these little poets who moan
Their self pitying diatribes into their checkered handkerchiefs.
Writers.
As physical in body
As they are in mind
"Who?" Calls out the voices of four generations of imitation…
"And where?" Ask the ones who stopped thinking, in order to maintain an obsolete standard…
There they are.
Finding inadequately described loss,
Instead of glory.
I watch my friends plunge down the eye of a cigarette
In official newspaper retreat
In the back pages of literary heroes.
-Who were not taken where they need to go
-Who stood on the barren stage of the suburban architecture,
-Vain and trying
-Evocative.
But effort does not reward success.
And I see the confused gaze fall from confused labors
Of a superseded medium and it's trade persons.
When only failure succeeds,
Only the screaming midnight of fear
Self doubt-self justification.
Finally, when the great power of the mind fails
And the poet surrenders to disaster
Perhaps this is where the illumination has been waiting.
Falling flat out of the belly of madness
And sincerity is justice
And life is boring
But you, like me,
Are alive.
And we're changing…
Fakie Wilde
© Fakie Wilde 2002
"Hallucinate and enjoy"
Ah! Dipping myself in the flashing lights
Coating myself in the flash sparkles
Rising like a cake
Lifted on colours of modern architecture
A design generation
Slow motion
Timeless air currents
Godlike in proficiency
Terrifying in stature
Larger than expanding
Compressed to a degree illegal in science
Open like midnight seven eleven
Closed and ready for demolition
Complete like a chess set of bones
Missing like children in the paper
Right before your eyes
Perceptions never realized
More here than this day itself
More gone than the past you draw your history from
Living is just a crazy dream
So wake up!
HOO!
"Blue Star/White Heat"
Here I am again.
Me in my sleeves
Green Mohawk stripe
Insomniac sleepless horror-dreamer.
On this bitumen Autumn morning
Counting cigarette butts beneath a day sky.
Wondering what else there is
'cept for the blushing cheeks of school girls
and men in work boots.
The dizzying rhythm of the endless working world
Makes the reflections in nearby windows shake.
Everyone here is a movie maker
They all have secret cameras inside their eyes
And I go through a series of credit rolls.
recognizing no names.
The faces are all like clouds
And I am falling drop-zone and modern
Into that thing you live for.
Flattened and calm like Japanese paper.
I sit here like your very own voodoo doctor
Waiting to dish out the prescription.
We are like numbers on a page
And we are shrinking together
Behind the flickering lids of cinema
Which is every other person in the world.
They are watching us.
It is not a conspiracy.
"Life Thief"
Lawns and spare time
Time made spare
Lawns captured morning
Poets' tattoos shine in green Mohawk sunshine
Senses open to receive time
Time made spare
Stolen day in Autumn
Cool air in spare morning
Open time to the lawn
Tattoos captured on same waking
Autumn random spare time machine
In spontaneous green Mohawk.
Fakie Wilde
© COPYRIGHT 2001
Noticing a fly.
Tiny little sticky feet
Proboscis
Egg-layer.
Like a tiny little chicken curling
Landing on the custard carton
Tasting the labors of the milk factory where they
All wear pale blue hairnets.
Making distant genetic contact with the original moo-cows
As the tiny fly licks at the hot custard/sitting in the sun
Dancing and jumping
It's my friend as I sit here.
Eyes like diamonds
Andy Warhol was a fly
Hitler was a fly
Mice and rabbits are hairy flies
As it turns its head upside-down
Shuffling its wings
I wonder about the thoughts of a fly
Agendas as it eats custard
I start to fear it
And then I realize it’s a fly
And I am being spazzo
I am being spazzo
I am being spazzo
I am being spazzo
Spazzo.
Trapped in an elevator.
I'm halfway between sixteenth and seventeenth
And it's almost two in the afternoon.
Next month is my birthday
And yesterday I had sex.
The buttons aren't functioning
And the elevator won't move.
My head is shaved
And I never seem to be going anywhere.
Permanently living between two floors
And no chain to pull. No emergency button.
