Southern II.

Second in my series dedicated to Southern trains. Thanks for overcharging me all these years! No not quite…

Back southern.

End of the Nile
These fool men
Didn’t realise
Romance is predicated on
A degradation of lying, being
A degradation of feeling.

And what is meant might be
What begins no more than
I like you, no bullshit,
And what I mean is
You would never learn to
Like anything, unless
You were in danger of losing it
Less us or me than an it or you or we
3am moon I knew –
That romance is predicated on
Love-loss strategy
Lose or seduce,
Same old trajectory:
All roads lead south

End of the Nile
These fool men get lost easy
Bad strategy see
You can’t play a heart game
When it’s all end and never means.

Means nothing easy.
Winds thrash the trees.
You only see me when I renounce you
And maybe you were good once
Though now it irks me
I hurt you and you saw me
Though less a fatigued pregnancy
You were dull until
It hurt to see me
Then at least there was some complexity

Little else til some foolheart game
Now you hurt less to see me than to hear me.
Maybe you felt that once but
It’s become cloudy.
And you talk a while –
And once I wanted to feel you
But I know now you can’t feel me.
Skin is the deepest distance.
And all our words a garden.
‘Truth’ is far too busy
Nights are long and hungry

Same old night
Friends mistake brutality for comedy
And we come around.
Blue is the colour of memory.
Old friend I felt you
Knelt before your outstretched legs
Then I knew you

Perhaps a decade longer in bed
Bad job and postponed revery
Then I’d’ve earned the key
Some maturity connotating respectability
And you’d’ve settled
Not for me but
Your mother you saw in me
Bending now to clean your feet,
Brother and sister in the
Bruised love of family

Back southern.


These twisted chimney words
No longer flow true,
Thwarted schemes,
Rent expectations.
Much shorter than was remembered.

Old men’s tales:
Parable of the fox and the hare
Now redundant.
Six different ways to dispose of your time:
Garbage; Keep-fit; Google seances.
Recycle your lager cans.
The undoing of a face
Unlocked with bad words.
Password to your heart
Riddled with capital letters and
The name of your first pet.

Iris-scanned expectations.
A ten minute walk just to
The back of a queue replete
With 10,000 out of work fiends
Ghouls with fanged teeth,
That kind of thing.
The new boys
Exercise sovereignty via Wii and PS3,
Marry each others’ sisters and then their neices.
These spectres have been laid off from life.
Homo suburbus more afraid of not getting
Exactly what he wants. No noise.
Don’t you touch my hand-held accessory!
Rattles and cuddly toys for adult girls and boys.
Expanding debt.
“But the strange thing is
This phone defines exactly what desire is.”
New shit.

Windows of infinity
Inscrutability of sand
Nature-fertility mystery cults
Femme suburbus:
Gin, telephone kebabs,
Fresh crisp green tree.
Could never trust him.
Slender expectations.
Neurones scutter with four thousand
So many ways to police your time effectively:
Dynamic, motivated, sticky-tooth-smile.

Sex banks debarred
By codes of binary.
The most redundant text I ever read:
“I am not real
this is a dream.
Make love to the stars//
In a stolen motorcar.”
The streets are teeming with wild animals.
False pride and pride falsely proposed,
As oldly distant as underage films
A certain look in the eye
Still ravages the mind.

Back southern.

French ordinary court

I always hoped one day I might show you this
Time calcified on dun brick bone
Clerks dashing down the town’s obscurities
Always too many steps ahead of me.
The mistake of living for adjectives instead of verbs
And the weight of dank walls like these who
Carry the touch of an infinity of hands
Avenues penetrated with a pedant’s book
Slipped down gracelessly like awkward laughter
But before we submerge: errands and pleas
The weight of the brow, of knowing
Whatever could be given would never be enough
The supermarket fruit better-travelled than stranded hands

No one has the patience for these games now
And there’s no place where we might begin again
It’s not the cold night air against the neck
Or the ancient moon that simultaneously sees us both
Talk of plans: plastic food, spiralling numbers
You’re either ahead of me or I’m behind you
Traffic’s murder: seeing like this is killing us both
There’s no damn air or breath in these places

If I could take you away from this I might, but
This tunnel was supposed to terminate long ago
This game of run and hide is getting deathly tight
Words all mixed up don’t come out right
Half a truth for half a lie? No, not now,
In the middle of a courtyard folding in on itself
Shrinking your form ever closer to mine
Silent and behind glass, driving me out of my mind.

