featuring NICO .. .


featuring Nico .. .

Around this woollen ball, this puff of life
jangled strings zip, zang across the bridge
echoed voices caught tap tapping on the backboard
white noise an alternating love song

Did you get inside Picasso’s head or Blake
Hockney’s swimming pool remote and lonely
emulsioned out for all to see, not for posterity
who knew the tempera here was set politically

I heard voices in the wild wind ever closer
then revolution was not so a dirty word
violence, obsequious, fabulous, absurd
ampersand the currency of other lands

Safe, narwhaled from our pleasant sundays
village greened, cosied into thirties constructs
like cricket whites b-4 adopting denim jeans
markered CND’s upon angst-filled dreams

Hardwood stage, the age, loose-fit abstract
queen Nico, minimalist, name-checked as an entity
symbolism birthed, seeded by some advertiser’s junk
boys q’p’s, girls capital V’s, coin-slot teasers

Happy to be, therefore I am, persuaded by a Cambells can
or a gym shoe, art’s pale face peroxided over
who took up the mantle or a cudgel to the head
these were artist’s who by art systematically bled!

We were constantly drifting, our life-raft listing
leave me with my bands, my ties, my addictions
I was once like you, a son, fair full of constancy
my meat hung low but rose to all occasions

Now I am meat for the wagon that can never know
where it might end, discarded like a banshee’s wail
in sunny climes, Andalusian, stoned, harpooned
washed up, in the year of getting your shit together

I am a statement written out in purpled blood
shored up by virtue, consecrated, left for dead
I float east where the water turns mauve to angry red
and yellow, orange, white, psychedelic blue

We together formed forever the perfect group
remembered by our perfect name, our Dada beat
icons signatured at Caffe Bizarre on West 3rd street
audiences dazed and damaged when then departed


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. .. we sacrifice before the bronzed moon .. .

..bronzed moon




We vowed to meet
  at the grasp of night
under robes dressed
  with starlight golden
your auburn fringe tinged
  bequeathed so cliché
neither angel Malakh
  or JFK did appear
in the clearing, in the ebony
  of the cherry wood
while the crimson burning
  his face appeared alarming

I brought the ceremonial
  sharpened blade alone
altar cloths heavy stained
  the ones we saved
customs we have not seen
  through need nor any
measure of how much feeling
  viola moon might bleed
we garland rosebuds
  shamed of our awful deeds
laid our purest thoughts
  upon the forest carpet

the planets voices heard
  rumbled at the sacrifice
complained ’twas unfair
  as pelicans and pixies fly
against yon moon-slit sky
  yet did they stop to think
he would know, care one fig
  if in this age we proffer
at the yin-yang moon, talk
  again of gemini’s true gender
our masks are sock and buskin
  on the dark side they are runes

I pressed the platinum blade
  against his brazen, lava chest
testing my resolve as Abram
  his head turned away sharply
the canopy of earth’s splendour
  desists to render its regret
an intelligent assumption
  for who has greater need
should moon’s heart bleed
  or leak into earth’s oceans
a tsunami of treasons hid
  within the blade within my fist

Dinghees bob in half light
  no forest’s there to see 
pioneers search other lands
  who happened upon America
search long for space capsules
  950m southwest of Hawaii
or ‘pon the sands of Dungeness
  have you seen that coastline
in the sun of springtime zest
  or by the sea of tranquility
I deigned to change my mind
  put up my sharpened sword

Fair we love the august moon
  watchman at the highpoint
whose limpid eyes disguised
  see all, tell none, reflect the sun
within the darkened valley sunken
  his understanding face traces
tears of all the lost, the lonely
  disenfranchised and comely
unable to explain cries of pain
  filtered to his wizened brain
my clenched fist, my human blade
  my vengeance at his masquerade




You always hurt the one you love
The one you shouldn’t hurt at all
You always take the sweetest rose
And crush it till the petals fall
You always break the kindest heart
With a hasty word you can’t recall, so
If I broke your heart last night
It’s because I love you most of all

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Out by the east fen plains
  where muck, stones lay precious
  splendid of dereliction
  a silhouette in green stoops low

Piebald mystery, friend in tow
  shuffling, stumbling, his hindquarters
  rheumatoid, lassoed to his leader
  lone dog walker leads aliens yonder

Fens, Monyash, Downs, Mendip Hills
  walkers park n’stroll, cajole
  paws collide, stride wi’ master
  doting, not dotard, running edge o’ water
Out where starlings scatter stone walls
  pitter-patter another soaking due
  fur sure as sheep’s wool bustle
  muddied boots plough, leafs rustle

The conjurer, his thoughts
  wrapped in frames of war
  armies sang marching songs
  dreamt of home, mothers, bitter beer

Hare’s, sentinels, long as august corn
  fields, darkened, battered hopes
  calloused, frosted, tractor’s cleuch 
  collected rain, blood, memoirs of the trench

This stench of muck spread
  rhymes I share wi’ panting Bessie
  or any mutt, pooch, bitch, cur
  straggled fur, they stare, belly’s bare