This is the elevator/urinal
And we wait for the janitor.
I'm late for my appointment
And looking at my reflection in the mirror.
Enjoying it. I like who I am.
And mirrors always tell you who you are.
I'm just standing around for my whole life
And just hoping that there's a good reason to be catching elevators.
"Caravan Man."
Cold here in the park with my bottle.
Here on the bench, keeping my eye out.
Somebodys' coming...
...perhaps it's a woman!
Perhaps I'll watch her hips move as she...
...walks..
. ...it's a man.
Eyes search the ground as he passes in brown shoes.
The sky is full of smoke.
Perhaps I'll get fed if I start knocking on doors.
Where's the caravan?
I have to get back before eight.
I can't stand the children parade.
Eyes cast accross the parkland,
through the trees. I can see someone there in the shadows.
I take another portion of wine and look again.
I can see two someones.
Watching me as I sit here in the dawn.
What do they think I am?
Television? Two someones watching me drink here on the bench.
And here comes that man in the brown shoes again.
Eyes down.
Where's the caravan?
There he goes.
I've gotta get out of here before the children...
Two people in the park right up ahead.
With a yellow suitcase each,
advancing. And I reef up the bottle and taste it's face,
and look again.
Now, what would THEY want?
The sky is full of smoke and where's the caravan?
Perhaps I should go knock on doors,
but it's cold.
I don't care.
And brown shoes isn't coming back.
Brown shoes with his children and his front door.
Good luck charms all nailed.
Here come the suitcases through the park.
Been here for hours.
Here they come.
Bottle nearly gone.
Pink smoke and drums in my chest.
So, what do THEY want? Ladies and gentlemen...
...I'm demonstrating luxury.
And brown shoes is gone.
and what do they think THEY'RE doing?
Lifting me from this bench right now.
I still got that damn bottle by the neck.
At least I've got my bottle.
The three of us,
walking through the park,
under the dawn smoke.
And look there!
The caravan. Parked before the gully.
And I can hear piano in my chest,
as they push me into the back seat of the Fairlane.
I get the feeling my life is taking another interesting turn.
No more brown shoes.
The flashing powerpoles receding.
Nice to be going places. Had to get out before eight anyway.
Get away from the children parade...
Absinthe notes
("Jesus, help me find my proper place...")
-Velvet Underground.
part one
(cured at last?)
oh hell. what has become of me this time?
Sunday afternoons at 3:00, like religion, means bath time for me.
It means the velvets. It means introspection, a rubber duck and a bottle of cheap red wine.
The bath started 15 minutes early, at 2:45 in fact. Laced with perfumes and nice and hot to combat this recent cold change in the climate, I began to drink my newly acquired bottle of absinthe. With sugar I drank it. Melted sugar.
My goodness. in my life I have never tasted a privilege so bitter! One hundred times more bitter than the stuff I had last time! oh, how I shuddered as I drank the green monster! Nothing like last time.
3 times I drank it straight, whilst I ran the bath and prepared the ritual. Whilst I left quavering messages on peoples' phone machines. -Whilst I cowered to the taste! -oh my goodness!
So that then finally, with the Velvets cranked at 30, I climbed into the water with my fourth big hit of horror, this time, watered down like I saw in that Di Caprio film.
I said to myself as I fought to swallow "I am swallowing the hugest trunk of a tree!" It was difficult. SO FUCKING BITTER MY FRIENDS! Absinthe made by some little provincial maker in CZ, so unkind. And I listened to the velvets and watched the yellow duck do it's circuits. The water cloudy from the essence & salts. Nobody called. I took another sip, and it was horrible. But I declared it literature and continued to bathe.
However, I needed so badly to tell you of my struggle, that prematurely,(after a mere 15 minutes) I leapt from the bath and ran dripping to you like this in my adidas track pants and dog-Jesus T-shirt to put forward my situation. Half a glass, pale green and beside me as I type into my screen. I can smell it there. Dare me. Dare me to taste it on the head again. - I know you do...
