notes
a grated slate of skated boules, turned upside down against the grain, smushed, in again and turned inside out.
green pips smudged against the corner
lifted from the dull grey earth, squeezed out each drop to sink into annihilation with the beans
again and again
not listening to the signs sunk into scrapes of skeletal skunk. punk hope fucks the patriotic
fantastic crowned crowd thronged and fleshed fresh with dripping scars the cloudy sky
the beasts of the underbelly fucked each other until they swam in sweaty swarms of hair and filth and gold dripped from their raw beaks
the beans, now gone, grew from shroud down to molten earth begging to be let alone, allowed to taste the flesh of their own children as their guardians had of theirs.
and once they picked the pods, torn and cut, a soil of death rang round the daylight’s dung
sprouting from gravelly drudge and interspersed with locust swarms of the new century. untravelled, stagnant. begotten.
squashed against the wall like water drops, but other worldly, alien at form and unbeknown. undone and not my place to be in but here we are.
Clashed, slashed and fuck off repetition, fuck the interruption — broken soldered iron to cast another broken dream — fuck the police, fuck the bulls pigs.
and then the beans grew blank, dank, blue and red before the green leafed bud burst the stagnant cold and hue
the buds cut down the grey earth, splintered wood and dragged it up
and no one gave a shit except the old and cloudy sky —
and anyway said one tired soul to another
what about that lad who was born too late, his time forgotten, trying to mould into a walled world which no longer fits us any more.
what about the fucked up dank sweat of the young thugs who gasp in heat to get their daily dose of the divine. Fuck the model. Bourn. Burn. Born. Disco Pig. Lighter. Fire.
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