Snooze Button

Seconds before I must fall back awake,

To drizzling dreaminess uneasily I sling-shot

my flimsy detaching spiral.

The Snooze Button - a praying mantis.

And I cannot shake away its silent countdown,

The temp-deafened digital laughter.

My eyes - as sore as Romeo's;

A salted ochre sea star Guanatanamo.

And, in dream, the snooze button pounces,

Like The News At Ten:

Yodel-dong:

"Tonight: The World's End.."

Dong.

"Golf"

Dong.

"No more weather - ever"

Dong.

Snooze button,

Snooze button,

You gift me only lucid, anxious nightmares;

Your sonic rainbow rays pour

primary colours liquid concrete grey,

Coal, charcoal, ash,

Municipal car park green,

Institutional padded cell cream,

And asbestos marine.

Snooze button,

Snooze button,

I hope no one dedicates a poem to you.

Snooze button,

In five minutes time,

You'll press my button again.

A flaying embrace of flailing sunlight,

As golden as swaying moles at the stroke of midnight.

Snooze button,

You spill through my eyes you salt plain sorcery,

Enticing wishful mirages of dreaming drowning.

Forty-Two Seconds

Congratulations, and,

Please rest assured,
Your limited edition mp3,
Will be with you shortly,

And will arrive in a virtual-cardboard gatefold sleeve.

And, in delightful edition -

Its very special revolving hole,

Wrapped tenderly - hand-made too!

Will come to you separately,
Posted in a vacuum-sealed, sexy black bubble-wrap.

Now,
We're sorry,

For we are now legally obliged to state the obvious to you:
We know, probably, you are aware of this already, and,

Justin Bieber appreciates your patience and understanding here,

Truly, he does,

For he knows how seriously his special fans,

Love all manifestations of life in this amazing universe so very much:

A universe that created Justin Bieber,

And Justin Bieber fans,

And on the same planet,

And at the same time, means,

Truly,

We Are All One.

But Justin Bieber's lawyers still wish you to know:

Please don't, by accident,

Drop the hole for this mp3 through your hands:
A dropped revolving hole may trigger,

A cataclysmic flux in space-time,

Ripping the entire universe to absolute shreds.

Don't do this in Justin Bieber's name:

He loves you as he loves Canada.

Justin Bieber doesn't want any of his truly astonishing fans to

wipe out fifty-billion-and-one civilisations instantly.

And all for being a little clumsy?

And please be aware,
The person who drops the mp3 hole will be humanity's sole survivor,

(Being the centre of the catastrophe, ironically perhaps,

Means being the only one to escape instant death).

Now that is not good news,
As everyone else, all dead, shall eagerly await their slayer's arrival,
Down and into,

The newly terrible and vengeful black hole afterlife.
And "sorry" and "please forgive me" won't cut it there:
For your forgiving and loving God,

Wrapped as She is,

In the very bubble-wrap of space-time,

Would also have died.

However,

The swirling, melting afterlife,

Functioning out of space and time,

Would thrive.

And yes,

That is really ironic.

Even Justin Bieber's pure and eternal soul won't be able to save you there.

Dear winner,

Please don't let this information spoil your enjoyment of this limited edition mp3,
With its virtual gatefold sleeve,

And its very special revolving hole,
Arriving separately,
In sexy black bubble wrap.

Justin Bieber endorses this message.

********************************

Well,

That was forty-two seconds of your life,
You will never get back.

So how was it for you?

Actually -

Only kidding!

Here you go:
Here's your forty-two seconds back.
Please put them away in a cool, dry and safe place,

Until you need them.

Please use your forty-two seconds wisely,

By July 3011.

If you accidentally consume these forty-two seconds after the use-by-date,

Please fly back in time,
Before your cosmic consciousness disintegrates;
Your local time-warp shaman,

Will be glad to assist you with this,
So don't worry.

(And in case you are wondering -
And you probably are -

Time-warp shamanic practitioners

Will come into existence,

In ninety years and twelve seconds time, precisely,

By which time,

You will also be delighted to hear,
We would also have paid off our current national deficit,
And be invited to join The New Mongol Empire.

The New Mongol Empire?

Oh, don't ask.)

So remember,
Justin Bieber wants you to enjoy his compositions,

And his very special revolving hole,
Safely.

Please be warned:
The lyrics on this mp3,

Contain mild expressions of sentimental sadness.

Justin Bieber,

And The New Mongol Empire,
Endorse this message.

The Swimming Bells

I heard the scream,
So through walls I fell,
A sidewinder of dream:
The swimming bells.

I serenaded stone-white-noise and other idiots,
Where bricks grow.

I love leaning on rain:
Still life on bursting sky:
In every cloud hangs the bath.

Can we parachute from clouds?
Can clouds?

I'll tip my tethered cloud over this one:
A silvery stream liner for dreaming on:
A slidden slumber chandelier,
A wonderful plumping floss flamingo.