Big breath.
Listening to VU for distraction...
Hand in reluctance, reaches for octagonal glass...
Shudder.
Listening to Lou's voice. -What would he do?
Pale greenest liquid...
Song ends.
? "...It's the story of my life... the difference between wrong & right..."
Ok.
Throat tying to retract. Having to swallow hard. My dear poet genius companions. I want to report to you, that Absinthe is not a nice drink. -Quote me if you like. Absinthe is a monster of a drink.
I am warm and drunkenly blissful of course, with that liquorice/wood aftertaste. (No vanilla like last time...) I somehow feel that this version of the drink is much closer to our heroes than the one I had a few months ago. Much more real. And of course, Oscar and Arthur never got to hear the velvets... I still maintain therefore, that we live in great times.
I now intend to finish this glass and then take one final glass with me for a stroll along the seaside (which blessed, I live beside) hitherto, writing part two and concluding this report, most likely with wavering fingers... be careful my friends. -F.
:(
So, what is learned after the park? After the rain and the green dressing gown as I strolled on the boardwalk barefoot, bowler hat, hex glass in hand? (I wish I could show you a picture)
Part two.
(Absinthe news):
Ok. So here I am as I promised to be.
I have seen the green ocean and the black storm clouds and the yellow sand on the islands. Drunken and pleased, I notice the architecture of the new bridge and the path, and with fascination, I contemplated the explosion as a large droplet of water fell from a pine tree into my glass.
But I'm afraid it still tastes horrible. Shuddering as I took another gulp and glanced across the bay, my ears popping in horror, throat retracting to the size of a drinking straw. I say it again. "This is not a nice drink".
I stood on the new bridge glancing down at the patterns in the current of the stream and through the rain I saw far away birds, and I tried in vain to do justice to a very unkind drink. Half a bottle remaining in my shelf, perhaps for part three of this report, however, My suggestion is that, a century ago, There was no Newcastle Brown Ale. In these modern times, and without too much trouble, you can as a great and inspired poet find this brown fairy and have an infinitely more charming time.
I intend to conclude my afternoon with a few Guinness, and leave the rest of my bottle until there are no other options remaining.
However, I would like to thank my very dear friends Mr and Mrs Staffron for posting my supply across. Your contribution to the arts does not go ignored.
Remember. Newcastle Brown Ale can take you places first class with all the comforts, where absinthe will take you 3rd class and you will have to walk to the terminal when you arrive.
You are all capable of danger however, and I advise it.
There is much we must do, but often, we must only do it once.
"June"
/sitting siberia here in pre winter/morning train platform on cold bitumen/crossed legs/sky all iced up/people breifcasing angry moods as they shiver past/cold trains pull in/spiralling away again/beyond the turn/new friends smoke in silence beside me/always a beautiful girl on the opposite platform/pink wool standing in her flares/it could be any time as she leaves me here/tiny aeroplanes above/hear them tear up the air/these are good times/exotic pigeon dancing rudely like a voodoo/pretty girls bright eye kisses my brain/if only she could see my beautiful brain/the morning paper clutched by man in torn black jeans/hes finding nothing in there/because its all happening now/the electricity flying invisible through the tic-tac-toe of overhead cables/hear the music of the broken circut as it buzzes in the speaker/cut away to advertise some new sound/"the next train"/but not important/just glad to be here/and to see/watch me see/man looks back obediantly/curiosity disolving into a relentless stare-fight/won by the smiling skinhead who sits on the ground with his tattoos and his bag/i realize ownership/if i wish it/this whole platform is mine/if i wish it to be/then the entire world belongs to me and my eyes/and wish it i shall/so that i can bring it back to show you/the curious wonder of/living in what are the most majestic of eras/light shines black from the glass of the madhouse where once my friend "scooter" was restrained for being jesus/perfection/perfet that would happen/and all the paintings by the street kids/all just words/small orange cat twisting its way up the grassy hill/i have seen everything/
Guillotine machine.
