Blog

Death of the Trustafarian

Your locks should have been oiled
with coconut not patchouli.

Surely your research truly
could have, should have,
shocked the establishment out of
the confusion, this allusion
to the Asian flowering plant
would have offended the resident Dryad of your mother’s reading room Waterhouse.
She, furious and beguiling,
would rather you had washed your locks amongst the other daffodils and then fucked off
away from their sylvan realm
to drum, hum-drum, melancholy,
you and your pedigree dawg on
a Rajisthani hand-loom string
eating black organic lentils
from Notting Hill.

You want world peace and I do too
I see the gentleness inside of you
radiant philosophy
a gradient of joy as we ascend
the concrete steps to the free party
after dusk, no cicadas just cigarette ends
Yours are American Spirit which
taste nice like smoke signals
of the heart and I always liked the
printed blue and yellow
but again Fuck Off

you are smarter than this
so apply that colossal and heritage
mind to dissolving the sunset
and painting a modern picture
of union not that Benetton
hand-holding of the 90’s but
conversation and giant ears
listening, like a hares up on the Heath
in the spring breeze, open.

Come invest yourself in a true way
and I will too.
I will work hard to peel away the
onion skins of city, migration, misfit.
Sell the Waterhouse for refugee bread
and let’s preach on the road
of the endless distractions
we battle today, we who seek
gentleness and mother-branches
to break our fall and green to enrobe us.

Come let’s dance on the table tops;
and I mean the cracked white melamine ones-
auction off the oak dining tables
and death beds,

Come, we are free.

 

 

Notes:

London opens its arms to artists of The Old Order. It’s Members Only clubs sink with gold crafted into the charm bracelets of New Brittania, heirlooms of hedonism and the aesthetics of the Modern Romantics.  It is possible to build art and microsociety when one has means in West London.

This observation undermines itself as performs it’s own othering. How boring to fall prey to that which you abhor. Societal chains and shoulder chips are boundaries enabling growth of energy. All humans can apply this energy to develop themselves and culture.

But do we have to bring in the personal? Autobiography is a necessary autopsy. From reflecting on it we learn means of freedom including relationally.

 

 

The New Guardians

 

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

!!!
Detox
Retox

Like like like
They like that you like
But it’s not love, baby

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Dissect
entrails
of mind

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Entrails are jewellery

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Your body
is a temple
#outertolerance
#innerdiscipline
#nocompromise

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Clean eating
Clean decor
Clean mind
Dirty money

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Repeated stories
Feedback loop loop loop
Mindwash until clean

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

There is no life
outside the machine

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

You are predicted
to choose a tree pod
burial which will
be offered as a lifestyle
package linked to oil
drilling companies

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

You are only
as beautiful
as versions of you
generated by the machine

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

While this lasts

While this lasts

 

 

 

Gravity Boots

Your voice was
Motown
frozen in acid,
thawing out at dawn
in the Nevada desert.

Your embrace was
a pair of gravity boots within
an exercise in weightlessness.

Your walk was
like a time machine slowing
detail, casting a magnifying lens
over surface.

Your wit was
like one magpie being joined
by another;
broken shells hanging
from beak as the sun sets.

Your words rest
within this vacant mansion
of my heart;
marionettes with their strings
laid to rest.
Inanimate but present.

 

 

 

 

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

I found God in Vermillion House
a glittering brutalist council tower
totemic on the horizon

He was loitering in the stairwell
and stank of piss and PineFresh
glittering with tin

the tinkling sound of empties
strung out in the morning breeze
forewarned of his divine and glittering presence

and decorated these concrete angles
with infinite glittering space-time
and celebration cake on lace

the glittering tinkling filling my head
with clear water and ice;
my thirst was quenched.

Today is a new day and the longest
of the year
standing on the balcony fifty-two floors up
humming the glittering sun in

hands empty, the photographs of home dropped in dry Libyan cells

just the glittering of fire sparks
everywhere I look

igniting paper in old books
which tell of milk and glittering honey for those chosen again and again

extolling what makes one life grievable and another’s not-
when the glittering truth unravels beyond sea-burial

and in the surviving speeches
of primary school teachers
hanging in mildewed classrooms
like small glittering triumphs

and in the making of tea in battered
glittering pots from Baghdad
to warm the elderly neighbour from Broadstairs

and in the pile of glittering cellophane -wrapped flowers seen from this window

not in those subterranean glittering gold dens
of numbers and rank and numbness

not in my glittering name…
Come here, God, take a look
at this view

 

 

 

The Theatre of Sudden Death

It was a middle class delight
a five quid Easter workshop crafting
a miniature stage with backdrops
and tiny props of clay and card
for kids.
Everything under control.
At the end we all promenaded
past each other’s simulacra.

There was a stone henge forced
by a Druidic parent,
a wizard’s incantations realised
in grotesque pipe cleaners and Macbeth’s three hags around a pot.
In one scene a Victorian nanny
was decapitating a child with her
moving arm, a brutal Mary Poppins.

Perhaps they were all channelling
the Easter message, the perfect
puppetry of animation over death,
the confronting of things in neat boxes.
Contained and of interest.