Category: Automatic writing

con artist 

a con artist in the big house

   the tiniest hands the easiest of crimes 

  a stolen nation

stored rock by rock in safety deposit boxes 

above him

out of his league
toss him through the window

leave him at the side of the road 
into a pile of plug in girlfriends

discarded as hard to clean for  

fear of damaging conduits and coils 
that hiss 

and fizz and the sound of a can of Coke opening is the sound of Satan leaving your soul 
said the priest 
the church of Coke: 

artistic glass bottles of the 1950s 

shaped like woman you wanted to fuck 

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downloading Back to the Future

one

two

three 
French kissing your mum in purple pants and pretending it wasn’t you   
I asked her what she was thinking 

– she slammed the doors

– smashed the windows

– stole a car

– burned the house down

 -fled town
– two weeks later

anonymous phones calls where I can hear a fountain /waterfall / seasonal rains / hotel shower / pissing

– whispered words 

– a well fingered photograph of

teenage confusion: 

I knew I liked woman 

and spent years thinking I must be a lesbian – 

— erasing paragraphs from the bible like a child screaming with his fingers in his ears —

if it’s removed it never happened

—all those people in the cemetery never existed

vertical burials in the wasteland  

 

 

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when Rhianna came to tea 

she came to my house for some home cooked food 
—she ate like a baby bird

–small portions 

–she even bought her own cutlery

–the tiniest fork I’d ever seen 

         the conversation flowed 

she touched me under the table

I blushed – after the meal she sang to me. I was far too polite to tell her she was no Nina Simone

the next day she wrote to a prisoner and told him about the smell of the flowers in her garden
she tried explain the taste of the ramen noodles she had last night
she described the wind and
she drew them a picture of a dog reading a book

more automatic writing 

        inside the clouds reading about
25 million domesticated chickens – when the missionaries arrived they said you had to kill all the dancing girls – up here
      breathing in third hand air from the kamikazes oxygen mask 

   the song tells me Lenny Bruce never wore a pair of second hand shoes –

          arguing siblings & idiot brothers 
                 11 types of meat 

the milk doesn’t taste like it should 

     the coastline is mountains and belongs to a country I don’t know the name of

—-mountains of cinematic proportions–a Hollywood adaptation of the Visigoth tearing through this landscape of people taking selfies & macho volleyball
— time and geography is confused — 
missiles launched at nowhere in particular 
I saw a unicorn as the clock struck midnight 
fear of plastics 

fear of plastics 
neauve rich Russians with gold crucifixes & designer swimming trunks 
      their tiny wife’s have Aushwitz bodies 
     

4% battery 

a bruise colour blue

in the shape of a country you discovered in you mind years ago

         you named it and designed a flag

– Mexico City is angry

– London Bridge is falling dow

my phone has 4% battery so I know time is short 
I’m not who you think I am

all my writing is edited by an office of low paid secretaries and retired professors 

             I use computer programmes and algorithms 

             I steal lines from songs and books 

       I’ve never heard of Robert Frost 

I’m a 3ft black midget 

      I’m a cross dressing reality TV star 

   I’ve been to all the church’s in Utah 

        and you told me you wrote to a prisoner

and told him about the smell of the flowers in your garden

you tried explained the taste of the ramen noodles you had last night
you described the wind and

you drew them a picture of a dog reading a book

eczema scratch 

dead skin with eczema scratches and thoughts of enemies and enemas in a world where uber drivers deliver lukewarm food where the sky was white now it’s an ocean of clouds that resemble the arcade game characters you grew up with – 

 

I am reading Romantic Dogs on a bus where a two women are talking about how much they hate their children – 

the keys in my bag chime against coins – my mind drifts

to secret languages 

and handshakes we used as kids 

    – those old streets with dog shit and overfilled bins

dirty municipal swimming pools and empty swings –
and now in my ear a song that mentions the Satanic Bible and Steve McQueen 

and Papillon
alone

floating in the sea