All the triangles
falling down to chop off my head
falling down, the triangles
the slippery see-saw triangles of
no more headness.
then what?
a little sleep?
or a new head
and more triangles...
...shooting continuous from the chimney
of the guillotine machine
everyone's head comes off
to the falling triangles of modern living
amongst the headless
regrouping
searching through the endless wicker baskets
which one was yours?
Canary.
Canary is the yellow bird
the caged one
the prisoner
canary is the criminal minded
yellow bird
locked up with its' song
the song is simple
"I am in here."
"W… W…What's happening?"
What do you suppose we should do about all these little people? What do we really know about the tinies?
Can you imagine how they hide in the shoeboxes of winter blackness and from the eyes corners the flicker.
-Seldom to be caught. The little people doing things there in our peripheral vision.
It's what they do at night isn't it? -Gives you the quivers something terrible. They get into our houses with their
small hands and practice touching things. They do little things in our secret corners. Leaving miniature impressions
and odours ever so slight. With those scant sounds mostly unheard. What do you think we should do about the tinies?
Sometimes there's a swarming or a crawl of them lining up, sometimes in pairs they double, but always even if single
file or alone the little peoples they come. Wearing little hats and performing microscopics in the pantry and the linnenpress
-what are they really after do you suppose? I think they're trying to lever open my fridge and get at my beer. That's why I
put a lock on it. They won't get MY beer, but be careful! Because I hear that they've been having yours and doing terrible
things to it. Unspeakable things to the beer in your fridge. Performing tiny rites and infecting your beer with minuscule.
-Something you don't want. Making you more like them.
It's a revolution and you can catch it like a common cold.
How much do we really know about the little people, and what do they really want? I'm going to find out tonight.
Even if it takes all night at looking close, because we're sick of the sleepless nights and we're sick of wondering why...
Alone with the morning.
Each morning as I wake with a new tired brain of wonder
I try to find that unspoken thing
Stagger
I shower with my coffee
The mirror looks awful
Socks which match
Each cold winter morning as I climb from bed
Like a crippled old woman
I put some music on
The house is all fucked up
Dropping the milk on the floor
Each tiresome repeat of the same process every morning
Making me realise
Sitting on the dark porch
Music on coffee
Life is still perfect.
The Lead Elephant Storm.
Fig (i) -"ouch!"
After all this time
The sky has started dropping
Lead elephants down upon me
Which is wonderful, but it hurts a bit.
All I ever wanted was a way to get to them
And now they're falling on my head
Leaving thoughts' calling card
Under the doormat.
I've wanted them for years and years
The things I've tried, I can't describe
And success sets sail in the mid day post
And I've fallen for something wire and frail
If I used her for an umbrella perhaps
To catch lead elephant tails... -sigh.
All my friends are chopped and scratched.
What sort of future have I found in this new day?
I open my mouth to welcome my dreams
And listen to the sound
Of the man who weeps
Because he lives in the place
Where the lead elephants go away to die...
Fig (ii) -"give pigs a chance"
Poor tiny giants
Collapse in a melting engine
We are the children in
An age of perpetuation…
Perhaps we are happy
As we watch them fall
But I wonder what will
Become of us all...
Fig (iii) -"ten little elephants"
Elephant one came down to me,
Elephant two fell into the sea,
Elephant three falling down beside,
Elephant four on butterflies,
Falls elephant five the world insists.
Landscape folding, elephant six,
Elephant seven I simply deflected,
The eighth by the tail, wire girl dissected,
Ninth and tenth fell out of view,
But sometimes elephants leave a bruise.
Fig (iv) -"...my glass is raised..."
I am he who keeps the dead.
Lead elephants that came here from
The skies like a summer storm.
All suspect they are so polite,
Going away in secret to die,
But it's no secret to me.
So my friends and I live up
In the bamboo tower
And use binoculars to watch,
The world beyond
The twisted lead carcasses
Which are the discarded minds of the new generation.
To my friends!