By lanes, rivers, lonely bridges
  carts n’horses travelled
  laden with collect of crops
  my eyes strain beyond these hilly paps

Remembered Lindas, Alisons
  warm kisses, places in my dark
  xmas perfume, nylon wriggles
  makeup smears, heath’s purpled skies

I treasure thee sweet Bessie
  aside thy mercy seat
  play fondly with your ears
  upright your head turns slowly

Was that a smile or sommat’ better 
  spaniel, beagle, yon’ red setter
  murmured trust, desire to please
  sweet Bess lays head on my knee

Out there on winter’s trail
  blood-berries garner, Bo’ sniffs
  his signature graffitied in a flourish
  language not known to me lest I whisper

Against this faded light
  a crouched shape, night-green
  there is an early moon tonight
  tall stories enough to tell out walking

Cross my palm wi’ silver
  yet to whispered secrets only
  do my canine ears listen, in the half light
  upon the heath where owl-eyes glisten


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kealing .. .


I was John Betjeman
I was Mata Hari
executed at dawn
thieves to the left of me
saints in red robes to the right
absorbed into the darkness
today you will be with me
you will kiss my cheek
thirty dollars
release Barabas
killers all go free
send me to the gallows

I have this obsession with freedom
with wild-west guns and slaves
their sweated, black faces
with justice and righteousness
with emancipation
decolonisation and absolutism
where the intellectual wins an argument
for once in his goddam life
before some ayatollah waves his wand
some totalitarian fuck-stik
and some freaky human parasite
changes all the rules…


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honestly .. .

Green, yellow, red rasta flag. Rastafarianism grunge background. Colorful backdrop for decoration work in reggae, rastaman festivals, posters, promotional items.


I wandered by my hometown station
no trains run anymore
they dug up the track
there is an antique dealer there
he opens up on three days a week
to sell old things
not chicken wings
but down the road a mile or two
I found peoples throw outs
by the side of the road
two emptied cans
a used diaper in a bag
I would have reckoned it was sad
except I was tired
and nothing means anything
any more
except you are a writer
and then you feel it all

I am not sure how to be
when around you
I lost my place in the book I was reading
you know I need to talk
not sure you need to listen
we have a busted piston
it’s not just the beginning of the end
the engine is not working
we are drifting in a boat
with no rudder and no oars
listening at the keyhole
to a silent conversation
that never happens
walking down an endless road
that leads to nowhere
pick up the phone
and tell me how you feel
for very soon we die…


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Vermillion Landscapes .. .                                                                                               

vermillion war

It settles on a tree near a hostel
which holds a perfect view
of her hill called serenity from
where seven, cold rivers run
this white bird flew, one of two
a pair of ermine gyr-falcon
when sun-haze had lifted off its lay
ethereal and o’ so quiet
those birds forever circling
closer than the death of night
beige, soft bellied reflections
illuminate her moon-flecked flight

a herd of grazing, golden antelope
blushed of rhubarb sun
where lions sleep at night
deep friends upon the Serengeti
beneath vermillion sky layered
a child’s angel cake with creme
which cake is shined by sandstone light
an eggy, coppered glow
burrowed stains, stretched taught
‘cross nature’s plains that thinkers stow
animals there are my lucid thoughts
they travel on like circus cheetahs

fanfared soldiers exposed of duty rigour
awake to sounds of bloody terror
metal armadillo’s in a line advance
toward vermillion hills of splendour
orange-red, the chaplains have arranged
the dead according to their size
lest by subterfuge they disrespect
their surrender ‘neath cinnabar skies
the generals, commanders, captains
propagate their putrid red disguise
it is always the innocent who die
or dying, be blushed of leader’s lies

vermillion tunics of men who desired
freedom from tyranny of their race
not every garter, armband worn
is apposite to order – some do rebel
whether cloistered of the arctic sun
crying birds or dancing springbok
faint hooves may skip on Yahweh’s
forgotten graves most every nation hides
till orange streaks of blanket sea roll east
those sands of time desist
to squander one more useful life
another raped wife or infant dying


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Howl Twice .. .


We met this side of dawn
neat satchels on our backs
to search and find Zanadu
people knew as East Ewell
in what was known then as
‘the stockbroker belt’ of the
sprawl that was Lond-on

No one planned which way
that together we should go
each step along the path
was democratically decided
we were a union of brothers
for one momentous day we
spent away from our fathers


