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all of a sudden passion suddenly

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Childhood is made of the simple things

Sketch the farm first. Capture
every detail: chickens, cows,
cats stretching like the sun.
Ignore machinery, they are not

needed in the picture. Observe
bales of hay being lifted down
onto fields. Men break backs
as they cut it down into chunks.

Forget them. Concentrate on the
farmhouse: a postcard perfect
image, snatched from a toyshop
and placed here - in the middle

of nowhere. Start sketching shadows
behind curtains, that is our scene.
And then when you are done, throw
it in your iris, feeling it crack.
 
History


Everywhere is speaking your secrets
today. A game played by trees, soil
and footprints. Lemonskin trainers
start to join in, picking up clues

lodged on a piece of gum. But you
can't see them. That isn't part of
the rules. All you can do is just watch
everything being gathered up

before being reassembled in a lab
somewhere in Ohio and filed away.
History will sleep tonight there -
you won't.
 
I kidnapped your ghost
but speck by speck you dissolved into the ether
while I slept drugged in the euphori of self prescribed mourning
choreohraphed processions and cross me on the insense you climbed the smoke ladder
smoke in smoke

I sit on the bridge
leaves appear from the tunnels under
bumper car current how nice
you have found playmates
canoe free travel

I have nothing to say
 
Autism 2

He waggles his fingers at me,
says HAH HAH HAH. He chases
me in thuds, heavy black shoes
tread a mismatched gait and he sings
surprisingly well I think
it's operatic hip-hop but he scorns
me, says "It's Castlevania!"

Little do I know
when his faded eyes pin
mine then slide off
to some other blue world I can't
go there but imagine his tangled
thoughts, a Gordian knot of synapses
firing blanks that end in shrieks

sometimes happy

we sit on his bed, Spiderman sheets
and drawings of fingers that almost
touch I think of God and Adam
is his name. He remembers
my dog, calls him Shakespirit.
 
East Putney Station

You are separated by heaven
and hell here. Above is the loneliness
of a man-made heaven - empty
platforms and rain shelters.

Below is hell, the city itself.
 
I promise to not paint myself
in a pretty picture
in artificially natural artificial light
this is it
popcorn stuck in teeth
throw me a radio
dig dig dig we mop our way around the fountain
like the days no one taught us our to self medicate
ha ha shush itty bitty shush
this train that train everywhere
the train comes in on time

seven teen passangers hollow by

the watch the backs of outbuildings
the unpainted backs of outbuildings and piles of kittlitter

kittylitter the concrete bases of the old fence posts
the wires are gone
and they see a boy
eyes tilted to the sun
spouts of water from his mouth
arms flap and the note perhaps it is a middle C if there is anything poetic about that call that call as the water falls and the sun catches
liquid glitter and up on the toes again
again
front of his shirt is soaked

I see this through three cement walls and two closed doors
I see it through closed eyesaand they say
why is that child alone
out there

stimming away his neural network
and I breathe and smile
because I know why

it is not a middle C
there is not anything poetic about that call
oh fuck
of course there is
 
the art of not writing part 1

if at first you don't succeed
look to your past
surely your mother did something whan you were seven
the way she shaved her legs while you were swimming with your brother
or tried to read while on her hour after hour of lifeguard duty and she would say um hum

mmm
okay and god is it that I cannot remember or did she really never say
GOOD LORD! WHAT DO YOU WANT NOW?
annoyed as hell at the constant chatter
that never allowed her a moment
or two
to complete a sentence,
a single thought strung to another

perhaps she muttered under her breath
one day little girl who never gives me a moments peace
one day, you will feel this, the other end of the learning curve, your IQ dropping
every moment he rectes quotes from cartoon animals and rules rules makesu up rules
for how things must be done
while you watch the single trickle of blood run through the shaving cream
onto the grass, hypnotized
 
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the art of writing nothing part 2

if at first you don't succeed
just write about your day, maybe something interesting will come out of it
like how you bought the new dr. pepper
the kind with berries and cream
apparently a soda fountain classic
I am too young to have tried the latest thing
when it was new the first time

if that does not work
try the same experience with a new way of saying the words, more subtly,
mysterious

aisle 7 my carbonation has gone flat
aluminum cylinders stamped yellow
purple berries hang on like a frame
new stains and chemical flavors
little ricky on the round stool spins his straw
dont ask me what he said
I was not born yet
pop the top baby make it new

if that doesn't work
fuck it and go for the sap or sentiment in a metaphor

I always pretended that I hated your Dr. Pepper. But it was just one more excuse
to stay away from your wishes. Something cold and hard to sink my hatred
into. Refusing to put it into my cart after work
those times I swear I did everything and you, you,
you just never understood how hard it was.

