Said the shotgun to the head.

your priests and presidents

no longer matter

only you and I, my love

[…]

throw away your map

and swallow

this cratered pill

pull it from the sky

and let it dissolve

under your tongue

it is only a matter of time

before we are timeless

I can see the answer in her tired eyes.

Deep.

Some degree of understanding.

Found something I wrote a few years ago,
Its rubbish, but I like the memories it brings up for me, what does it do for you?

Some degree of understanding.
that desperate jokes inner meaning.
The crusty cracked stem of the old book.
Creaking like a door crying to be opened.
to find yet another blank room.
the room is the canvas of life.
I splat a few lines of paint on the walls.

Smile

And I'm no different I live in conflict and contradiction but it can be so beautiful
when I don't reject what lies within
It's beautiful the way agony connects us to the living
I think of the world when I hurt, and keep on existing in the now

This city runs fast, no one has time to sit with themselves,no time to look into our pain
or see the same despair in everyone else
its here, its there, its everywhere tears soak each card the dealers dealt
But time taught me how to see every second as heaven even though they're perfectly disguised as hell
And I refuse to let past bruises cover the light
it ain't all good, but its all good enough,
so I know I'm alright

My epiphanies are killing me, but Im keeping it quiet,

Sitting in the sun. Music to my ears.




My paradise is gone and you have thirty seconds to wake up,
From a nightmare with a flooding rush, with memories,
Like this one, caressing your inventive side,
I find pride is my enemy most of the time,
Obsessed with finding answers, guided by voices,
The choices Ive made have been cancerous,
Supposed this, were you, tell me how would you live,
Energy all spent with nothing left to give,
Except a rib and your blessing to be free,
Doesnt sound much like a fair trade to me,
Obviously it was finding the better of both Worlds
No matter how much it hurts and we both deserve,
The company that we keep to let us get good sleep,
Im not weak right now, but its not worth it to eat,
It was never part of the plan to end us like this,
But Im not trying to die for the things I cant admit,

This morning I woke up, the ceiling was spinning,
My eyes couldnt adjust, the sun was beginning,
To pry open the shades and burn through cotton skies,
I reached over to hold you but you were as cold as night,
The room was hot, but your body felt different,
I tried to wake you up, but your head never lifted,
I was whispering into your ear, please dont leave,
She was sleeping in gods arms where I couldnt reach,
Her face was against my chest, the silence was singing,
The song of innocence, feeling like children, again
The moment was stuck, I couldnt breath,
I screamed for someone to help us up hereplease.
Nobody was there, just me and my love,
Wrapped up in the blankets that meant so much,
Touching her skin against mine, the life slipped away,
God stole my heart, but left my body here to stay,


Went to sleep early, You have to be at school by 8
Got out my flashlight to write and not keep her awake,
I stay up to late, always tired in the morning,
Shes kisses me goodbye while im half asleep yawning,
Its not that Im lazy; Ive got things to do,
Not trying to say my art is more important that you,
My epiphanies are killing me, but Im keeping it quiet,
I love to see see angels painting on the inside of her eyelids,
Locked at the legs, if I move shell wake up,
So I stay in this position till my whole bodies numb,
When the room is still, I write to the rhythm of her pulse,

Sometimes you roll over and try to mumble goodnight,
I laugh because your hair is always sticking up to the right,
Brush it away from your face because your smile is on,
Whisper goodnight my love and turn my flashlight off.

Fluid

One of my favorite songs ever.

Cascando

Samuel Beckett

Cascando

1

why not merely the despaired of
occasion of
wordshed

is it not better abort than be barren

the hours after you are gone are so leaden
they will always start dragging too soon
the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves
sockets filled once with eyes like yours
all always is it better too soon than never
the black want splashing their facessaying again nine days never floated the loved
nor nine months
nor nine lives

2

saying again
if you do not teach me I shall not learn
saying again there is a last
even of last times
last times of begginglast times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending
a last even of last times of saying
if you do not love me I shall not be loved
if I do not love you I shall not love

the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterablewhey of words

terrified again
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you
of knowing not knowing pretending
pretending

I and all the others that will love you
if they love you

3

unless they love you

(S. Beckett, 1936)

from Collected Poems in English and French, S. Beckett, Grove Press, Inc. N.Y. 1977

What Burns Above My House

What Burns Above My House from dirtyverbs on Vimeo.

