Lungworm (It is Real)

At last you are here, an excellent unhealthy

do you desire paradise

come and wiggle, fat on dirt, in my moon-drenched kitchen

with the crown of the lily convulsed

belly-red to the melting, trenched in your skimpy skin

convulsed in the flesh, belly-blue

belly-blue to the fur, milked on the moon-bleached tiles

lily milk furled in the throat

exposed by the belly-white moon

show me the fleshy flowers, belly-red to the melting, trenched in your skimpy skin

show me the convulsions, belly-blue to the fur, milked on the moon-bleached tiles

milk bottled, full-throttled, for the choke of the throat

five fingers, full-facial, fur-coated

for the choke of the fur-throated girl

Itmight be said

she was in your head

here and there were

flesh flame flowers

you must remember

her rubberised thighs

let it go on

her electrified eyes

tell your children

Look! No face!

you formed wild theories

UFO!

here she began

Look! No hands!

behind the smile

her dry mouth

you never understood

her double blag

but she wanted it show me the dirt

you grew to believe some kind of dirt

 

She knew you for a dirt dude at first sight, bed-slugged in your spongy loam, you were perfectly adjusted to the acrimony, you lived between potash and ling, and the dirt girl in her liked it

showy cheapo lighter clutcher

paunched in your life-giving necro dirt

with the throat of the lily convulsed

woozy with soft suicide, stoking her flesh flame, you whispered:

‘it is real … everything is perfect and best i do freely’

she knew you’d said that same love tat to Junky Jenny and Creeping Fern

and the dirt girl in her liked it

She had super soda silting her pipes and gallons of basic slag flow, but still she begged you to hoof and horn her, so you let her have it, your full works, right between the eyes

10mls of the specialist syrup with the power weeds’ potential and your nitro-chalk poppy artificials

’til she convulsed and wattled blue

dolloped like a floppy dolly

in the bindweed dirt dimension

and the dirt dude in you liked it

 

you nailed the hell doll to the paradise tree

sweet ‘art, it’s a pleasure

convulsed on the trunk, belly-blue

belly-blue nailed to the bark

exposed by the belly-white moon

under a car

she didn’t push you

into a coma

wasn’t her fault

open back surgery

she didn’t visit

epileptic fit

blood in your shit

memory loss

you forgot who she was

pale hairless legs propped useless below the bulge of your colostomy codpiece

numb feet wedged on the footrest of your wheelchair

see, she OD’d on your first date, but you die every day

and the dirt girl in her likes it

if you were ever alive, if she were ever dirt

or even a distant view of a hill

 

I see you

baring your vein to the drip

for the lube of the lungworm trip

I see what shape your mouth makes when you find the clarity to cry

it’s a perfect circle, drooling belly-blight

I hear what you gasp in love-tongue when you find the will to wank:

‘twa, duhr, uhn … fumer’

(after this, you like to sloosh the bile around in your mouth, in a cheek to cheek way)

I hear what you say in worm-tongue when you find the strength to speak:

‘surgical squirm, liturgical burn, willywormer, lungwormer, worm’

I see the worm that crawled up your arsehole

and bored a hole through your soul

it catapulted out your eyeball

(jelly flummery)

I see the same faces you see, intravenously

they shape you, ghosts of dirt

 

Give Thanks

for the intensity of comedy, the tragedy of driftwood, the death watch beetle keeping time, tapping in her spine

Give Thanks

for the plodding home quick on wooden feet, walking fast on carved wood legs, the black-notched silver birches, the copse, the avenue, the glade

Give Thanks

for the seeing tree, the hanging tree, the lightning tree, the family tree, the tree with a hiding-place under its roots and the tree-house made of wood

rose can’t remember, but the dirt does

Give Thanks

for the picture perfect garden, the wall you can climb over easy, the tidy path, the foxglove spill, the mother, the blamer, the uptight shamer, standing in a soapy puddle, froth on her best red mules, that glorious red hair alive on the breeze, those big wet hands pegging her flimsy smalls to the line strung between two trees and the pegs are made of wood

rose opens the gate, grabs the broom, swings for her mother’s red head

Thanks

mother swerves out the way and her bushy red hair-do jumps off her skull and leaps across the lawn, lands on the grass in a witchy heap – it’s a living hairy wig thing

mother’s head is a surprise boiled egg, and her mouth is a big red hole, shrieking