Fakie Wilde
© COPYRIGHT 2001
"Drifter"
Sleepy-headed
Still ok
Tired as hell
Listening to music
As I experience travel
Thinking
I don't sleep much
Thinking there's not much time
I fall for every job like a fool
Being tired isn't me complaining
Merely my eyes shutting
As you get older
You start to forget things (they say)
I've forgotten
Throw to give up
Or perhaps it's always been like this…
…!
Ha! I just nodded off
While writing this!
My fingers twitched
On my left hand…
…Perhaps I'll die
And then
There will be nothing left
To write about.
"Triangle Face"
I want to tell the girl
With the yucky-coloured hair
That she has a face shaped
Like a nice triangle.
Do you think that she'd get mad?
I like triangles. Her face is one.
I want her to know that.
Better than a GIVE WAY sign.
And besides,
Some girls have bad circle faces.
At least I'm not going to say
Her hair is a yucky colour…
I bet triangle face
Would have good reception
Pay-TV face
Two sports channels.
Sometimes I make myself laugh
When I think of things like that.
Who ever heard of triangle face?
And she has one.
I think she'd look good
In a toy box
For a three year old
Martin Smith (Croydon)
© COPYRIGHT 2002
"New York: International Ant Porno."
Camera one:
The building spreads its legs
The airplane strokes its cock in
They both cum and fall onto the tiles
Camera two:
The building, dripping wet, world wide prime time
The hard on flying through the air on
Toluene powered airplane wings
Orgasm explosion down to the knees of the city
Camera three:
One hard on deserves another
Two airplanes fucking her window frames
Cockpit sliding between the tight atoms of a wall
Filling her ass with passengers
Camera four:
Passengers with newspapers and headphones
Lifetime of dreaming concluded in a single stroke
Street life looks like ant hive/passenger sperm cells
Fertilizing inhibited imagination of whole planet
Camera five:
Just another professional threesome act
Another gloomy sex scene. We can't beat that.
Around the globe they watch the screen over and over
Wiping it clean and saying "You can't beat that"
Camera six:
Sweating president being stern. He saw it too.
The big fuck that he can't beat.
That spread building taking those big hard airplanes
Says: "I can't beat that"
Camera seven:
"Who let those cocks out?"
"Who fucked my virgin daughter?"
"Who put the pictures on the internet?"
"As a parent, I condemn this perversion" (lips licked)
Camera eight:
"Just to make sure" says the stroking hand
"You can't beat that" says the president
Everywhere in the world they say "How can you beat that?"
When somebody comes, the world wants to see.
Camera nine:
Nobody knows why they rewind review
Daily midnight orgasm replay of the double penetration
All the angles as the atoms split
We all went to bed and got fucked like crazy.
Camera ten:
Entire world fingering its wide oceans
America still the strongest pornographic rectum
"We can't beat that…" says the headlines
"…But by fuck or by truck, we're trying!"
"Most excellent day"
Earlier today, I performed the most excellent road nailing known to man. Usually, road nailing is done to puncture the tires of cars and render them "out of action" however, I couldn't give a shit about cars. I've been road nailing for the pure pleasure of it. Of seeing the alarm of drivers as they swerve off into their futures. Echoing in my mind. Oh, It's funny.
I am pleased to report that this afternoon, my road nailing efforts were firstly reported on the radio and then on the six o clock news! That's prime time. Prime time, however, isn't what's important. What's important is the people being interviewed. They were so emotional and pissed off that I almost choked on my curry (I was eating a curry) The fat woman, "Helen" was just standing there crying "…how could somebody do such a thing…?" I tell you, it brought tears to my eyes as I imagined taking a staple gun to that loose skin on her face and remodeling her expressions… Laugh? -I almost died! And "Dennis" the skinny guy with the big nose who hit a tree in his brand new Mazda? Oh goodness me! -what is the world coming to? I should send him a post card with a picture of me sitting at the seaside waving and this is what it would say:
"Dear Dennis,
I saw you on the TV tonight, you looked great.