There is so much happening in the sky
it’s all we can do to keep ourselves distracted.

The monsoons roll in the late summer.
We set the mowers against the grass,
they graze like domesticated helicopters.
Their growl fills up the neighborhood.

Hawks fly down from the foothills
bending the wind with their wide arms.
They watch for mice running
from the mowers’ whirling mouths.

The clear sky hemorrhages a beautiful white cancer,
the sun becomes more beautiful in its gradual eclipse
because we notice only transitions
and invent things like boredom
to camouflage our moments.

Everything smells of clean electric sex.
The wind has distance on its breath.
The afternoon begins to explode.

A season like this
makes me wonder how we ever managed
to shove time into clocks and watches,
keeping time like a tiger on a leash,
oblivious to its obvious rebellion.

Sooner doesn’t always come before later.
Now is never stuck in the middle,
monsooner or later it will all come down.

The dirt roads will arrive eventually.
Today they’re running late
-Logan Phillips

The sun said Shine

Out of my mind, there's no love in there I move on, move on

I don't know whether to laugh or cry
And i don't know whether to live or die
I kept my love for her locked deep inside
It cuts like a knife
She's out of my life
Out of my life, out of my hair
Out of my mind, there's no love in there
I move on, move on
Dear god, i wasn't breast fed
And most of my conversations with men seem to revolve around music
I'm no musician but the pain has been instrumental
My sense finally tune the instruments of
Of being lonely, of being lost, of being loved, of being human
Man i could use a metaphor but i can't get beyond this shit
I could use someone to talk to
But most of my conversations with men seem to revolve around music
I am a poet who composes what the world proses
And proses what the world composes
I am a poet who composes what the world proses
And proses what the world composes
Damned indescion and cursed pride
I kept my love for her locked deep inside
And i don't know what to do
To get it through to you
Get out of my life tonight
Get out of my life
Out of my life, out of my hair
Out of my mind, 'cause no lovin' fair
I move on, move on
She had nothing but time on her hands
Silver rings, turquoise stones and purple nails
I rub my thumb across her palm
A featherbed where slept a psalm
Yay though i walked, i used to fly, and now we dance
I watch my toenails blacken and walk a deadened trance
'til she woke me with the knife edge of her glance
I have the scars to prove the clock strikes with her hands
And i don't know what to do
To get it through to you
And i don't know what to do
To get it through
Out of my life, out of my hair
Out of my mind, 'cause no lovin' fair
I move on, move on, i move on

Poetry by Saul Williams, photography by Neil Krug

A common sense of direction

she is the one who said 'fun' sounded like a word of german origin
she thought too much

like me

our time together like summer (concentration) camp
emaciated possibilities lie lifeless

oh this intellect burns
the crematorium below my nose keeps life
above my ears

silence is the star that i shall wear to mark my difference
yet we have so much in common
tonight
that the sun has made light of it
while we contemplate the weight of it all

it is we that are emaciated
our bodies subject to our minds propaganda

forgive the distinction but
intellect fairs moments genocide
and we should have kissed hours ago
you hold you breath when you should hold your tongue
and hold your tongue when you should hold my hand
and i should delegate more authority to myself
but i can't help thinking
that you're thinking
thinking
what is she thinking

"She stuck a bookmark in my heart and walked away."

But he's left footprints on the inside of his sisters eyelids and they've learned to walk without him.

Come back tomorrow for the next instalment!

A sudden realisation narrated by spoken word.

I hate nothing more than people who repeat things on their blogs, I mean its so arrogant just thinking that just cause you have an internet connection it doesn't mean that you are in some way some an art critic and that people should listen to what you have to say.
BUT.
As I have said countless times before I love Jenny Browne and her poetry and I want to say that I have had a particular sentence of this stuck in my head then I could justify putting it here. But I haven't, I love it all, I want to pick one line, but I have no favourite parts and I can never stop reading once I begin. Thankyou for putting my unsaid feelings into words.