Am I insured for domestic cloud explosions?

The monsoon trenches are triggered.

Too late now.

So as I lay myself down on my raindrop eiderdown,

From my concrete floor carnations bloom.

Me And Whose Army Me And Whose Army Me And Whose Army

sickening I know

how. dare. they. do. that. missing children dead soldiers terrorist victims

hacked

Shouldn't. Be. Allowed.

so-called journalists

distraught parents' phones

is nothing sacred

the body bags the salutes the kids watching the widow weep

a floor elsewhere loosens the vanquished lover gripping air

like a mime artist holding a hand

and. then. this.

his mum had a breakdown you know

too difficult to get over:

they must close it down

sick toxic

no advertisers should touch it

and

lo

the righteous indignation's and the its gone too far's

rang around the nation for almost three days British Summer Time

like a caveman with tinnitus lying on the sun bed

(wimbledon had just finished)

but it's a new day tomorrow

life goes on

and that means:

I'll Have To Buy The Last Edition

******************************

(a lapsed hindu scribe writes):

two of a thousand years ago

a bloke pissed 'em off

got hung on a cross

He looked down

and watched an enterprising fellow chipping away at his crucifix's foundation

The Jesus Bloke:

Don't worry my son

Don't try to free me

The Lord will..

bloke bloke:

nah nah don't worry

i'm just chopping bits off for a souvenir

i won't compromise your foundation

you won't fall

i just pray

that it will sell on eBay

i've got some paracetimol if you like..

and forgive me

i know i'm not a christian

but who at the present moment is

i know that's a bit deep

the centurions chuckled

* =

A time will come,
When we can no longer abide ourselves
passing air,
From,
You know,
Down there.

And when no-one is looking,
We will explode ourselves violently timid -
Like a spatula smearing -
Above the dark side of the moon,
(But far away from the Greys' secret observation towers).*

Yet meanwhile,
We shall not pay a second glance,
When kids or grannies,
Fiddle themselves to blindness at the bus stop:
It will just be:
A thing that happens.

And like any workaday entry-point phenomenon,
New and strange target-markets shall be deformed,
That advertisers and marketing people,
Will endevour to consumate.

* = asterisk

Whistler Tear Rockets (The Cubist Chef And The Triangle Sandwich)

I loved you like an astronaut
loves an actress
loves an eclipse,

You haunt my leave like mist.
I drank your trees.
(I hammer orchids still.)

You whirled stark firework arrays:
Whistler-tear-rockets:
Strafing Butterflies.

Like a chocolate dream of incense,
Flute streams slid waterfall lemons..

Lip-read the smile for a walrus,
A dentist lost.

Your nightingales sang with mermaids
of selling my heart on eBay,

This snow dog bewitched.

A shake down by the moon of lamp post light,
And soon simile solitaire blossomed.

My bauble lighthouse,
Your burning hair-tong-eyes
smoked my moustache's tiny tresses to ashes.

The cubist chef and the triangle sandwich.

Like a whitewash of creasing skylights,
You loved me.

Explicit Parental Advisory

This Parental Advisory with capital P and capital A,

Is To Warn,

That this poem is a fucking, cunting, explicit,

One.

And if you're a parent,

And if you're under eighteen,

Then, well, it's too late for you.

And what did you do?

Well it's still not too late to

Sign Up:

Those philistines you're nearly.

Just fight it.

This is a factotum parental advisory.

In fact,

This is the world's first fucking explicit parental advisory;

Please be warned then,

That this fucking poem has fucking swear words in -

Lots of them,

And when you're least fuckin' expecting it.

Cunting.

You may have fucked up your own life by now,

Please don't say you haven't:

You're reading this.

Don't let your kids read poetry,

Especially jejune, fucked-up verse.

Ban this explicit, cunting, fucking exploding cock

of a so-called fucking poem.

Maybe if your parents..

Ah,

You wouldn't have ventured and supped from this crayon,

And from this filthy poison-ink well.

All your dreams gone and going, going,

Everything you once hated now lactating life

longing long-life,

Skimmed,

Semi-conscious asses milk,

Fortified with thorns, and,

A halo of flies around a princess,

Two for the price of

None.

There's nothing to see here, please move on.

Bargain.

Just can't make it can you?

Think the poet clever?

Rhyming purple with, uh, dark purple? Oh yeah, oh yeah!

Doesn't rhyme, Pine:

Cheating.

Free verse poetry is lazy and absurd,

(You get the point?),

For,

You cannot make oysters from custard pearls,

That stream of consciousness,

Is steam-puddles for girls.

Like a Buddhist on a pogo stick without a carrot for a light bulb:

Birds sing from twigs,

But bricks don't shit.

Think about it mister man,

Think about it.

