it was another sunday stirring bourbon in the wing-backed chair,in the same old place i always end up in when im flush. I saw you at the bar, said my hellos, smiled & exepted your drink offer, and sat back down on my own to squint at the yellow pages of a russian novel and try to forget that i was me(or something, whatever)and change my scenery. It didnt take long until you were dragging me away up the stairs to kiss me and turn me to stone, again(i thought anyway)

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Road trip.

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today, was the first frost of winter.

O’ joy, O’ something ‘poetic’…

->insert classically written prose here<-

….and then came the spring.


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Newly found old ramble

Wednesday 14th July 0010

The town was Victorian & buzzing blue Tinted.

The girls were wide-hided, tight haired & hoop eared.

My stomach was empty &  my face was white,

but still I felt good(good for me anyway)

The simple task of walking in a straight line

was made a task, by the weather.

The old cowardly Mr. wind was blowing,

blowing  hat from dishevelled head

causing my right hand to hold it in place

whist my left held on to a borrowed Brett Ellis,

all the while, both hands rolling a rollie, roll-up…

13 minutes


87 people passed…

I succeeded in my mighty, windy voyage .

Delivered the stolen sunglasses to the letterbox,

clapping & whistling ‘St Louis Blues’

all the way…


…The sweaty fat pig woman says,

”I’s sweatin’ like eh fat pig”

…And, time for bed, again.



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Corduroy Boy(complete with typos & spelling mistakes!)


The diamonds are gone & the light  now blue,
the curtains now closed, blocking my view
of the painkiller nights, old blue harvest moon.
Those old tom cat missions &  filling of shoes.
Understand, command & blake(the grain of sand)
The remanence of visions once held in the hand
of the ragga-boned corduroy boy,
the scarecrow girl lying on wet morning grass.
Broken back, fractured arms, two legs shared a cast,
stale-bread passions & the ramblings of Christ.
That story I once wrote about a lunatic
franticly stitching the wings of an albatross to his back
in the tallest tower. Writhing & screaming in pain,
his tears flooding the town beneath.
Drowning the figure heads & spoon-feds, chicken legs.
All the while planning & dreaming of the day
he would be king.
That old gypsy-ragged dreamers,
somewhere down the road…
Spitting & gargling out rambles; princes, toads…
But now it’s all come full circle,
as they tend to do…
I’m always sleeping or writing or dreaming or drinking,
happiness in sadness
a simple joyous depression.
Keeps me on my toes.
(my hands are blank with ink)

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A few rambles.

Another list
‘ The human body is comprised of several ‘substances’
hydrogen hydroxide,
fountain pens,
the lost dates of calenders,
various small woodland animals,
rabbits & field mice.
Other such things as…
Misplaced birthmarks(of the brain)
feelings of remorse and regret,
the stolen trinkets of past lovers,
and of course,
white blood cells,
and the second hand
from a 1956 ‘hamilton railroad’ pocket watch.’ 


‘The cobwebs in my grandfather’s
camera case are beginning to resemble
those of which seen
in the marshlands of kamandoo,
made primarily by
the king cape spider(or ‘makalam dahre’)
This worries me deeply,
as I have seen the damage they can bestow
on their luckless victims…
Tear a mans flesh from bone
in a matter of minutes.
Although they first inject a paralyzing venom
as to not cause pain during their feasting,
this is still not a fate I would wish to meet…
I shall take to the hills
on the 5Th.’


painted pockets

Wind blowing south east
rain falling 45 degrees,
house is freezing,
shaking at the knees,
follow hollow howling pine trees. 

vivaldi’s black velvet jacket
smoking through the packet…

‘roken veroorsakt doelijke longkenker’

April 1st,
fool for a day!
Shooting gallery man shot Miss maddame,
shot the 30.20 from your hand
Dodge the bullet like billy the Kidd.
Go into hiding with aunt Joanne and Santa clause.
Another day another disappointment
Automatic writing is slow when the letter A is broken
and the ribbon is drying out.

The mice(thrice)are still scratching at my ceiling
working night by night to the city they’re building,
stealing all my rubbish…
Playing cards,
golden cuff links,
zippo lighter,
plastic army men,
gaffa tape & shoe laces…

I wish i was a sailor in the 40s,
a detective in the 20s,
a beat in the late 50s-early 60s,
a french/German composer,
a fucking milkman!
Anything or something,
but for now,
I’m just a sleepy bohemian pounding rambles
on a broken typewriter.
Ramble #6896 over
and out.’


‘I have no songs left’
the sound of my watch ticking
is deafening.
My sunglasses aren’t dark enough.
‘I cant stand my own mind’
Cant face the sun.
Cant stop complaining
blah blah-f*cking-blahh.

You were right,
this town IS dead.
Every Time I walk the streets
it sickens me
I avoid it at all cost
I haven’t left the house in days
every time I go out I come back drunk
my phone hasn’t rang in months
I don’t care
I-I-I, me-me-me
I have debts to pay
outa’ my way.

I miss ‘the good old days’
I was always stoned and I never came home
I used to be Lou Reed
thought I could make any girl
(inside unflowering rose petal)
mermaid juice & the holy triangle(says Mr Liech)
Rambling-beer brave-tea slave…
‘the good old days’ indeed.

I am not permitted to speak of the war.
Must trust ‘the powers that be’
Must believe in heroes.
Must bath in blood.
Must murder the innocent.
oh, its all so confusing,
why bother?
I met a soldier on leave(knuckles dragging)
he showed me a video of him killing people
from an army chopper
he thought it was hilarious.
Sick to my boots.
Patted him on the back & smiled.
”I hate people.”
I hope you get a medal(fucking troglodyte)
I can not complain unless i am in a box
I’m sorry.
Leave me alone
don’t bother me
I’m leaving for Lyon.


Queen Jane made it nine days before she lost her head
her sister was her mother & the king her cousin lover
fifteen swings of the executioners blade
took his time
‘take a ticket, back of the line’
Antonio in velvet sings the lovesick blues
screaming shouting howling sonnets backwards like a loon
while Harry thumbs to Cuba in his tattered genie shoes
neath a canvas banner reading ‘have you heard the news?’

‘don’t believe without experiment’
what i read that Jesus meant
to be true there must be doubt, with no regard to anything around
its written in the depot walls in the underground of luxembourg
have you seen it? asked the stranger clothed in chains
shaving his bulbous head for the removal of his brains
the nurse she kissed him soft & slow and she refused to let him go
when the doctor starts his chainsaw you can see his smile grow…oh


You can always trust a man in a blue trench coat
Wise words from an old drunk #14
”the one that got away can not have been the one.
Because she got away.”
I continued to rant about Henry Chinaski..
He shook my hand & walked away.
Left his jacket.
”Don’t go back to St Louis”
In the softly pitter-patter
tin roof-green light rains
out with a bottle
& all my friends
making notes
quoting quotes
play the Johanna…
”down in the cold
rising damp
the stain
on your shirt.”
”how can I write a holy litany
in your silly mood?”
I find myself
too much like
a magpie,
wrapped in
Outside the window
all of the windows outside
are looking inside.

I have been beginning to notice
that I(and I may not be alone)
always look at the past
through a marigold monocle.

This, meaning nothing now
ever seems to be joyous
or gay or splendiferous
until it is a past memory.
A cobweb.
A rafter.
A leaf on the ground.

…I guess.

more to come.
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