It’s got nothing to do with love. A sweeping feeling dragging you down to the bottom of the ocean; your back rubs the corals, aquamarine skims by and you float motionlessly through this tunnel of blue. Like the butt of a cigarette into burning ashes - a ring of amber surrounds the tip and drags it down. Impossible situations, lost communications, broken faces and mistakes of the past. You can’t get over, you can’t get under. Hold yourself close and think of home. The safest place to stay alive, your private rooms in which to hide. I can think of nothing I want more than to disappear. Fade away into the solemn darkness, grabbing at air as you are pushed through the wind tunnel. A given name, meaning sorrowful is thrown at you and you reach out but only oxygen skims through your grasp. Nothing to hold; nothing to have. Naked in the darkness, oily skin and dry palms, perspiration rolling down your forehead and dripping moisture onto my face.. I am smiling in the obscurity but you can’t see. I giggle noisily and you collapse on top of me, burying your head into my pillow. As you raise your head I catch a glimpse of the corners of your mouth, rising to meet your ears. Warmth is at one, just as I am with you. I am thinking ridiculous thoughts. A blackbird in solitude on a fence post in spring. Waiting for the morning to rise up and sing. Reduced visibility during the lighting of the sky. It will let me out, release me and fly. When I was little I didn’t know love, now I’ve been through and out and I am still unable to breathe. A torturous rollercoaster. It melts your mind, freezes up your brain and holds you back from anyone else you had ever imagined being with. Thinking about you or me or you and me is like an epiphany. A sudden realisation narrated by spoken word. The essence of a meaning, but without a meaning, no common logic or symmetry. There are too many miles between us for this to be real. We cannot hold it together because you are never here. I can still smell you, the dirt between your fingers, your hair wet from the rain. That time we kissed was so beautiful, God opened up the heavens and the rain came down in sheets. You grabbed my hand and ran, me lagging behind. We went away to hide and you pulled me up close, wrapped up in each other to stay warm. The affection I felt for you cannot compare to anyone I meet now, and might possibly share. We are going nowhere other than down a steep slope and I wish for the day when I am finally completed, when we are older and more intelligent and sick to the bones of not seeing each other for so long. It’s so hard. I am tumbling head over heels for this image. This vision, these dreams that I cannot contain, I see you smile in the half-light, smothered in rain. If I close my eyes they will want to be open. If I try to stay awake this apparition will grab me. Alone in my bed at a quarter to two, I lift up my eyelids and turn over and see you. But it is not you, simply a space in my bed and I stroke the same space where maybe one day you will be.

Who holds a subtle knife that carves through worlds like magic doors

Nah, I wasn't raised at gunpoint and I've read too many books

To distract me from the mirror when unhappy with my looks

And I ain't got proper diction for the makings of a thug

Though I grew up in the ghetto and my niggas all sold drugs

And though that may validate me for a spot on MTV

Or get me all the airplay that my bank account would need

I was hoping to invest in a lesson that I learned

I thought this fool had jumped me just because it was my turn

I went to an open space 'cause I knew he wouldn't do it

If somebody there could see him or somebody else might prove it

And maybe, in your eyes, it may seem I got punked out

'Cause I walked a narrow path and then went and changed my route

But that openness exposed me to a truth I couldn't find

In the clenched fists of my ego or the confines of my mind

Or the hipness of my swagger, or the swagger in my step

Or the scowl of my grimace, or the meanness of my rep

'Cause we represent a truth, son, that changes by the hour

And when you open to it, vulnerability is power

And in that shifting form you'll find a truth that doesn't change

And that truth is living proof of the fact that God is strange

Talk to strangers when the family fails and friends lead you astray

When Buddha laughs and Jesus weeps and it turns out God is gay

'Cause angels and messiahs, love, can come in many forms

In the hallways of your projects or the fat girl in your dorm

And when you finally take the time to see what they're about

Perhaps you find them lonely or their wisdom trips you out

Maybe you'll find the cycles end you back where you began

But come this time around you'll have someone to hold your hand

Who prays for you who's there for you who sends you love and light

Exposes you to parts of you that you once tried to fight

And come this time around you'll choose to walk a different path

You'll embrace what you turned away and cry at what you laughed

'Cause that's the only way we're going to make it through this storm

Where ignorance is common sense and senselessness the norm

And flags wave high above the truth and the two never touch

And stolen goods are overpriced and freedom costs too much

And no one seems to recognize the symbols come to life

The bitten apple on the screen and Jesus had a wife

And she was his Messiah like that stranger may be yours

Who holds a subtle knife that carves through worlds like magic doors

And that's what I've been looking for, the bridge from then to now

Just watching BET like, "What the fuck, son? This is foul."

