Coffee with Foucault
The Shierean revised its head again
Though none named the way this time
Am I too fat
Probably too flat
Do I go on too long
Am I too quiet
Quite, or too sl(e)ight
Do I dominate the convo
When id much rather submit
But not artistic enough
I haven’t rolled in sauce
I wish I knœw
As much as the ones I aspire to
-the ones I read and write
-the ones I assay and test
-the ones I’m tested on
Or hardly anything at all
I’m stuck between dictions
–Not poetic enough
–Not prosaic enough
–Not lyrical enough
I’m stuck between worlds
It could have been coffee with others but no one was there and nobody came.
Coffee with Kiest – redacted
Painting in a corner facing outwards,
No one else can see the canvas,
Camera eventually pans ‘round
To show it.
Is he mad?
Is it blank, or black, or Brown,
Does it look like white noise?
Is it of himself or a lover?
[Un]fortunately I cannot paint.
I have decided it is brown white noise.
Brown for the subtractive colour.
The non-black white noise
For everything else.
A pheasant was crossing the train tracks home.
‘Eat your pheasant, drink your wine,
your days are numbered, Bourgeois Swine!’
‘Oh but I like pheasant, my Grandma is given them’.
Then off to the gulag,
I’m only being ironic,
Of course, of course.
Scattered stuffing fluff along the park path,
Teddy stuffing – blood, guts, gore – the ground.
I was on the ground, id been on the floor.
The journey back was always shorter.
I hate the travel, it lengthens my day,
Without it though I wouldn’t cool off,
And then theyd know and then itd be real.
But then they know now, this is a reflex,
The old way, and still I jump to it,
So used to my circles of suffering,
To Patterns of Dialogic Expression.
I do not mean to invent terms this time,
They are much more vulgar when I intend.
Twosand words in one night, four hours sleep,
And doubts ill ever seek learning again.
Complexity is too intense for me.
I hate the phrases that justify faith,
But ignorance would be bliss to me now,
And I would rather not know my devil,
The daemon that steals after me all day,
My most unentangled particle-ist,
Which is my most man-as-an-island-ist,
Which of course is all of everyday.
Me llorando, llorando, llorando.
O, sounding so edgy ive tripped and tipping,
Edging into another dimension.
You know my skin was tingly on the train,
No not specific addressed object
only new ,
Well to be clear they’re both older than me,
Unless you count a sentence months ago.
my skin trying for the expulsion
I prohibited my eyes from making.
Whilst I know the unmet criteria
That will prevent my participation.
So, let me be clear
The essay wasn’t great,
It was better cos of .
Where did all this come from?
And how did we get here?
Where will it go?
No one seemed to notice
That a verse of Crossroads
But when ,
And loved his other songs
I questioned if I should have
Now I entertain many others,
We’re mature adults,
So feelings are no matter.
Coffee with James
My Dad asked me for help
Writing a personal statement.
When I wrote my uni one
He asked where id copied it from.
People expect expertise of me
But the more I learn
The less certain I am.
The more I write
The less I understand
what a sentence is
I’m always asking for help
But I’m still expected to give advice
And then the sun came out
I did that years ago
Though only to a few
In a different way
I’m in as the sun is out
So many sitting on the grass
With the gloss of a prospectus
Id rather have
Have I been dirty enough to be clean
Sad songs don’t make as much sense in the sun
Coffee with Gissing (and Derrida)
Or Voiced Through
I accidentally wrote a sonnet
Last night when I couldn’t sleep.
I was thinking,
Though the thoughts thought were thoroughly unordered
And certainly unsuited for any
Wobble-desked and stern-faced-overseen hall.
The pre-sleep fantasising haze
Was mingling with awkward regrets
And tinged by the knowledge of an early start.
I thought of what I could write,
And then I had to write.
I wrote what I would write of their beauty.
The lines are as ugly as the poet.
Without realising I arrived at the couplet.
I want to write a crown of them
But not with that subject.
I just wanted coffee
But ex-family were in the way.
Unlike them I only have paper as company.
I hate that I wrote it.
Other than the bedside convenience,
That is why it’s in the black note book.
I remember my father
Buying a giant multipack of cigarettes,
All cellophaned together,
In duty free,
So he could survive the week.
By slowly poisoning himself.
Now I’m not one to talk,
But I was then.
I leave my notebook unattended
And hope I find something new in it when I return.
I’m waiting for that second puberty,
That second batch of maturity.
Have you ever misheard some song lyrics?
But where you thought the singer sung something
More beautiful than the actual utterance?
The sound of iron shards is stuck in my head,
The thunder of the drums dictates
The rhythm often falls to number of dead
The rising of the hearts ahead
From the dawn of time to the end of days
I will have to run away
I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste
Of your blood on my leaves again
I can’t recall your eyes, your face
Perhaps not more beautiful
But I imagine you understand.
I do not like measures that try
To add fondant to a burnt cake.
The thing with a burnt cake,
Assuming you’re still hungry,
Is either that you eat it.