when did we take a wrong turn
when did the path lead us from the track
for the sorrow that now we must unlearn
for what we ever thought was fact
or that we thought was ever true
like capitalism
is the fairest monetary system
like capitalism is fair and just at all
like capitalism shares wealth and opportunity with the masses
  with both the haves and the have-nots
whereas capitalism means more than ever
  that those who have more for themselves
  for their children and their children’s children
  will always have more
and those who have less… and their children
  will generally always have less
  that an intellectual mind like Karl Marx was considered evil
  or that there was ever such a thing as communism
  when Marx was only a philosopher
  who wrote a philosophy
  much like Charles Darwin had been a naturalist,
  a geologist and a biologist who wrote a proposition
  it too was originally branded evil
  yet now most everyone accepts it is true
  that democracy it has been decreed
  by those unseen powers that be 
  provides the accepted key
  to determine the fairest form of government and order
  yet democracy is a fucking hypocrite
  a fucking liar and is often corrupted
  by those who stand to make the most gain
  democracy continually administers out pain
  to the weakest of our numbers
by that same rule of thumb that states
  the strongest will survive
  the fittest are the ruling class
  by capitalism’s order
  the weak get transient lift or push
  from democracy’s shoulder
  that writers like Allen Ginsberg have been dredged
  their words have been murdered
  of what they tried to say
  theirs was not considered poetic or decent
  who spoke for one week
  within the pantheon of the hugest time
  because their words did not rhyme enough
  or ring just once the Philadelphia bell
  that mankind’s religions often hide
      the true heart of God
  within its schisms, its annexes and prejudicial order
  whereas true religion and undefiled
  says we should visit the fatherless
    and widows in their affliction
  and keep oneself unspotted from ‘world corruption’
  of capitalism’s disease
  of democracy’s hypocrisy
  of religion’s deceit

When we met the Bluewater
our journey done, we looked
at what 4 boys had become
travellers in space and time
who had fought fear of danger
traversed technologies might
beside roots of nature

We drew maps like geologists
pioneers who plot their route
explorers who traverse trails
carried our supplies in sacks
spoke of where we travelled
when we arrived we were
but 8 years old
when did we take a wrong turn?
when did the path lead us from the track?
for how far civilisation has taken us
for civilisation is not civilised at all
 . .. it has forgotten the joy
  of being young



Author’s Note: Alan Ginsberg’s poetic write – Howl – still provokes thought, analysis and controversy – surely, the focus of the poet.
I suppose this piece is kind of my vain tribute but there is not a word in it that does not make me want to HOWL – howl TWICE and then keep on howling !!!

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Who wears best this shawl of uncertainty
  whose mind is trained of fears furrow
to bow at noon – the bells of the Angelus
  when blackened clouds of hell descend
around the fair shoulders of the puissant
  burnished shields adorn their defence
within realms of hope and trial, honour gracious
  worn heavy-knit her skin battles fields of care
for tis’ only soldiers that do not wonder 
  who were the authors of their answered prayer

and the Bicker women
  not cultural stereotypes or
  horror film characatures
  taken from some ancient, dusty books
  not plastic, elastic bimbos
the Bicker women 
  local born and bred 
born to Bicker
  who live long in Bicker 
  lives until the ‘she’ is dead
  her splayed black dress 
  her woolen scarf 
  wrapped around her head
  she speaks few words 
  yet kneels to pray
Bicker woman 
  of highest feminine degree
  who went to school at age of five 
  with childhood peers, all years
  her teacher aged 
  much talked of life
Yet no one teaches Bicker woman
  how to be an honest wife
  it is inbred, assumed by sight
  the law of wolves and nature
  understanding, words unsaid

Conscripts travel to their debt
  fair soldiers of regret they line 
the fields of shame, those fit, healthy
  will remain after nights of sordid pain
have robbed their mothers of their love
  none revive yet memory keeps all alive 

and there the Bicker woman
  dressed in morbid black
  her body no less fragile
  her beauty rests beneath her shroud
  of shapely legs and cuni
  her chest adorned of breasts 
she is not an animal to scorn
  or mount within the farmers field
Bicker woman
  made of sterner stuff
  not given to the vagaries of snuff
  or perfumed trinkets
Bicker woman
  the least and last to bicker
  or to gossip or to blather 
  she has no time for sentimentality
  or lust of thought
  she is happy with her lot

The guardian angels who return
  carry their dead and wounded
Jerusalem hath fallen for today
  there are animals now in trail 
who carry broken boys to their
  mothers for burial or for death

but then the Bicker women
  collecting souls from the glen
  where lie generals spent forces
  dead and dying in the heather
tragedy haunts the Bicker women
  their smiles as gentle as their dead


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Periwinkle meets Indigo and they have children .. .


Orion with Dimmer Betelgeuse (Dec 21, 2019)


There is a gap in the cloud today
    where the ink has run and stained the sky
the most perfect blue where rain falls through
    draws my eye from landmarks of confusion

In the calmest brumal evening
  when starlights blaze the cold night-sky
bullet holes expose their marvellous light
  there that colour blue appears again

If it is another moon deception
  born out by bounce of luna-light
then returning birds who fly by night
  their scenic journey they have earned

It is skies who create most seasons
  by whatsoever treason lived alone
they sprinkle thoughts upon us
  among us, we teeming ants

Something then by morning shows
  upon the nature trail, a garden snail
a bee pollinating by her periwinkle
  a fair gash of them in haunting blue

Alienesque, symbiotic, call it just sad
  are we always to be the voyeurs
who could not ever explain emotion
  nor meaning of that peculiar colour



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The Heart of the BEAT POET Is free you do not tell the BEAT POET what to write .. .

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