ROSE WOOD IS NO GOOD – CHOP HER UP FOR FIREWOOD

rose plants her feet in the dirt, up to her wooden ankles

places her hands on warm rough bark, leans against the paradise tree

GO ON, YOU DO THAT … IT WON’T KEEP YOU SAFE

that screecher, that bald old woman, that ain’t her real mother, anyway

rose is the wooden puppen doll, ideal reborn, oak baby and fairy clay

she treads heavy, crushes trees, all ungrows in her wake, flowers wilt and grow backwards, down deep where the worms shrink

she treads light, trails silver dew, all blooms before her, the belly-moon gloats from its oak tree cradle when she lifts her eyes

for she is the paradise, and the hell, and the wood in the dirt, and the tree on the hill, and the fossil, and the brain, and the sea, and the rain, and the hell in the doll, and the you in the me, and the sky and the sky and the sky and the sky and the last sigh is the longest and the flesh flame flowers know

 

if you were intact she would break you

 

consider it from so many various angles, it’s like men and women are not involved except it’s something to accomplish in paradise and hell

 

She is the lover hidden under your bed

she shits, spits and pisses diseases

hosts of angels will torch you

when you spread her rubberised thighs

her face will turn to dirt

when you look in her electrified eyes

Look! No soul!

she brings the thirst and you’ll slake it

she craves the beast and you’ll fake it

she will fuck you in your own personal hell

you’ve been there before, she can tell

she’ll wear the mask or the wig or the pleather

sweet ‘art, it’s a pleasure

her hell is the entrance to ache for

Look! No heart!

she is swallowing you, convulsed, in her mouth

is that what your hell tastes like

nasty but sublime

this knuckle-fuck suffocates time

sacred but profane

you’ll get fucked-up, again and again

is that what you want

your own stuffing

 

foxes turn to stone in the alley

how does real love happen

butterflies burst to flame in the sky

how does real love happen

get in the Safe and Sound position and say to yourself:

It is Real!

f

lesh flame flowers

flesh flame flowers

paradise fossils are free

Fail like Fire

Ghost Dolls

Paradise Tree

Paradise Fossils

Paradise Fossils Are Free

Reblogged from Games Perverts Play:

* knows a girl red fog rose butter dishy spider sweet when she smile long bunch wilt when she dance peach leaf streak when she ride narcissus fly spider wishy butter treat leaves a trail of tulip fire * * I love flowers and flames and insect blight that’s what she said on her last night is that what dirt feels like egg worm belly frog drop spread her stubby little legs pull tubers and stones from her belly with the crown of the lily exposed belly-white dirt in the dark * * What I don’t understand is in …

you’ll recognise me, I’m the one you can’t see

NICK POP’S BRAIN

NICK POP LIVES in Moody Mansions with his super-muddle wife called Susie Bitch who wears shoes I could never walk in. They are trendier than thou – arty swankers – they breathe rarefied air, thin and heady – stuck up on the hill, where I am never invited.

NICK POP STRIDES his steep street, chunky heels clipping the paving stones, black coat flapping its wings, on his way to somewhere fast, always ignoring me.

If I were an operatic aria I’d lift his lanky body from his Moody rooms, fly him way up high, giddy on my agitata, whisk him in giggling laps around that seaside moon, land him and his little wriggling legs safe on my bulging belly, and – O, the declarations I’d demand, and – O, the saucy ditties he’d surrender – under the threat of certain death by suffocation from my monstrous breasts. His words would go: ”Squeak! Squeak! PROMISCUITY! I like this game, it’s got PROMISE, SKEW and ITTY”.

Tip-toe past his shaggy topiary, pussyfoot his glossy tulips, skulk his twisty path – loiter for a while outside his windows, this is what you’ll see:

NICK POP IN HIS PANTRY.

Buffing his nails, sipping a brew, knitting a golden balaclava.

NICK POP IN HIS ANTECHAMBERS.

Starring in an arthouse movie – it was listed for the Turner Prize – rehearsing the role of a ruined man, fluffing his lines in the dark – oops – sound of a muffled fart.

NICK POP IN HIS PARLOUR.

Grumpy with a grovelling journalist: ”Words endure. Flesh does not”.

NICK POP IN HIS BROODY BOUDOIR.

Hunching over his upright in a storm of scribbled sheets – the ceiling descends, his face turns red – wrestling a reluctant chorus.