But that square box don't represent the sphere that we live in

The earth is not a flat screen, I ain't trying to fit in

But this ain't for the underground, this here is for the sun

A seed a stranger gave to me and planted on my tongue

And when I look at you, I know I'm not the only one

As a great man once said,

"There's nothing more powerful

than an idea

who's time

has come."

Blackalicious Release

Inner breathlessness, outer restlessness

By the time I caught up to freedom I was out of breath

Grandma asked me what I'm running for

I guess I'm out for the same thing the sun is sunning for

What mothers birth their youngens for

And some say Jesus coming for

For all I know the earth is spinning slow

Suns at half mast 'cause masses ain't aglow

On bended knee, prostrate before an altered tree

I've made the forest suit me

Tables and chairs

Papers and prayers

Matter versus spirit

A metal ladder

A wooden cross

A plastic bottle of water

A mandala encased in glass

A spirit encased in flesh

Sound from shaped hollows

The thickest of mucus released from heightened passion

A man that cries in his sleep

A truth that has gone out of fashion

A mode of expression

A paint splattered wall

A carton of cigarettes

A bouquet of corpses

A dying forest

A nurtured garden

A privatized prison

A candle with a broken wick

A puddle that reflects the sun

A piece of paper with my name on it

I'm surrounded

I surrender

All

All that I am I have been

All I have been has been a long time coming

I am becoming all that I am

The spittle that surrounds the mouth-piece of the flute

Unheard, yet felt

A gathered wetness

A quiet moisture

Sound trapped in a bubble

Released into wind

Wind fellows and land merchants

We are history's detergent

Water soluble, light particles, articles of cleansing breath

Articles amending death

These words are not tools of communication

They are shards of metal

Dropped from eight story windows

They are waterfalls and gas leaks

Aged thoughts rolled in tobacco leaf

The tools of a trade

Barbers barred, barred of barters

Catch phrases and misunderstandings

But they are not what I feel when I am alone

Surrounded by everything and nothing

And there isn't a word or phrase to be caught

A verse to be recited

A man to de-fill my being in those moments

I am blankness, the contained center of an "O"

The pyramidic containment of an "A"

I stand in the middle of all that I have learned

All that I have memorized

All that I've known by heart

Unable to reach any of it

There is no sadness

There is no bliss

It is a forgotten memory

A memorable escape route that only is found by not looking

There, in the spine of the dictionary the words are worthless

They are a mere weight pressing against my thoughtlessness

But then, who else can speak of thoughtlessness with such confidence

Who else has learned to sling these ancient ideas

like dead rats held by their tails

so as not to infect this newly oiled skin

I can think of nothing heavier than an airplane

I can think of no greater conglomerate of steel and metal

I can think of nothing less likely to fly

There are no wings more weighted

I too have felt a heaviness

The stare of man guessing at my being

Yes I am homeless

A homeless man making offerings to the after-future

Sculpting rubber tree forests out of worn tires and shoe soles

A nation unified in exhale

A cloud of smoke

A native pipe ceremony

All the gathered cigarette butts piled in heaps

Snow covered mountains

Lipsticks smeared and shriveled

Offerings to an afterworld

Tattoo guns and plastic wrappers

Broken zippers and dead eyed dolls

It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me

I have seeded a forest of myself

Little books from tall trees

It matters not what this paper be made of

Give me notebooks made of human flesh

Dried on steel hooks and nooses

Make uses of use, uses of us

It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me

I have seeded a forest of myself

Little books from tall trees

On bended knee

Prostrate before an altered tree

I've made the forest suit me

Tables and chairs

Papers and prayers

Matter vs. spirit, through meditation

I program my heart to beat breakbeats and hum basslines on exhalation

Release.

This has to be one of my favourite tunes of all time and is definitely one of the most annoying to spell. These lyrics run straight through to my soul.

His face is full of years.

The Boy - Tom Rosenthal

And a poem written by Tom.

Do not not talk to them

Don’t talk to them because they’ll kill you.
Inevitably.
Don’t even look at them because if they see you
looking at them then they WILL kill you.
It will be gruesome to boot.

Whatever you do, do NOT, under any circumstances, accept sweets
from them because they’ll either be poisonous or part of a
devious trap with the end result being your untimely death
(and you had so much to give)

Talk to them.
They’re your friends, enemies, first loves (yes you thought you were in love before but you weren’t), god; they’re even your
birth mother (sorry to break it to you like this), and what’s more;
Everyone you have known or will ever know is one of them.
They are your future, staring you (and then looking away
when
eyes
meet)
right in the face.

