The Epic Rantings of ME (bristol2london 2008)

I stop in the square on my way to work to sit in the late morning sun, stepping out from the thin chartered streets that blur watery eyed windy shadows shards of city dirt, newspapers and plastic wrappers. I select a damp bench to sit, smoke and sip a latte, a young man jogs by another plays the guitar on the opposite bench, dog walkers, a mother pushes… I push forward as time erodes my space in the weak sunshine square I go to wait tables to mouth monotonous words before imprisonment I take a final glance at the statue before me, it’s of a man on a horse looking noble or victorious with an even prouder pigeon on his head. What are briefcases really for anyway? Why do we swing our arms when we walk?

Bombs under pens land paper lacerations crimson bay flotsam 2 tonne steel floaters. I want to be free before I die and that means no pondering the concept – free from free

In my land, my dom

aim

Who breeds with typing fingers the buttons of words in a myriad of tongues in literature

wilderness to touch a screen

Who uses music to ignite simmering minds notes and media rhetoric to create and

dissipate plug ears in and out flashing before us repeatedly choosing mood, moral

and mode to march across cold water moons human traffic and slow explosions in

naked wombs

Who blooms in blue rooms chasing spirals and diminishing definitions focus on

smudged visions quick burning paper the delicacy of top heavy ash the finer details

of camouflaged faces

Who stops to watch a flock of winged creatures create a cloud that surges in circulation in

the perfect formation

Who can see you do it too walking the rapids through the traffic lights rotating routes to

weave through weeks that bleed into one with colourful screens to blur the seams

of similar scenes

Who smokes, snorts, swallows, goes to the gym with an ipod in hand, drinks and drives

into fruits & thorns to wound the self is to repair to

find what was already there watching, waiting beyond

windows, criminal hyenas pulling party widows to mail order brides and pouches of

rolling tobacco, wolves roll insatiable eyes itchy fingers seek new…

Who travels the planet to the corners of the great open space via TV, the only I see… seek

the spiral staircase inspect the void and do a tribal dance around it’s perimeter,

down the coil to  the bottom stair light

(dirt mountains and JCB’s heat the concrete hills)

Graffiti reflects silver light set sun against wall drive by traffic tides thinking of the flipside street crime asbo vandal caught in commentary art scandal.  of hero’s lost to life I listen to old jimmy’s my eddies on a Tuesday coach journey to London travel still  stick to frolic inside the circle the central point never nears the perimeter feel free to go deaf. Empty the parking lots under the by pass by polar mountainous clouds rolling the skyline into city profiles – songs remind me of places.

Fateful destiny is obvious eternity peel back the film, life is random ramblings & time concepts, office lets, hourly confines stuck inbetween linear lines painted by It is what You want It to Be, because it’s the only way I see?  With company comes equity and insurance and dentistry – text book chemistry. I miss London poetry although I never went to the café but one day…

Life to plastic rabid bags launching attack of the grocery waste armies cling to the living, sweep over the streets – Revenge of the zombie sewage peeking up out from gutter demonic drains – The Rubbish Zone.

Follow another line down the middle island stripping white stripes to no man’s land…follow down concrete trail ways crossing by-pass to just keep passing by…

W. Hampstead

Encapsulate what it is to: beat with purpose without time, in the space that has become. Sex is the primal pleasure that binds us bound in sitting, standing, waiting verbs spoken with a sweaty upper lip, facial contortions to relieve emotional waters

Who sits rooted anticipating, silent and knowing, deciphering the cipher without the

ability to communicate with words the pieces of the pi?

Who moves you but cannot EAT core stage lights to strip unfolding petal open bare colour

weep to be printed on a page –  dribble a pint down chin stand to shoot balls into cresant

shaped space pockets cigarettes feeling the base with feet and having to now

smoke outside

Who shall always return and be reborn reuniting himself with familiar futures while the

trees wave out the window, listen to the deluge and paddle in pleasantries and roll

ups to ash on yourself again in front of another no smoking sign

Whose feet travel the invisible tracks walking up the same similar stones up the

water ways seeking waterfalls and lizards and fat summer leaves.

Umbrellas topple and people popple over thundering plates logos and personality vehicles to mask cosmopolitan cosmos, smoking spliffs and rotating shifts- race track back to the forward, inside hoops joining the loops and cherishing soulful scrapings…

drop fly and fluctuate lactating liquid knowledge from giant udders with multiple nipples or instead have it squirt out of soap dispensers simple gems of wisdom, spinning and split leaping to Hendrix and Morrison screaming fuck it in the ass!

Outside is through my window with Space and Stars in my head. We try to gravitate towards the centre of what we believe, following the threads of soul and tugging at it’s connections. Carry out lost voices, sprouting surreptitious inspirations in a myriad of wings. Can you still hear the one true voice? Dot. Ring. Pupil. Moon. Seed.

Push out perimeters and planets return from the radius and sail back to the point, the person, the apple core of still space. Space between breath, letters, seconds and reflections. Space between, we need some but not too much. Fill it with speech, beer negotiations, body releases, frolics, fantasies and feasts. A moment and the space fills again, head space eyes go to river and the season leans into the arc  in shadows weak sun into the raining fire of crispy remnants and busy squirrels cheeky, fat and burrowing…the aero space rodent. All life has a face. Never avoid your space when it calls or your heart when it falls. The Universe holds a myriad of layers we simply scale her edges. The less we know the wiser we become, study impulse, instinct, out of time, all the time soaking up off beat.

The universe is a Russian dull.

The Russian dull riddled with parody.

Only mortality is reality.

Clean, cold vision thru the window

out the left hand side of my mind