Oldies, Poetry

Data Consolidation (Second Bite)

(continued from Data Consolidation (One Bite))

Larvae

One way only. No ring-road
that will take me to the beginning
of the journey known as the
greatest waste of air. Breathing
mud, packed with lies and tapeworm
eggs settling exactly where the
lust resides.

Crackle-crack, eating obligatory AM oats.
Wholesome imagery, but this fine day
garments are made of last-laugh fabrics
and the amplified sounds bounce off.
Gold medals for indifference and solitude.
Achievement badges; case closed and filed
away. Bureaucratic titans.

__________________________________

Arithmetic

Used to know the figures inside out then,
all DOBs, land-line dials, post codes for
furtive envelopes full of tween secrets.
Hardly manage the end of films,
or which decade is which.
Time hasn’t stopped, it swirls
eights and eighties, dancing bee;
shouting silently, this is it.
Tomorrow is not Monday,
doing maths all wrong.
How old are you did you say?
That happened long ago.
Did flapper girls think Victorian’s vintage
because these tapes and those platform games
are a little past retro.
Generations being baptised, must be linear,
straight line progression happening outside.
After seven(.8) years of circling–
(Stockholm, not the vulture-
cockroach or beetle,legs up
break-dancing shell: same routine,
power pointing,
paraphrasing,
ca co pho ny)
Solely numbers known are those counted backwards,
for falling into, controlling and repeating.
Maybe the odds of a river flush:
oh so lucky and just in (time).
Ironic hour, not coincidence:
the clocks aren’t set.

__________________________________
(Starched) Habit

you say soft, soft
I think tough, hard
to get, to pull off,
to keep tucked in
until the time is right
so easy to push aside
to hide, far away
deeper than ever before
no shovel, no digger
no hands on aprons
flour mist, raw clues
prequel to a trail
made out of pure fairytale
100% woven fantasy
nimble hands barely touching
the covert shroud
veiled judgment

__________________________________

Cannon Ball

Put out that consuming thought
that’s been meandering within you
the parasitic worm
that wakes up early
not making a brew
just standing the ground
as if making a claim
on flooded terrain
sodden with yesterday
dried by today

Make sure it gets lost
cover your tracks so the mud
wont scream, giving away
the secret location
where cannon balls are loaded
caissons rollin’ along
past the invisible border

Rags of white to share the sky
with the far side of the moon
or the truth’s insides
centre soft delights
that you should never chew

__________________________________

Putain Gris

Eye lids fall like electric rain.
A pulse here, organs sing like whales.
In the eve of interdepartmental domination,
past the baby that almost hiccups milk,
the maid with hands on a bucket-full
and away from a neon lumberjack,
someone else’s millimetred reportage
awakens not the sorrow but the grateful
type that dutifully still owes.
Nostalgia is the temptress in the land
of dry wall and any kind of liquor.

That evening’s classless act held onto
corners so dark that the ceiling
shifted below and the floor
shook above. Survival, being relative,
takes as many victims as you can count
with this finger. Don’t be confused,
that one pointing up is heartless.
Fruit and ale; rye and concentrated
spasms of the knowledge of nothing;
across the streets of eternal rain.

The battle fought and all the wives
will be forced to breed.
Luxury is choosing when to bleed,
plus or minus a day or week.

How heavy they are, the processes
stirred and idle. Hey, it’s a city girl’s life!
For every penny spent, always a chance
to earn points of honey sweet.
Can’t deny this city builds a strength
that can’t quite withstand the viper gales.
To make do, to spar, to feign all night in
that way for that was the day it all turned,
what’s that shade?

Livid.