Begin.

A winter nap.

A Winter Nap

I find that you are not here and
under frozen duvets I wish you were
so we could go from bread to
toast together in the
wink of an eye
and then…
sleep.

a shared mini death with the
added bonus of waking
And talking of things alien to the upright
and then
unfortunately,
inevitably,

back to the world.

-tom rosenthal..

Its got nothing to do with love.

A friend asked me the other day, why is your blog called its got nothing to do with love?

So I explained the story of how Jenny Browne was reading me poems in my bedroom at home and how this slipped out of her little book of poems. This was before she had her blog so as I pinched it off her I was very happy with myself. For the next two years I read this poem almost daily and it travelled with me from festival to festival and had many a strip of tape holding it together where it had been folded so many times, until one day it just dissapeared.

So a week ago I emailed Jenny and she sent me this copy. And all the memories came flooding back.

It’s got nothing to do with love. A sweeping feeling dragging you down to the bottom of the ocean; your back rubs the corals, aquamarine skims by and you float motionlessly through this tunnel of blue. Like the butt of a cigarette into burning ashes - a ring of amber surrounds the tip and drags it down. Impossible situations, lost communications, broken faces and mistakes of the past. You can’t get over, you can’t get under. Hold yourself close and think of home. The safest place to stay alive, your private rooms in which to hide. I can think of nothing I want more than to disappear. Fade away into the solemn darkness, grabbing at air as you are pushed through the wind tunnel. A given name, meaning sorrowful is thrown at you and you reach out but only oxygen skims through your grasp. Nothing to hold; nothing to have. Naked in the darkness, oily skin and dry palms, perspiration rolling down your forehead and dripping moisture onto my face.. I am smiling in the obscurity but you can’t see. I giggle noisily and you collapse on top of me, burying your head into my pillow. As you raise your head I catch a glimpse of the corners of your mouth, rising to meet your ears. Warmth is at one, just as I am with you. I am thinking ridiculous thoughts. A blackbird in solitude on a fence post in spring. Waiting for the morning to rise up and sing. Reduced visibility during the lighting of the sky. It will let me out, release me and fly. When I was little I didn’t know love, now I’ve been through and out and I am still unable to breathe. A torturous rollercoaster. It melts your mind, freezes up your brain and holds you back from anyone else you had ever imagined being with. Thinking about you or me or you and me is like an epiphany. A sudden realisation narrated by spoken word. The essence of a meaning, but without a meaning, no common logic or symmetry. There are too many miles between us for this to be real. We cannot hold it together because you are never here. I can still smell you, the dirt between your fingers, your hair wet from the rain. That time we kissed was so beautiful, God opened up the heavens and the rain came down in sheets. You grabbed my hand and ran, me lagging behind. We went away to hide and you pulled me up close, wrapped up in each other to stay warm. The affection I felt for you cannot compare to anyone I meet now, and might possibly share. We are going nowhere other than down a steep slope and I wish for the day when I am finally completed, when we are older and more intelligent and sick to the bones of not seeing each other for so long. It’s so hard. I am tumbling head over heels for this image. This vision, these dreams that I cannot contain, I see you smile in the half-light, smothered in rain. If I close my eyes they will want to be open. If I try to stay awake this apparition will grab me. Alone in my bed at a quarter to two, I lift up my eyelids and turn over and see you. But it is not you, simply a space in my bed and I stroke the same space where maybe one day you will be.

copyright to Jenny Browne

clouds from the west

http://cheekythrills.blogspot.com/2011/01/464200.html
464,200

i watched as clouds from the west
collided with an aeroplane from the
east in the window reflection across
the street. dulling rows of red brick
marring my view each morning. i
did not ask for a perfect panorama.
i did not recieve one. in this dirty
city i live and breathe. but there is
no oxygen. only bulletproof shop-
fronts, industrial palaces and Floyd
who sits in a filthy puddle of his own
lost memories outside the university.
i roll him cigarettes and he tells me
that i remind him of the wife he once
had. it is entirely subjective, this city.
i wake up for the day but it is already
dark. i still lose my way, but finding
things by accident is better. i found
myself by accident. i don't get scared
anymore walking home at 5am.
daddy said i'm a big girl now

Jenny Browne I love your brain, your words are amazing.

Jenny Browne

http://cheekythrills.blogspot.com/

jenny browne is amazing.