No. Now we have to leave.
There is no you and I.
The city non-place is prey to a poet’s looking glass:
Every street corner a pissoir
Every rat a son or daughter
Serenaded by bombastic rapists,
Handling oneself with far too much care.
Enough of this. Return to lager.
Missing, or simply disappeared.
These moments unbudded
Perhaps they end up here.

Extreme American sexual disorders


How’s that for a headline? I would’ve gone for My Despicable Heart but it doesn’t have as much panache. Tonight it’s a confessional fit only to be heard very late at night and on your own. This is a song for piano which I wrote, and which after probably never being heard in its entirety before (maybe half – once), I recorded tonight. The quality is bad, with only my basic mp3 player and my digital camera to hand. It gives a sense of the song anyway.

What also follows are the first and last attempt I’ll make at a series of self-portraits, which I hope will be read as incisive parody. They are as unsightly and as plainly self-exposed, erroneously so, as the song itself. But for too long the confessional has been used as a medium of self-advancement through an artificial setting of intimacy with the author. The confession can now safely return to its defacing origins. Perhaps they can be filed under Late Night Confessional too, or just vain and idiotic?

New proverbs and superstitions.

New superstitions

After obtaining a new mobile phone, throw the old one away in the direction of a passing train: good luck.

When leaving an off-licence after purchasing strong liquor, mutter “praise be“ upon leaving to ensure a safe night’s merry-making.

Tap a five-pence piece against any available surface whilst in queues to cut the waiting time by half. If no surface is available, rap the coin against your teeth.

Rub 2-day old coffee into hair to avoid balding. Prevent hairiness by rubbing 3-day old milk to the area concerned.

When questioned on an act of misconduct, inform your accuser that “the manager told me so“: acquittal.

At the end of the year, write on one sheet of A4 paper every scenario or event you hope will not happen next year. Post this sheet to your next of kin: good luck.

Look away and chuckle light-heartedly when passing police officers to avoid bad luck.

When eating potatoes on the first day of the month, always take the first one and put it in your pocket. Bury it later in a public park to ensure romantic success.

Avoid reading newspapers to prevent the onset of degenerative mental illness. If someone asks for your view on an article, make the sign of the cross and feign sleep.

When uploading photos onto the internet, tag famous celebrities and well-regarded wits into banal snapshots: career success will imminently follow.

Pass a broken down car in the street: good luck.

New proverbs

The longer the fingers, the slower the death.

A monkey is nothing but himself.

To make a Mother’s Birthday out of the matter.

A number can only end in zero or ten.

Every god is a garden for neurotics.

The bigger the mouth, the smaller the ears.

He who wears a tie in a summer will tie the hangman’s noose.

The smaller the day, the larger the pyjamas.

Every man is an expert in breakfast.

Easily acquired, soon expired.

Steal life with a handful of flowers.

The man in the tracksuit will always have itchy feet.

Even Americans need to have their wash-day.

To choose the dog over the baby.

Like singing with a sore throat.

Give a child a moustache and it will call itself the King of France.

To dance with cake and ale in your belly.

A mattress can only hide a lover or bedbugs.

Shoreditch Cod + Totemic ignorance = milksops, brigands, et alia

A couple of dismal or abysmal poems for you reader, depending on mood. These were written a couple of months back, and I offer these whilst I continue reading up for my course and applying for part-time jobs. I’m currently cultivating a thing about maps at the moment, which I hope to lay fully-sized for you by the end of this week (See my poetic gift for metaphor and mimesis, lovely eh?). I’m planning to put out three collections soon (in the next 2 years that is), mostly under daft pseudonyms. Maybe film some. Look out for Bob Cross…

Shoreditch Chicken & Cod.

You see her but you don’t beseech,
Lecterns are lectured; besides,
Each to each, and
Let fools learn and lovers recover unlovely ways.
Hear me
Muse Nothing: we’re empty,
Innocent like that
As essentially pure as these polystyrene boxes
And the cash you cannot even count in your oil-etched paw

So beseech her to be truthful old man,
There’s little else beside.
Claim, bold friend, there’s little else outside,
Be yourself one day, a deceit that may
Satisfy the rest. Eh,
We never stay reliable. Ask TV mother.
Whose? Choose. And don’t be stingy on the chips.

