ANON SONGS FOR LUKE B

BY ANON

HAIRVENT

I love my mum sometimes.

I love her always actually.

Sometimes we get frustrated

but today was a special day.

She said “Nirvana would

do one called ‘Hairvent.’”

I absolutely cannot wait.

To listen to it, or to fuck it up,

that is the question. To

listen to it, or to fuck it up,

that is the question. Over

and out, testing testing 123.

Over and out, testing testing

123. Welcome to my presence

and its intensity. I need

to let some pressure out.

COLLARED DOVE

I see a collared dove fly

and it lifts up my heart.

Into the filament of bird

I travel on. Birds

are for flying, not

for special perception.

It rises from right to left, fluttering

its wings in a frenzy, furiously flapping,

leaving the ground, ascending

an echelon of fresh, fell air, taking

flight in a flurry of feathers

and disappears behind

the yew tree. A bird

could be a portal of discovery.

It could lead to light

even if descended

from the pterodactyls

whose dawn chorus out-shone

the colours of the vowels.

ALL THIS CAN CHANGE

The earliest source I can find still in print

is Binaural Songbook.

Then we have things like

57 Paintings For Art Therapy

The Field of Rock N Roll Science

John Tucker’s Schooldays: A Spreadsheet Poem

Another 57 Paintings for Art Therapy

The New Beat

The Effect of Global Warming On The Unicorn

Word For Stained Glass Windows

154 Shakespearean Sonnets

Then we have some Chipmunka books for example:

Soundcloud Raid

The Sunset Child

Breath Trapped In Heaven

Brave New Tense

Transition To Philosophy (by Johannes Bergfors)

Yes You May

There’s more on his blog.

Poems superimposed on photos.

And there are 36 poems with a magazine…

he would rather forget some of those.

Then you realise

he’s also done the music…

he has ten albums or long E. P’s.

They are only demo standard.

All this can change.

FLUVIENT COINAGE

Sonnest abraddio grample and bricken

gontocker blonky and wellity white

postico flostico flipstick and fleving

fluvient coinage has gone againe

driptheria drearier than a tree-drum

do-lang and blang-gast gustopong coo

sloo flicking flostico flostico flagrant

masticko mecklebot plastic and plee

flestico follerdong farmerly fillegist

fillegist farmerly follerdong flunk

collerdon gollerdon gumian grey

ollerpoller sollerdoller follycog nonk.

REMEMBERING SPRING

Barnes has scored a chicken.

But every time I confute it,

it grows back, like a tree into which

you have carved your name, healing.

It wasn’t Barnes, wasn’t a chicken

and wasn’t a goal. So Barnes

hasn’t really scored a chicken.

But then you need a proposition.

And “Barnes has scored a chicken”

grows back. Because it is about spring,

renewal, rebirth, growth. So

you have to prove it wrong again.

It could be that the proposition

is right in terms of recourse

to euphemism and wrong

in terms of factual data. Every time

I prove it wrong it grows back,

but that may have all changed now.

This might’ve been an epitaph.

PETRA HYDRA DEUTEMOL

As you may know by now,

O some one foot wedge of air away man,

Dear, gentle reader,

I took an O. D. the likes of which

it was said to be genius to survive

but coming back down

had lost the ability to ejaculate.

Never again will I know a woman,

her containing elasticity

and texture, her granular wear -

and I am as yet to properly cry…

there followed another

O. D. attempt where I

got even closer to death

and I think damaged my brain.

I don’t want to sound like Sylvia Plath

who was an egoist, so unlikely

to last as a major poet,

so I keep my misery literature

heaped up in a separate file,

ready for when the day comes -

but I just thought you

should know all the same.

I used to be against poets on medication

because a poet is a translator

of feelings and the feelings

you get on chemicals

are fake – but now

I have no other option

except to join in with them.

Cannabis was exempt

in the old creed because

I thought Jesus would smoke it

if he were alive today – and

then other drugs started to be allowed -

like ecstasy for example.

Before I knew it I was a chemical factory

full of messages being sent,

signals and the like, overflowing,

overloaded, all through the night.

Each chemical enacts

a physical poem on the body.

Truth is one is made of drugs.

And to call all drugs “drugs”

represents a dangerous

narcotisation of the truth…

but I was so wrecked I dreamed up

Strictly Free as a drug. It is but

the narcotisation of air

in-between spliffs.