Across the grinding party years I mirrored his yearning journey – dissolved under his sedated tongue, towered beside him on stage, clucked in morbid alcoves, blasted desperate fanfares, trembled on his wasted flesh, fell off bar stools, stroked dead hair, pulled sweat blankets closer.

In the Unnatural Mystery Museum, hidden by the bones of the dinosaur, I witnessed the floating of Susie’s feet as he waltzed her around the mosaic floors to meet the approaching night, where they shimmered in the dust of a glamorised light, far away from me.

One special one. There’s always one special one – she’ll dance until he’s written her song.

If I were a PJ Harpy, if I were a Wily Minogue, if I were a Potty Borland, if I were that much in vogue, he’d get down on all fours for me and I’d ride on his back, yelling: ”TALLY-HO!” and ”BAD PIPS!” – spurring him on, all the way.

Tucked in my bra, there’s a rhyme I scrawled on a shopping list, reminding him about me:

I am the hallucinating kitten climbing your red flocked walls

Let me in. There’s a place for me in your velvet smalls

I am the hysteria rising in your empty halls

Let me in. There’s a space for me between your silken balls

God is GRAVY GRANULES

God is in the SOAP

I move with the slowest dirge throbbing in your belly

Let me in. I’ll reveal myself on the screen of your burning telly

God has left the RAZORS

I fished it out and lobbed it in his Moody window, aiming for his red right hand. As he read my words he felt such despair his little finger broke in three places.

NICK POP’S BRAIN caught my drift. I seep from his pores.

If I were an irritating jingle I’d lodge myself in his mountain range of enormous special features. I’d abseil from his receding hairline to the tip of his roaming nose, and with my stinky feet wedged firmly, one up each of his nostrils, I’d perch my pert bum on his wide flapping lips and bounce with his words as they boomed, trying to shoot me down: ”Bang! Bang! PECULIAR! I’ll PECK YOU, pesky LIAR”.

WHAT DOES NICK POP DO with his money?

It flows through his fingers that lifted my lid, only to slam it shut.

WHAT DOES NICK POP DO with his fingers?

Those ten soft digits got caught in the sharpened teeth of Susie’s slitty mouth and her slitty slit. Slit her throat. Slit my wrists. Don’t you want me, baby?

Look out your big window, Nick – I’m the terrible beautiful outsider being raced past your Mansions in an ambulance. I am the emergency and I need intensive care.

Terrible things happen and there is nothing he can do.

WHAT DOES NICK POP DO?

Terrible things happen and he does nothing.

HE TOLLS THE CRAZY BELL.

Nick Pop climbs three hundred steps to the top of his tallest spire and he tolls the crazy bell, for the

dark-eyed – green-eyed – boss-eyed – blue-eyed

long-haired – black-haired

girl

who began in his bed

on scattered blossom

in his arms – in his hand – in his head

only to end

inside – outside

bumped off – stranded

six feet under – on the roof

in the gutter – bucket – open grave

going somewhere – anywhere – nowhere fast

in his gorgeously overgrown garden.

NICK POP WROTE MY SONG. Now he’s manacled to the song. It never rests, it lives and breathes – bold and bristling menace shapes between his lolly legs. Here at Moody Mansions, no-one shuts the front door, it lets in the solid night and Nick Pop howls his guts out.

Bastard Boy

unreliable disease-prone unhygienic ugly temperamental purple demanding needy pushy yard – king of your nether-garments, death-bound baby-bringer, veined by greedy pulsing blind & nervous weeping sour-soup

you ask too much

this woman does not desire your flesh

bastard boy

thrill her with a shiny toy, not one of those purpose-built, she craves surprises under her quilt

do her like you mean it, with things she wasn’t meant for

diamond-crusted cucumber

spine-covered brunt of a boll weevil

airfix model of a spitfire

fossilised snout of a platypus

souvenir eiffel tower

feathered hilt of a cold flamingo

dusty art deco lady lamp

strap-on modernist housing scheme

repro rococo table leg

silver alessi lemon squeezer

pseudo pleaser of the spotted hyena

she craves the alien

space junk thieved from NASA

give her the fist of a cyberman

bring her the dick of a replicant

and tell her dramatic stories

about traumatic insemination

pretend you’re something else

oh yeah?

FANTASTIC

oh yeah?

FANTASTIC

oh yeah?