Trickery to end, spent ugly and unloveable friend.

His face was once an enchanting sight.
Need I say? Not any more.
It threatened bewitchment to a dangerous side
The sort that squats and pisses flagrantly
Against the walls of railway stations
I offer this:
These hands are safe now these eyes are glazed,
And I see sweetheart for what she is, her core
Truly nothing more than guilty bliss, hands tussle
Whilst pelvises flex, clumsy manoeuvres indict sexuality,
Or praise it, depends on your sensitivity – see?
I make no sense, damn pills and nothingness.
Clutch at a gospel of Luke, Karl, Alan or Piers.

“God bless other souls, still
The devil take me down”
A confessor in 2nd century souls,
My lover taught me grace.
She birthed me to the cotton age
I struggle and I learn nothing.
Fortunately I have a challenging role in Shoreditch Cod and Chips where I have learnt organisational and team-working skills as well as administistarve abilities and managaging a tight budget and aso at same time teamwortk skills with my cousin mo who tells me what to do and i like that – I NEED STRUCTURE ERGO I WAKE AT 7, LISTEN TO POP MUSIC, EAT WHEAT, PERSPIRE FOR 120 YEARS AND PERISH.

My crimes are scarcely worth report.


The life is good they say
Grounded by expensive clothes
And debt obligations
Says R. Willis:
“I am no ordinary spectre –
Look around – each pore speaks,
Each atom, a prophet of cosmic agency“

Says the totem of complicity:
Barbarity through dusky
Displayed indeference.
The 20th century mantra,

The horde has sacked the town
Filled it somehow
With their gaudy poundshops
Pinched expressions
“It’s just a lark –
Besides, I lack stimulus”

The following edition begs consumption
The old elite has run out of milk
Ex-marxist English lecturer
Beseeches indifferent schoolboys
To choose their own fate
Which simply means
In the world of indifferent schoolboys
Creating a new persona in
Sitdown addictive online
Schizoid role-playing games
Or denuding said ex-marxist teacher

If world requires indifference
As latest edition purports
Then I have a kind of fuel today
In the world of debt obligations
This is the second childhood.
As happy and grateful as all that
Does not suggest.

Death and re-death of Mithras, IV, etc.

Help, someone.

I hate everything that has ever been. I hate every single person, every creature either dead or dying. I hate myself above all.

This is wrong. This is judgemental, which presupposes a natural value or heierarchy, but all I see around me are human automatons peopling a folk-puppet nightmare. They are diseased with blindness, acting unconsciously in the most self-serving and violent way possible. They welcome their state of nothingness except as a mass body. They shout and curse and judge, and their violence is everywhere against themselves and against me.

I have to get out of this. I am sick with it all. There is nothing for me though. Even bloody SJW does nothing. My work makes me angry and my mind tears through my thoughts when I’d rather it did not. All of it just makes me feel sick. As it makes me this way, hence I am tiny, nothing, powerless dupe of circumstance. The lie of this nightmare of popular culture, one of ten thousand different fools plugged in and zoned out listening to their master’s voice. The words of passivism, hedonism, depression, competition, cynicism. Me. Me. I am dead like them all, but here I am – here I talk, the dead man. A paean against nothing, misunderstood like all missives as machinations of madness. Here another dead man talks a similarly sorry tale of his shit, another drip on html feed.

This is fucked. But all I see is this mass hypnosis. They all look and act the same, they express the death of their individual for “especially for you“ mass-manufacture music, consumer goods, profile styles. And me the dead man, in my Primark shirt, hand-me-down jeans and blank DMs, the closest to a rational uniform if ever possible.

I hate it all. And there is no fucking hope now in these dead times. We look to popular recorded music for some sign of revolt, but all of this is just working class self-employed capital well before privatisation. This is the dead time. Where is the revolutions, in the politics section of Waterstones, in the Amazon wishlist, in the Hollywood comic’s stand-up routine? This is the dead time coming from a dead man. A man with no freedom because he accepts every institution and idea to control him. The slave who put the future and general ease first, thereby reasoning to himself like a fool whilst enshackled. Moronic bumface. Indeed.

Don’t worry, this was written a few weeks back.