Naturally, I don’t do that

any more; but there was

e’ en relatively recently

a time of communion

with someone that knows magic,

which I can’t claim to know myself.

And then, if you can get sorted out

with noxious toxins of

deleterious self-derision,

if you know the right person,

as in have a friend, and

are signed off work, and

on benefits with mental illness,

The Lakes becomes Paradise

just for a little glimpse

before it all caves in on you.

Like not knowing a woman,

I might not know chemical heaven ever again.

We were fiends, my friend

and I, but killing ourselves really.

When my mother passes away,

I wonder what I am to do, whether

I move in with my friend, or

head down south to Londinium.

My mother keeps saying

when she dies this house

is going to be sold…

I might need to have a few drinks.

And I wonder if beer enacts

its own physical poem

on the body, and I

wonder of coffee too.

Beer is a depressant,

that numbs the pain

but at least coffee

is still said to be a drug.

I was going to say mother’s

homegrown tomatoes also

enact a physical poem

and they might but then

I also remembered

even water leaves its own

indelible stain on the hypothalamus.

So everything chemical

conducts a physical poem.

And acid (which is flung

from the sun) is fungal.

That’s the one where poetry

is most evident. Or I suppose

you could say ecstasy too,

which is not psychoactive

but emotional. So

you could say they are

but different types of poet.

Here I search for correlation

between drugs taken and

poets read but find nothing.

I think maybe Milton is smack,

but that’s just rubbish.

The open freedom of this

game shrinks back down

to a narrowing of possibilities.

I suppose we’re looking at

a words as drugs analogy.

Have you ever ingurgitated, say,

the word “infradiegetic?”

It’s not actually a nice word.

It’s a posh, technical term

from the corner of the library.

Here I would like to mindfully

consume another, like

words are astronauts

entering the ear’s orbit,

and one delicious one

is the word “noetic.”

Another is “abeyance.”

Another is “propitious.”

And all along, you find

I am under the chemical cosh -

am consuming meds at a rate of knots -

and trying not to write

merely empty medicine packets.

ERASING THE DEBT

(for Simon Pomery)

My father told us he was a fine art dealer,

smuggled fine art o’ er the Berlin Wall,

sold his business when the Berlin Wall fell,

was codenamed “Blue” and donned a faux

Australian accent for the job; but I found out

it was pollen that he really smuggled, that

art was recourse to euphemism for pollen,

that he had a pollen farm up in the Moroccan mountains

and shipped tonnes and tonnes of it to the States –

a kind of stuff that crumbles under

the thumb, replete with mascara bruise,

peacock feather, butterfly-wing and velvet flare;

that that was how our schooling was funded;

for all the schooling of his four children was

“the only thing worth spending money on”

or so he said; and so a minor footnote in history

became a front we learned to see through.

VOICES ON THE INTERCOM

“To what do we owe our win?

Gather round brothers and listen in.

The blue cars have gone…

they work for us now. I mean

we may have become part

of the new government. I hope

we all get on. I mean it might be time

to let those that curse and hypnotise us

off the hook. If you think

they’ll put you in prison

after all you’ve done, you need

a wash. We won’t let it happen.”

ANON INTERLUDE 10

My dad wasn’t sponsored by some philosophers to provide the real human witness from The Lords And The New Creatures. At seven I never helped invent the net: when the idea of the net needed storing in writing in the attic at the foot of the fell to give it a chance to grow all the way round the world it wasn’t I that wrote it. At eight I didn’t make two Naturalistic Observations I didn’t understand. At eleven I hadn’t already gone wrong with an experiment into the maths of the new colour, wasn’t marked by it in puberty, and so on. Soon enough I never attained the island of penguins. So I wouldn’t say it may have been observed on the other side of the universe. In 2000 I never predicted September 11th, nor spoke against it, also never prophesied the God Particle, the alignment nor wrote the highest-marked English Literature A-level exam essay in the nation. After school it didn’t strike me that “I. T. might stand for Instant Travel too:” and I didn’t get into University by writing about it. I never recorded an album on state of the art, binaural earphones while at University, continuing to write interesting things, including a paper on whether or not Lucy in the soul w/ demons happens to be an actual substance… I never had an effervescent mobile phone reverberating the rhythm of ‘William Tell’ through every technological inlet in the room before it rang. I didn’t climb up on the binaural earphone album and say I would “plug my senses in the mains,” didn’t host the Plough alignment for a rhythm change in the White House, get a First despite the onset of mental illness, spot a tattoo of my name on Piper At The Gates of Dawn, work at a numinous, purple-bleeding screen, build the Tower as an instrument of philosophy, conduct an experiment into a tape with a pause where cut and resealed in the flimsy reel and discover the sheet where pictures depicting my own song lyric grew. It was never my brother’s sheet originally, so I never surrendered it over. It then didn’t become time to start bringing books out, including a falsification of the Nirvana barcode, and also for a while I didn’t attain visual radio broadcasting dreams.

