whatever the level – don’ be stagnant

you have to stay away from it
i mean,
you just gotta
whatever the norm is
ever the others are doing
however the repetition is being
you can’t be concerned with
the competition
they’ll win


the competition always smells fear

you gotta be
gotta do your

don’t even read what everyone else is doing
what everyone else
is writing


everything you can get your hands on
but don’t read
don’t worry
about the herd
or the individual whose being
touted for breaking rules
or generating or combusting
this or that

there is always going to be someone
or a group doing that

and for gawd sakes

stay away from the little groups that
want the coffee shop and the
bars to sit around in
and compliment themselves
and one another -
that’s all they want and their
achievement is complete

let those who want to help you
be grateful for their
let those who want to help guide you
feel assurance that
someone gets what you’re
but – don’t let them mould you
and most of all

don’t worry about approval or success

all that matters

is that

the voices in your head….

are satisfied


within the pencil’d outline
your perfect white should appear
(because of paper, or not)
if your eyes should come to life
or hands, cover breast or loin
the natural colour of distinction
fall short (or past) hairline
as a maiden in a clam,
that i am still bathing in the
know, you don’t have to
hide – but if you like,
i will come out and
hand you your cloth
for comfort
and security, before hanging
our picture on
the wall.

Flooded like mudcat and harmony

the mind is,
working on the publication
and promotion of new book
while searching out blocked ideas
of something new stirring, but not
revealing itself.
pondering too, on the already written
ready to be edited and put out
but how quickly?
6 more titles that could see
light of day and yet,
like promotion – too much too quickly
and no one cares.
similar to mudcat and harmony,
flooded and blocked at the same time
trying to control the digestion
while keeping up with what wants to
making sure it finds proper voice
listening to the greats, and
searching out new avenues – they did
their thing – i will do mine.
how do you control it?
and whose going to see it, read it, or
hear it?

- the song asked, ‘ whose gonna cry when old john dies’

mudcat and harmony
and all the basements far
from shoreline……

Mike, Mike, Mic

the hard crime girls of N.Y
they’ve gone from interesting park fun
useless bookshelves + restaurant banter.
topless in speechless banter
complete chivalry on rooftop
and promoting old books against
new, reused ideas
-keep them coming girls, Mike
Hammer still loves to love you
Mickey Spillane too.

the lost point of murdered equality
the death of art, cast out into
where it’s just time to pretend
and say, ‘when we were young.’
oh the spotlight, the gallery
quiver still there invisibly in
the quail – and no one no longer

all things after a while lose their message
and become cliché, and mundane
-get out while you can, with the rest
of yourself, feet-neck-and-hands…………….

The Machine, Not The Machine

the mechanism
the machine
the iron jaw
the mechanical hand
the metal fingers
the pen
the pencil
the typewriter etc.
the hard labour
the effortless thought
the voice
the voices
the heart
the mechanical computer

the computer is not a machine
not a tool

a drill is a tool,
a typewriter is a tool

the mechanical mechanism
not the mind
not where the words
come from -
there, the machine dies
the metaphor ends
the marrow is exposed
the hunt begins
the human being is found
the killing starts

and the hunger never ends

the mind, the soul of the mind
and the words write out
and forth
and down

-this is the studied outcast
always watching and
putting it down
all art – against the machine


off the horse farms
where piss soaked into the gravel
and the drunk midget waited
to tattle
where the drunk owner waited to pounce
and horse folk fought
their own gluttony
off that one horse farm
going – moving all the mares
into another bin -
and starting the madness over
everyday -
off the elevator
stinking of horse piss
because of property neglect
off the elevator
where a fat woman moves
over saying, ‘you stink’
and i say, ‘yeah, and you’re
some days, meanness meets meanness
and neither side wins

when you’re feeling judgemental

bukowski taught
the simplicity of complication
purdy – the complication of
kerouac, rhythm of moment
and neruda – the angry release of sad love

bukowski fought salvation in drunken wisdom
purdy – brought working pride, nationality through locality
kerouac – broke the rules and re titled the classic genres
neruda – fought for love, and then fought his loves

neruda pondered simple questions of colour
kerouac, the sounds
purdy, the importance of a-frame solitude
bukowski, damnation of mankind and the illegal nothingness of the here after

i am here.
sitting at noon
knowing neither my neighbour nor my purpose
pilled out with lightning
and sleeping off the words that travel only so far

i am here
seeking approval from no one
watching out a window
and thinkn’ the wild west of poetry
is gone

from horse back to model train
car to boat to plane
and rocketed out past a red moon
a commodity of folk songs
lost on paper
and lucky to have seen it all
when it was truly written

in the truest and most sought after form


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