Thursday, 15 December 2011


What is the 'post' for? Who is unhealthy to encourgae people to talk to themselves, with the tender delusion of an audience. Still...this is the glory of writing. A small mouse in a yoghurt pot running out of air. The sublime arrival of a signpost that is recklessly illegible. The venting of self righteous rants, of rage directed as if with authority upon tiny discomforts that constitute the every day. The fat man still stuffing his face. The slowly shuffling crowd ,when rushing against the clock. The billboard bullshit of a 'status update'. The critical indignation and anger at a 'status update'. The commentary upon the whole shitty snowglobe with the anonymous tap of a keyboard. The stream of consciousness loosing consciousness, but still oh so conscious of its presented conscience. A waste of time. Inevitable. Attractive. Abhorrent. A lobster squealing in a vat of boiling water, the blushing carapace creaking as it cooks. A green hillside. A celebrated skid mark on all that is possible, slowly dribbling out of sight.

'The System'

'If by chance you should be diverted or distracted for a moment from awareness of your imprisonment by some pleasant or interesting occurence, there is always the shape of the indavidual day to remind you.'- John Ashbery, 'The System' (from Three Poems).

'We know that we are en route in a certain sense, and also that there has been a hitch somewhere: we have as it were boarded the train but for some unexplained reason it has not yet started'-John Ashbery, 'The System' (from Three Poems).

Tuesday, 13 December 2011

A link to my poem 'Cataracts'

'Gorgon' a photo

This was it:
Stare her calmly in the eyes
Those gorgon friendly eyes.
That kindly abyss; the can opener lips
the show must go on, brush aside
the velvet fringe. Backstage the zipping
tremors chat, I want to bury myself in this moment
So deep within as to be underwater-but remaining suavely detached-
How do they say? Nonchalant, with a casual cigarette and a fleeting raise of the eyebrows...
You step over and cradle the stone cold pallor-who wouldnt?
The night is dressed in stale sequins,
We walk away hand in hand in hope of help.
This was it.

'Driving' A photo

 And he wished he cared-about what they said
But their voices just faded-white noise in his head
And the amber was golden-the road wasn't real
The dashboard was drowsy-asleep at the wheel.

PONY: A video for the song 'I raised you little egg baby'

A  film I made with a certain shady unnerving genius (seen prancing around with an egg), for his band 'PONY' .

A photo of a Dali Painting (taken at the Figueres Dali Theatre- Museum)

Tapered fingers lace around the gulp
And proclaim the fluffy sundial mine,
At least for love.
Trace the eggshell rift and masturbate
these lightening storms.
He banged the complaing projector shouting
'YOU BASTARD, you stole my idea,
From my mind, plucked it before it had
a chance to breathe' Back to the dessert
Of reclusive clay pipes and cluttered boxes.
And now mother's muzzle begins to smile,
the blue dress draws back, returning waves
That comb the shore.

A Roberto Kusterle image 'Abbandono sul fondo' (featured on the Four Tet Fabriclive 59 album cover)

Sometimes the hangover headdress takes amorphous liberty with its form
Sometimes the night before sits in suckered tendrils
Sometimes its suffocating drape is all there is.
That and the dry open mouth.
'Never Again' He lies.

Monday, 12 December 2011

The Inauguration Of The Midnight Mollusc

I dip my toes in the overcrowded puddle...immediate toe curling ensues. The unremitting air of inevitability about 'online existence' is at best unsettling and at worst a curdling disease- designed, customized and distributed by the very beings it destroys. So, naturally, I have allowed my philosophy of trepidation and fond cynicism to kindly piss off...and have embarked upon the midnight mollusc. This blog will primarily be used as a platform for linking and collating my poetry. Secondary to that will be the impulsive posting of odd photos I have taken-as a stage from which to nurture text inspired by said pictures: poetry and images shuffling side by awkward harmony.