Category: Tjugotvå (page 4 of 5)

down here in the dead ideas office
we mark all your thoughts as read

don’t be alarm’d it’s just routine
most people’s are a waste of space

& friday’s pay day so we slack off
just a bit (long enough for a wink

long enough for you to emote a hit
or a telepathic experience of ‘snow

inside a glass jar’ thinking (o tack
for th’ emergency radiohead anorak

only forty quid & left here today
by someone who refused to give

their number or even leave a name
which was a pity as you’ll probably

be needing something big & yellow
to hide your big empty head under!

hooray, no spam here! (tho notions
that’ve been here more than thirty

days will be automatically deleted
then marked as dead all over again

incantations iv: 

I feel all my childood & its dreams 
in this video

my father 
        & his brothers 
                     & their seventies stereos:

born into the space age 
watching all the menus collapse
like when you plonk a person 

     somewhere            

                  deep              

              IN SPAAAAAACE!

well, what does that make 
synthesisers, then - pop?

billions of commenters 
on the new tube [heya ... ]

                              & still you think
that's nothing special? 

get this into yr thick skull:

it's all about the fucking comments 

          - all of them!

& when the melody collapses into now, 

     you'll know it!

you'll believe it, then: 

crystal clear, 
a memory of                 childood & its dreams, 
the melody's menu shattered
& deep space empty except for 

     the one person in it!

o keyboard warriors! 
sentimental new age jazz hearts!
interstellar phenomena reduced to saucepans & seas!

time-lapsed breathing 
& our curled spoons of sleep ...

i'd cry              GIVE IT TO ME, NOW! 

were the sounds not already trapped
inside the machine;

we're just waiting 
for the lights to go dim:

Another Aussie here 

           wiping away tears - 


chil 

             dood.

heya cometh everyboddeeee! right out of the sleigh:
purring like honey from a see-through plastic bag!

& the dread, the dead night-cruise drops its beats
& sings 'la la la la la la laaaaaaa' like a lidl lamb!

hey did i dream all of that? or are we all still here,
shouting 'ship to shore' from the top of the stuga?

life is a fritidshus that belongs to someone else -
but iiiii'm still standing here, in the soupy dimma

& that's my dilemma: stay sane, or else go barking
up the trunks of unfamiliar trees; well, i think i know

which way you'll lean, & so i'll engrave our names
on the nearest manhole cover & call it kul, or jul:

coz blekinge's wastes hold yesterday's rain & crawl
like bereaved remainders 

           of midsomma 
                              (& madness

just how did the moon stay magnetic? 
answer: something to do with the sea
or the way the dolphin cow calls to
her calf: a little click - there, maybe
a whistle, every second or so, then 
a brief empty eternal moment before
she echolocates that tiny response - 
whether far away or close - just as
long as it comes, once a second or so
like the blinking eye of a lighthouse
signalling rocks, signalling a breath
that's not empty, that's never still,
a beat sharp as a daydream or smoke
on the horizon (that signals a passing
cruise liner, the rush to ignite bonfires,
defeat the marauding shark that never
sleeps, not like the cold, dead moon
that's nevertheless magnetic, tiny death
washed up on some faraway beach where 
lovers walk in the moonlight, kicking 
sand with perfectly painted toenails,
rolling like a post-magnetic wave furls
forever against the reef, dolphin calf
nudged with a pectoral fin, the burst!
like a bullet through the salty water's
medium, the rush of blood through blue
veins (the moon calling endlessly to her
lover, her mother, forever in captivity
breaching now like a song in still air

... my face on yr space (rule #1: clone tagging!
      the school for the too-cool, hispter-brew,
      squeaky shoes - taggin' ... 'n' braggin'! 

done tagging my place get into yr space-(acne)
      new tool, tru blue hood, flute reeds 'n'
      music sheet screeds wot i wrote, emo(t)!

done tagging, so i'm tur(n)ing now to slaggin'
      grange hill replicas, appendectomies, emm ...
      lap answers (ZOMG) to yr velodromances!

... my race in yr two-faced analogue haterz - 
      yo, srly? & back off chrome-nose, pooh-
      bear hose & pass the amyl bag, bones!?

oh noes, all my tags like sprayed in yr face!
      disgrace (eg larsson 'widow' carryin' mace
      why dontcha tie this-a, shoelace! salam-

ander, salam! - tag this space (& gracefully 
      degradez, slam salam i am an anagram &
      the signature tune (the spoon (imoon!))

... my tag & yr space in the book of some face
      a la buttery biscuit bass i'm done tagging 
      & yr like amazed? 

                          like a flowa in a vaze?