Poems by Out To Lunch

Is this the way up it is? I'm

excited by the flowers, the

lack of everyday attention,

I'm up shit creek. The big

blonde who poses as my

Daddy, says no chance. It's

big bland paperbacks rule

my would. And the wood is

not the world, no matter

what the disco-lexicographers

let fly in a profusion of 40s

invented kno-speak. Let's

stop tingle-sample at

source, let's say

value on a truth sheet (a

mammary) - not known (or

acted 'pon neither) ...

forget the rest, and rack you on

a toadstool made of

humdrum lust

the surly peps of poodle pus

are waiting, tinned like

ointment

fragrant packages baulked in

each resort,

the strange relations coded in

my shopping list,

prowess curling out of waters

and my credit worthiness

gleaming like oar-pools

in the midday sun

I'm waiting, tasting morsels

on the invitation piste

Deciding competition is a drag.

the fan base is fluted

in a curve of amethyst

you never wanted a windscreen,

the shining lights making

lapdog frenzy of your

tiresome skin

the cement goads the nosey

parker, kerbs scraped

with excremental images

and a bothered hog

ascertaining which plumed

trajectory could be adopted

wholesale

the smell of new cardboard

and guilt at having

smirked at professional labels

here come the suits-in-aspic

all rosy and damned

and if they do - blue

Graced to the eyeballs,

carrying on like a filthy

sewer

The pleasures of besmirching

a gutless anonymity

Telling you about removing a

dot doc document

The parse hiccoughs loudly

over bureaucratic

impedimenta to a lived life

What seems rolling supreme,

almost inevitable

Is incised like marble on

the tony cliffs of history

If you want to go out,

Get out there 'n do it.

Step out and risk the dread of

exposure

Those blushes I recall like gold

Backward stacks of bar-code

regression

Always dynamite lying near

images of gaols and banks

Sand filling the mouth

Hot silica seamy with Hollywood

illusion

Lust in the dust hurting the throat

No way to stop the visceral greeting

for enemy manipulation

Fuse wire running down the spine

Clotted semen running down the

swollen memory

The dampness measured by the

vaginal electrode

Our natures putting potted history

on an ungendered agenda

Generous as a fuck in the

afternoon, Vanesssa

Shaking the kate coals in the

belly of a blueish whale,

The distended loop of concentration

lapse

Three-digit code calls burning a

blade through misty pastures,

The metal beneath the skin.

Twined binaries packed like cornflakes

D'you wishy-wishy in a froth of

sunset leftovers,

Nostalgia toastbites, useless old

conundra I left for later

& reattached with a sailor noose

I learned from seadog Bennell

The hurly-burly of the lad's need

for relish on the radish

The unpicked down pom-pom not

allowed to scrotum-up on

the mantle plane of serious

endeavour

Domestos smeared over classic features

the quick relevance of a removed

vase, the hidden ambience of a

stonefaced git

glottal pops smiling at the great

unwashed

sit-up-and-beg proposed as the

latest social flavour

prone before the behemoth of capital;

a whiff of cabbage leaf before she

made the apple pie

green to green sarcophagus blinking

like a cuckolded cucumber rubbing

tits on the old seashore

the pronominal urge inscribes vivid

vectors on chaos garbage,

liquid crystals etched on the ironing-board

your flipping interest courted by

mealy-mouthed courtiers

but the greasy earn is only a

memory of itself, itself

FEE AT LUXURY

There are so many queued in the

libertine porch

And self-pity at rootlessness only arises

On the third day of alcoholic poisoning

The stunned mind presiding over the

scraped-out stomach

I'd like to interrupt myself so much

The schizophrenia becomes tautologous

Different aspects of a non-unitary

bio-sphere

And the smell of shaving lather

reminding me of my father

As much as the loathsome stinksome

inkenstink I drank in Form 2B

The black beauty of natural reductionsism

The iron will of the bridle

Grooming yourself for the familiar insert

Deriving hotshots from horsey members

The scatter pellet into latex of responsible

philander.

They tell me how to be happy whilst

fingering the fall-out

The twisted plastic I knot and hang

on the bedpost, though like

Everyone else, I misjudge my box

And it goes right through my text

Enable a tin tack, the thin

end of the wedge

All those looking for my

downfall

The harsh `no no's in their eyes

When the bagel creaks and

her calling card

Makes privy to the fleurs-de-lys

Who left her with a stare

The mouth that opens to

let go syllables

Culled from the garden of

history

A conclusive blench at all

that consummate collusion

Fastidious pen poised over the

invitation anchovy

The glorious splint in the ebony case;

My striped galoshes waiting by

ivory isles,

To take all this & call it a zebra

alternative.

You can't fathom the hot/cold

changes striping our

nauseating swimwear in the aether,

Suit trousers breathing up wine

stains and urine.

If you stop it's a stop and the

smart start surprises a starling,

Lined up and edible,

A sorrel awakening.

To interpret is a penetration devoutly

to be washed,

The syllable sob waiting for a stew.

No mark quakes an onion,

the steaming `o's of troubled

Where-do-I-put-it correctitude.

it's this birdsong that slyly

pipes a yellow streak across

the mostly blue of my ghostly,

razed existence,

the glitter twitter that raps my

brain, sparklet over inky

woofers in the mud,

how I need to clasp that

shining eel, what decorates

every stormcloud for clodden

unbidden routines:

rasping reigns in the

harness, pulchritude erupting

over sodding lemons.

No, prithee, no morals, no

restrictions, no disapproval

the ego free to fly and

crash like Icarus.

Phrasel blatantly tied, watching and

waiting as the non-homogeneity

of the troubled rubric tackles

the purging wave.

The blue stain I worried about

last week, lies scraping

goldleaf off the nothing new.

It's all aesthetic tinkle-bonk

to the mind in repose. I'm

so happy I could die with

boredoms borrowed from Mr

John Cage.

Titles only quoted to save a

cheapskate rhythm machine,

Inherited tusks brought

to market.

No date infects the words with

pop-poet narcissism (yet).

Beautiful burnt effigy, hands

clasped around another

corroded torch;

They toured the effing mortuary,

long nails hoping for a

willing wrist;

The facile niche for every

martyr and his craven

sculptor.

Domino the gravestones!

Bust the heady rhetoric of

rub/pert refusilleers!

The privet language of an

emerald stick, the cess-pit

dreams of in-grown

weetabix.

No two wankers think alike,

leastways when they're

puffing at the act,

Identity defined by morrow's glimmer.

When did you last drag a wet-at-

least from out the pinafore

of merely kid enchantment?

The less I apply myself to

mechanical labour, the less

I'm capable of it;

No tricks to hold me to any

social lair -

Free as the wind, beholden to

no bugger

I'm not sure I like the taint

of puzzled guilt, veins

gilding the pulsing heart,

the quick disgust for any

ease or repetition

If I could say it without an

ideological spoke to grind

The sparks would be fireworks, merely.