__________________________________

Gods

The god speaks in tongues
Neither backwards nor forwards
Saying nothing and asking it all
In a mangled bunch
It sounds the same
Across from you
The god wants answers

The man rises from the earth
Soiled and ready to bathe
spoilt as the cloth wipes
the cranny of shame
the crevice hides lust
Ready to blame her
For what is to come
The man can’t choose
Does as he’s told

The woman won’t dare stand
Why take the blame
In such a busy kitchen
Riled with spite
For what she’s forced to deal with
no rewards, limited glory
disguised in tales of heroic nature
would this woman turn back
if only she could, only if she could

Adoration is long gone
When the god becomes mere flesh
Weak and enhanced with chemicals
To wake, to laugh, to dull the ache
That soul needs glasses to see
The blur is just beyond reach
Filthy little hands, forever missing spots

__________________________________

Late Night Poker

All the men around the table
and still they manage to each
be rather different
like a superhero convention
except they wear caps and sponsorship gear
alongside tuxedos
and cowboy hats
the nerd, millionaire just the same
as the Swedish stallion
as clever as the philanthropist
the background of a night
dragging against this glass
on the outside stuck
a slug the size of
minibar vodka
pace of a race
traces and trails
but not so damaged
not so frail
a glass of wine
wouldn’t have helped
induced sleep or tantrum
of magnitude unknown
whether rage, sadness or
slow decaying señorita
nectar nor ambrosia
amber to this bug
forevermore recall the grimace
and pose after a job
well done

__________________________________

Vinegar Tears

Wouldn’t you love to know
Where I’ll end tonight?

How can it be that three words with you
Unsettle me so
A hand on glass kissed by smog
Wrinkles my strength
Half a ride worth of bumps on the road
Bruise the matte layer of faith

It doesn’t fit
But I play along
Parallel
With whistles to halt all common sense
And bibs to catch the apple sauce
A choice was made, which could’ve been turned
But it was left to soak
In vinegar tears
A balm for cruelty
Mothballs for garments that oddly hang
Overstretched elastic, misshapen shoulder pads
Marking the days of unweighed solace
With a pin
A coloured head
In the time and space
That turned the blonde to hay
And the shepherd’s breath to fire

Not taking no for an answer only leaves
Room for a single automated response
Press no numbers and you’ll bypass all options
Ensuring that the now commenced
Greatest Test of Patience
Goes on, rolls downhill, beyond recognition
Crashing into a freshly whitewashed picket fence

It may just be a sign
No divine intervention just Enlightenment
But today I stood on that pane that saw
A pair of hands feel a wet city’s cold grease
Instead of the heat once known, twice scorned
Victorious at the top of the shattered pile
Might as well be a vein’s throb
On the temple insistent
Pit of the stomach receiving the gongs
Fill it with whatever is chosen to dangle
The motivation behind the sale remains dubious

 

(N.B. This pane did exist, more than once: across Grand Central pub on Oxford Road.)

__________________________________

Made Up Maid

I think my friend hates me
He looks at me with just one eye
He keeps the other in a jar
On the fridge
Sometimes he changes the water
And adds vinegar
“To conserve it,” he says
But I know instead
He uses the pickled eye to curse
The ones that wronged him
So if you smell burnt
And it’s not heart-attack toast
You’ll know there’s trouble brewing
I think my friend hates you too.

__________________________________

Digital Britain

The copper pair
enhanced side
replaced crimp
raise a charge
promises and assurance
broadband is the new
electric
gas
water
bread and butter
your engineer showed up
this morning with
stale lager breath
but you’ll hesitate
to complain
the notes for this job
ignore the fact
your master socket
was installed by GPO
before your grandchildren
were spawned
no madam, your zimmer frame
is to blame
your cat’s spray
so you will pay
valid
but what happens when
three miles down the road
an army green cabinet
gets worked on
your phone line drops
intervention fault
your broadband is dead
you just hate you ISP
because the network’s guardian
hides under a bridge
billy goats and blue beans
with a profit to make
any lead in repaired
with test results
adhering to cryptic SIN349-
wattage riddles
test matrix
How will we turn into
the little dots
digital
half the black crosses
barely know how to
press *
the other half
will sign up elated
perhaps righteous
you can’t make such promises
the key that opens
your manifesto door
is to lay up the
non for profit shot
dribble down the court
and watch your claims
bounce of the board
you’ll miss the shot
whilst regulators and organisations
drink from the same fountain
please note how the engineer
takes two sugars

Dramatised view of the paradox that is a monopoly charging while the government makes broadband assurance and promises. No animals were harmed, some names were changed. It never happened. It was right when tested.

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