Or you bake a new one.
The latter I insist on.
I try to read myself to sleep.
I read over the sonnet
And it has no turn
Just a brief detour and re-turn
It snows every night in Brighton
On those already too white
Some might say.
So many draw like kites
And fly like beached whales.
If there was time I’d write a
Hate and Masturbation poem
“Scar tissue is stronger,” I tell myself.
I’m wrong/I lie.
Coffee with Rhys
The Lighght comes through the 4th story windows
And lighghts my table in the hallway.
It was there, empty, for me.
Or really for anyone else
Who could have sat there.
There are two chairs,
Pururple and Blueue,
I sit in Blueue.
The Lighght blinded me above table heighght,
So all the passers-by,
Were figures to me,
His paling eyes
From the blue of mine
His hair likewise
From the jet black
Darker than the dark brun of mine
To the grey of
I come back to my table
And there’s a guy sitting in Pururple.
He hasn’t written in my notebook,
Or read them for me.
He gets up and leaves as I sit back down,
Then pauses as he walks away,
Then sits down again.
It’s okay that you were there.
You don’t need to leave.
Not a heroine
Oh, immoral English
Coffee with 146923 (and Shakespeare)
The pink blossom of three trees,
The species I know not,
Has their petals, or leaves,
Scuttle across the steps
To the tune of the sombre song
On my headphones.
“Does anyone have a chainsaw?” I edit it more
“Nifty versification”. That that
“Perfect” “closure”, Discussed more
Closing itself again and again.
But the lines! Aforementioned alterity Parts connected by Clauses asyndeton
Pinned red thread. Nevertheless “Escapes freeness”. The legastic self
“Troubled with language”.
What is its death wish? You should take
Deliberately staged “A few days” break.
[not staged by accident]. “You’re a born academic”.
A found signature. Thanks
“Sputtering to silence”. But i’m made
“Professorial voice”, And making
“Like a Radio 4 educational programme”. To make
The Four Quartets,
[I haven’t read]. “Excellent!”.
What if I were to tear
It down The next person didn’t arrive
This way? So I had their time too.
It would feel like a mutilation.
[No, no, please do that]. Will it transcend expectations.
A Sansa like women walked past
Pulling beer and cakes behind.
I clearly missed the perfect meeting.
Instead I went were ex-family was.
“It’s hard to make people say,
‘What was that?’”.
“You’re so extra”.
Whisky with Greenblatt (and Shakespeare)
Or Just a few fingers
Of course what’s said
Is part of us,
Words are contributions,
But possible falsehoods
Are always are collusions
With the thing brought back as real
All the same as the person speaking.
All but a sickle cell of ice has melted,
It’s nearly coloured and clear.
I am vanishing into something,
Fashioning my nakedness,
Trying to pass the Course of General Lingerie,
of course –
My unfeigned antic disposition.
Pre-creases of planned ripping
And the anticipated shuffling
For unplanned order.
Let me say
The celestial was wrong.
Spin-position and condition are nothing
When all is undecided until observation.
Now let me allude to what one called an illusion.
It is one, my friend, but different forces decide this process.
Someone said random is ‘Free Will’ but what if I’m ‘Captured Bill’.
Music in the waiting room,
A Generally Poor playlist,
More off-setting than silence.
Whisky with J. Paul
Published the year of my birth
You write like me,
How did you know?
We write how we write
That is so.
It is known.
It’s not as golden
But that’s not what I mean.
I was sitting and I saw
Pins pricks of light across my vision
Across my sight
A star map that faded in with sharp rapidity
drifted with trails
Rearranged And reappeared.
For less than half a minute
All I could do was look
There was no pain.
Floaters and flashes I search for
Though no descriptions seemed to fit.
I was walking down a dirt path country lane,
Following the sound of music,
All I knew was it was onwards.
I came to a junction
And a man was playing with a ball,
This explained a banging noise
But the music did not come from here.
I couldn’t discern the sound’s direction,
The two new paths couldn’t be the way,
So I looked around and turned around,
Like a music box,
Until a hole in the hedgerow was there.
I went down into the Arcadian passage.
I found my grandad listening to a record player
On the narrow path.
On the right it opened down to a vertical field.
The music was gone and the path was a tilting edge.
We looked down upon a black hole
Parts were replaced
With a faded through
The reabiogenesis of khaos;
The ejaculate of power.
I knew he was responsible for it.
I was losing my footing as the path crumbled.
He had shoes for me with better grip
But I said to put them in my room.
Refuge was in a wooded area.
He biked away as I was tangled on the grass.
During that I forgot
What other family did to me
And what I’ve done to myself.
These things resurface
And I remember
What I never told.
Recently I was told I said:
“Please don’t make me go back there”.
To which I replied:
That was a long time ago.
It was a long time ago,
But when you remember
A cosmos of cold fires, of dark stars, and white holes;
Where sense of my sense is made.
The lights were real.
I wish they had hurt.
This must hurt instead.