Everything gravitational,

You cannot eat a scientist from a periodic table,

(Unless it's Mayan).

And a scientist fell from an apple tree.

So

I

Won't

Go

On.

And this was the world's first cunting explicit parental advisory,

And for a fucking poem!

This explicit parental advisory was bought on your behalf by:

Cluster bombs on lead guitar,

Another Politician With Vision on your bass case,

A Daily Express seer on triangle,

The four pony-fuckers of the new and improved apocalypse

on the do-ron-ron Nero fiddling calypso,

Concerned Mothers For Assault Weapons And Against Bad Poets

That Swear For No Fucking Reason I Can See

on bazooka,

Fundamentalists and celebrity fundamentalist atheists

on each other,

America Junior

on God Knows What(TM),

Distraught conspiracy theorists

on silenced silencer tamborines,

Sell-out musicians

on advertising trampolines,

And last-but-by-no-means-least,

The Conived Consensus Jazz Ensemble

on

Banging

Whose

Drum?

And,

Most deceased poets,

Especially those liberal-elite dead French ones,

Who gilded their lily livers in the Euro Trash Salons of Syphilis...

Where are they now?

Their faces eaten off..

So what does that tell ya?

What does it fuckin' tell ya, soldier?

What does it fuckin' tell ya?

So,

Whose your daddy?

Whose the superman?

Whose the fuckin' unicorn?

Music/Love

If music be the food of love -

I'm a tone-deaf blancmange.

Welcome To The Garden Gnome Shopping Channel

Welcome to The Garden Gnome Shopping Channel,

And,

If this is your first time here -

Why?

Where have you been?

We mass produce uniquely,

Our gnome-lines are refreshed twice-weekly,

Each gnome has its own i.d number,

So rest assured,

One can never be mistaken for another.

Mould-engineered by plastic injection craftsmen,

Then hand-finished by aerosol paint artisans,

Your garden gnome is guaranteed authentic -

Their bobble-hatted face won't drip,

And their shatter-proof head will nod happily on windy days.

We are the only licensed garden gnome sellers in the UK.

So what are you waiting for?

Rome wasn't built in a day,

But our gnomes are,

Meaning your gnome could be with you within thirty-six hours,

Or - if you require it urgently - within twenty-four,

And it will cost you only four pounds more,

Couriered directly from our air-conditioned warehouse in Bangalore.

Those..

I know you'll agree with me:

They make me livid:

Coming over here and taking our council flats and towels.

I bet in their country they can't do..that.

They probably don't even have towels over there,

Unless it's on their fuckin' heads..

And another thing:

It's political correctness gone mad.

It's political correctness gone mad.

I'm not allowed to say I wish they were dead,

Or that if my girlfriend slept with one of them

I'd kick them in the head.

Oh no, I can't say that now,

'cos that makes me a racist misogynist

(whatever they are),

It's like I'm a stranger in my own country.

They come over here,

Nicking our jobs,

Signing on the dole,

Sleeping with our bitches.

Those..

..don't even know

how to treat our women..

It's,

Political correctness gone mad.

It's political correctness gone mad.

You couldn't make it up..

That's twenty pounds please.

Here's nineteen-ninety-nine.

keep the change..

The Honeyed Abyss, The Night Torn

Palms brush-stroke impressions,
Moonbeams stoke, seep and melt,
Sliding skin diffusing,
Divining;
Gazelle liquid eyes shimmer fathomless,
Bewitching;
Hair, charcoal dew - yarn-spun,
Frames the night,
Sealing silken whispers electric,
Comingling: The Honeyed Abyss,
Enraptured in the sparkle of Orion.

Fingertip streams,
Unclasp Time's necklace:
Jade.
Purest Now.
Nothingness.
Amnesia.

The life lifted,
The landfall - Dream.
The Nature Awakened,
Yearning eternity
imprinting commentary
on the moment.

The night torn,
Just plucked away,

The cruel birds arrive,
I know, I know:
Soon:
Work.
Oh..

Next!

Need a mortgage?

Drill your eyes.

Then?

Parents?

Dead or alive?

Take their money and their life -

Milk, parasite,

Milk the fuckers dry.

Then?

Grand parents?

Oh dear,

They've no right to be alive,

(They've no right to be dead for that matter!)

It's in the fuckin' will,

Or it will be,

So go for it!

Just go for it.

One small thing:

Don't complain,

When your eyes widen,

A few seconds before one of your fetid offspring,

Your fetid, hateful, ill-begotten offspring,

Fires a bullet -

Bull's-eye,

Through your fuck head.

Don't take it personally;

See it as a chip-off-the-old-block,

A blood-hound tracker-mortgage 2nd generation application.

It's your kids,

Your kids,

Giving something back.

And they don't wanna see you suffer,

See you dribble and gurn,

Down on some granny farm:

You have no right to make them see all that,

You selfish bastard.

Next!