FANTASTIC

cheers mate

ah mate

ah

Ornamental Onion (Armies of Me)

eventually a time will come when we move strangely with strangers

eventually a time will come when ornamental skins slime

*

*

colour him green with white dots is a garden – disaster is a long way down

*

he imagined himself & he was SO MANY COLOURS & he was pouring out the window

& he was puddling on the ground

& he loved the feel free falling

& he wore the hairy view

he wore the tits slung sideways, he wore the bragging hole, he loved the dodgy downer, he wore the dangling balls, he loved the real alive, he wore the

DROP

DRASTIC

COMES TRUE

DERMO-STABBER

FORGET-ME-NOTTER

30 FOOT SPLATTER

NOW

clown him acrobatic descent

spread him bubblegum carpet

frazzle him gutter kebab

cosy him comatose pocket

soak him leaking bladder

warm him reeking arse

speed him indecent

teeth will tear him apart

& he bled dogs

& he wished wheelchairs

& he kissed disastrous

his mouth a scrimping lack

i want to stand without him

i want to stand where he fell

i want to stand where armies of me are up-rooting geraniums, plagued by tulip, mad for rose, spliced by his message – planted, watered, bone

*

colour him a bigger NOW

with more captivating & convoluted & charismatic holes – slashed slovenly

his finer fabric peeks through

*

I married the alarming Mick O’LaLa & we rode the desert on his llama

today’s background lacks depth & he took SO MANY COLOURS & the shadow he casts is his pecker

i can see it out the corner of my eye – velvet dense blot, glooming night-time, swelling in his smalls

he said: stop looking for pristine days & get loose, like trapeze woman

i said: i’ve a scar on my left knee, a scar on my right big toe, a scar on my left cheekbone, two on my belly & one inside my belly-button in the shape of the cross

he said: break those bones & see what comes of it

i divided & i separated. my legs came away from my body. i became two blobs of flesh inside my elegant shoes

I married the disarming Mick O’LaLa & he sowed his seeds like a farmer

*

i want to stand where i can comprehend his miscalculated equations

i want his mystery

I WANT ARMIES OF ME

i want to be free where prisons of me do time

i want to feast where sanatoriums of me slowly waste away

i want to dazzle where fireworks of me fizzle in the rain

i want to laze where troupes of me perform the dizzy fandango

i want to sing where swarms of me sting his corpse rot skin

i want to sleep where hordes of me embezzle his safety blankets

i want to party where therapy groups of me bawl my sorry eyes out

i want to scream where waiting rooms of me worry about my meds

i want to spread my legs where nunneries of me count my sins on rosaries, pray for my elastic soul, flagellate my lusting flesh, suffer for my pleasure, fake my mortal measure

I WANT CONGREGATIONS OF ME

LIGHTING CANDLES

SINGING HYMNS

for me

i want to dwarf the average-sized me cowering in the corner

i want to love the traumatised me struggling to leave the house

i want to laugh in the face of every gargoyle morning

i want to spin myself on the spokes of every moment

i want to out-do myself for the sake of my fucked-up life

*

i want him to hold me in his isosceles angle

i want him to hook me on his tortured tangent

i want him to bisect me on the apex of his tongue

i want him to break me on the glassy slopes of Mount Hurtle

i want so much more of him

I WANT TO LIVE

i want to live where i can sense him as a presence not an absence

i want to live where graveyards of me mulch in soggy coffins

i want the line of mutes on my doorstep suddenly breaking their silence

i want to pelt from the steaming sky in a manic hail of bullshit

i want to fly in sharpened blades & harm his gaping target

*

i want orgies of me gripping bulk with strangers

i want polygon beings with pronounced reticulars shagging me on his sofa

i want leather-clad stag beetles wielding knuckle-dusters knee-trembling me up his wall

i want mystical ship-shape elemental extensions riding me rough in his heavens

i want dark matter on darker mattress pinning my hips to his

i want turbulent prisms of bare metal yesterdays percolating mine eyes with his glory

i want to spit in his eye

i want many & every toppling diadem yelling the news on my good foot

i want to get on the bad foot

i want to kick his teeth in

i want to stick him on my pages

i want my right royal wages

i am me & i rages

i want to relapse with him forever & ever & never live sober again

i want MANY MEN

i want bigger tits

i want special bits

i want him who fits

my empty

*

*

eventually a time will come when me is me is mine

*