I loved the way you moaned about the punctured tire and how my efforts almost killed you and that I must be some sort of thoughtless maniac. Let me compare you for a moment to say, a common household turd ok? -It goes like this: Here is you… alright? …and here is the turd. Got it? Right. Now, the only difference is that household turd has a bigger brain and a smaller nose. -How's that? Oh, And if I ever see you walking down my street, I'll smash your head in with a plank of wood full of nails and then drag you by the leg all the way into the city mall and use you to derail a tram.
Thanks.
Martin Smith (Croydon)
"Words from the sculptor "
(spontaneous and unedited)
the problem with me.
that's me. this is the problem. no flowers, no beautiful language for you. More like real life language. Nothing like poetry. You should expel me from the mould. There is no way as I understand it that I can exist inside that description. More likely I just exist, and barely at that. Fucking lunatic hissing into microphones and keyboards. Fucking moron who thinks he's doing something clever when in fact all he is doing is ruining it for everyone. Time he worked it out. Time he accepted all his thousand and ten faults and re-surfaced as a normal person again. Time for him to accept that he is not the centre of his world, but just a leaf falling forever to the ground inside someone else's place. Thinking he knows the answers is like believing that you can be heavy in the happy happy day. Nobody can do that. It takes the fucked night and the piss-weak moon and the streetlights and the mystery of blazing torches. Romance isn't a balloon that you can just eat. Where the hell did he get that notion from? That's the problem with me. Is that a standard? Give it to me. I will put it on top of a cake and blow out your wedding candles. Not getting married? Why the hell not? You may as well, you're ordinary enough. Stand up to the line. Make an incision! Is this just the babbling of a lunatic who has no Idea? I say "Yes! somebody smash a shovel in his eye! Make him learn to participate. Creation is not merely some obscure version of constant re-arrangement. See? No Idea a pretty picture from a terrible photo. I am assuming that my walls are covered with horrible pastel stains and that my notebooks keep on babbling over and over about atrocities which I never have time for. (as I am well often busy with many hundreds of others) Like I live in some sort of fantastic mis-guided and direction-less rocket which spirals stupidly towards the centre of a make believe polystyrene sun. What am I? An idiot? I think It must be true. All the things that everyone has been saying. Have you seen the way I have been dressing? Well what is it? Is it hobo or business man? Do I actually have a job? Would anybody actively employ someone who is as lacking in obvious skills as I am? Am I me or he? Drinking is sure to kill me. Speaking the way he does is sure to kill him even faster. Is that it? I want to get myself killed by doing what I consider to be total art, disregarding it's audiences? -somedays yes.
So what of this disinterest in the respectable? What of the tendencies to climb into peoples faces and jeer? Have I no respect for the hand that feeds me? Is that hand not the very same meaty kebab I've been looking for? No need for you to seek me out, I will find you. However, If you were to go to any trouble to find me I'm certain I would be bored and simply nudge you over the edge into the river, hoping that you hit a ferry on the way to the water. No, I want a game. You should know by now that all I care about is playing. I want a game with you. And the more that I don't know about you, the more I think you would be great with pickles and chilli. The more I can imagine you spread out on my front lawn with chainsaws hanging out of your head like toothpicks. Like a spiny crown of metallic pineapples. Knock on my door and I might simply drown you in a sink, but oh! what a spectacle I will make if I have to seek you out! What pictures we shall make! What a world! What dreams! Everything means so little when it is nothing and nothing is less than an everything like yours. I like to look at them. Have a meal and a drink or two in contemplation. There's lots of things that are the problem with me so far as you are concerned, but what are you to me barring an interesting addition to a new salad? Do you really think you know what is right and what is wrong? I strongly advise that you reconsider the world that you occupy, because I live in it too and I have very different ideas. I am knocking at your front door and I am coming in weather you unlatch it or not.
Martin Smith (Croydon)
© M.Smith (Croydon) 2002
that'll keep you read-mangs busy for a little while... -I wonder when I'll get my net pair of proper "writing wings"... oh well, back to chillin... -f
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