Now I try to make you happy with these small things.
Your favorite soda. Your shirts, clean and pressed. I try to hold
onto their sweetness, to see myself as a romantic
as I buy the latest flavor, my deadl ove knucklles on the
cold shopping cart. I practice my smile.


If I could rhyme I could make it another poem.

If at first you dont succeed
write about nothing.
nothing
nothing

and say it three times like you really mean it
and maybe
you will
 
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or cut them either

he says no strings attached and I have to laugh
because I can see
candy floss has got your cock
dancing in fifteen directions as the girls
raise their hands, eyebrows, toes to the air
you wink tip that hat follow the sway
oh lover dont think me a fool
I will never tie my strings to you
 
art of writing part 3 more dr. pepper

if at first you dont succeed try something stupid or silly, maybe try a limmerick or something zen. everyone seems to love the zen nowadays


don't worry if yesterdays can has lost its gas
its just a few less bubbles for you to pass
 
Tzara said:
Ah, pretty damn good, Ms. Crewe. Pretty damn good.

The main metaphor is excellent and that "white / of winter’s librarian hush" is really good.

Shit. Now I have to come up with something. ;)
Click to expand...


Thanks, Mr. T :) (when I say that I think of him http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001558/ which makes me giggle 'cause that aint you)


My something for today:




Rules are the pace car to follow
for the first few laps
but people don’t drive in circles
without losing what makes them human.

I would rather jump not fall
between the cracks to avoid dying
in the sun like a worm forgotten
on the sidewalk by the rain.

I need to press my cheek into the cool
dirt like a child on her mother’s chest
listening to her heart beat a lullaby
that still sings in the shade.

There are no words in the songs
played by shadows only the music
of moth wings dancing to the steady hum
of light bulbs and the occasional flicker

when one flies too close to sin.
 
Tomorrow the wolves will come to tear off my limbs.
Tomorrow the vultures will come to pick at my flesh.
Tomorrow the hyenas will come to gnaw at my bones.
Won't you spend tonight with me?
 
Stand and Deliver

Watch him diving against the monochrome
background, a boxer elevated to the status
of a god by applause and flashing of bulbs.

He falls intentionally, grinning with the whole
world as women smile and tease. Landscapes
are made of this, one of the spectators will

write three decades later. His face will be hung
on walls and made into a movie. Forget his
body, that isn't needed. Just the eyes, lips

and battered nose. Everything needed for
the funeral which will be happening the day
after tomorrow.
 
And all the world will burn with me

I held your life in an old biscuit tin -
strips of monochrome film, an 8mm
cartoon you made in High School,
collages of felt and orange feathers.

These were meant to have been
burnt yesterday, filling the air
with your tangy, lemon scented
memories. But someone forgot to pull

the lever and they became stuck
in the chute between hell and earth.
We pulled them out eventually
but something was left behind

even now, I'm not sure what
 
Father was a shark made out
of spit and lead. Sputnik went

into orbit so the Soviets could
track him as he sold secrets

to old colonels dressed in cigar
smoke and hooker perfume.

The British never caught on -
they were too busy watching

the tapes to notice.
 
River Brent

Saturday. Bus drives past a couple
necking like a pair of swans. Women

bat eyelids and mutter something in
Jewish. But I don't care. We pass

effigies of old supermarket trolleys
and shopping bags dumped in the

canal. Rain starts to swear as it falls,
it is time to mourn. Summer, love,

is over.
 
If Buddha were to cut the lawn
it would not be with a tornado
I think something simpler
where I can sit and watch
in a peaceful sip of lemonade
watching grasshoppers feast
while dusk colors the sky
and crickets sing a choir song
and the stars call a hault
to the workers of the field.
 
your voice

I go about my routine
making dinner, homework
laundry,
but there underneath my jeans
is an aching little secret that you whispered there, it hummmms and
begs to be heard and I can only close my eyes and wait
for the day we can call it out to hell with neighbors
 
String Theory and Paper Dolls

Sunglasses capture thunder
unclenching from a god's
fist. Space-time ripples under
its surface, echoes from higher

dimensions. Somewhere in Kuala
Lumpur, angels are turning into
butterflies, rippling the landscape
with their tsunami wings.

And all you can do is think about
theories stuck on your blackboard,
equations lighting up only in the eyes
of God. Big Brother is on TV, go see.
 
Hurricanes and Tornadoes are two of my favourite things

Paper thin trees
flicked by gods

with too much
time. Air shreds

coating tyre
treads with fog

and wooden
limbs burning

quicker than
matches. Ignite.
 
so what I may be a coward or a hypocrite
I disguise myself with sea lace and fish nets
thin weave that keeps us from spilling out onto the deck
 
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