THE PROTECTOR

You used to play for England

but now you play for me

when all I find is words unkind

you protect my sanity

You used to be a winger

but now you play anywhere

to get between myself and the scene

when people are in the air

You used to score for nothing

but now you score for peace

when screaming eyes are in the skies

demanding a swift release

You used to be left footed

but still could use your right

emblazon my soul with your England goal

I think they should make you a Knight

LOVE SONG

I left my comfort zone,

travelling by mobile phone,

through the six inch gap,

to make the stranger clap,

sitting on my seat,

thinking on my feet,

eating crisps and drinking tea.

I said goodbye to things,

surrendered angel wings,

underneath a rock

found a pretty frock,

proved the face of stars

with my old guitars

and took a drug called Strictly Free.

Then it came to pass

the moment was made of glass,

that shattered on the floor

and left you wanting more,

and everyone could see

the sheer insanity

of the world afloat in space.

At least I sent a text,

feeling rather vexed,

to have my message sent,

despite it being Lent,

and have it bounce around

and come back to the ground,

trying to send my love to Trace.

FIELD OBSERVATIONS

Already Radiohead is a field

with a river down the way

where mad children splash and play

unaware of the guilt and the shame

unaware of the praise and the blame

unaware of the end of the game.

Their tender playfulness extends forever

as they splash and play in the water,

moving stones to change its pitch,

not quite minding which is which,

free to do just as they wish,

and on the river bank languish.

THE ISLAND OF PENGUINS

The island of penguins was a Holy night,

if we don’t take flight

then we’ll seem quite bright.

It doesn’t matter about the plot,

for the plot is grot

and can go to rot.

What matters most in life is love,

if it comes from above

then that is your dove.

We were three gathered in the name,

if you find it a shame

I can take the blame.

ON A RENEGADE FLIGHT

My head is burnt

I fried my brain

as if prefigured

in James’s stain

I do say James’s

but it’s mine as well

as if the rest

can go to Hell

so don’t take drugs

they only lead

to bad outcomes

where dreams can bleed

I’ve bored myself

with my own tale

the bread is dead

the past is stale

when all at once

I get some tea

and that’s enough

for this new me

whom it would seem

stays up all night

as if to escape

on a renegade flight

SONG IN THE WEE HOURS IN THE KITCHEN

The voices won’t stop

oh why oh why

I am not a shop

that sells them pie

I think at the top

they have to lie

down here I flop

as time goes by

what shall we pretend

to fill this hole

and shall we ascend

a telegraph pole

and will metal bend

to greet your soul

with ears that lend

and a mine of coal?

I’m under the old

chemical cosh

and feeling cold

and in need of a wash

and being bold

splash the dosh

before I can fold

on this bunch of tosh.

I’m guided by voices

just like the doors

and make silly choices

without good cause

they are not James Joyce’s

nor are they yours

as the dawn rejoices

in the great outdoors.

I AM A TROLL

I’m so groovy,

they’re making me a movie,

I’m so cool

they’re closing down my school,

but something you don’t know,

don’t know if I should show,

your little mind might blow…

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I’m so sorry,

they made me say a lorry,

I’m so smooth,

they’re getting me a booth,

but something you don’t know,

don’t know if I should show,

your little mind might blow…

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

FLUOXETINE LADY

Fluoxetine lady you shine so bright

in the dungeons of the night

what immortal band or lie

dare frame thy fearful telemetry

I crashed on your sofa last night

as all the world was in unmanned flight

and sensed a disturbance in the Force

then saw at once a winged horse

it was going past outside

in the world we sleep to hide

but that was just my imagination

as I looked through a Sony Playstation

Fluoxetine lady I love your curves

and see the way your mirror swerves

to keep you but cannot contain

the beauty bursting in my brain

WOMAN IN WHITE

Agonising woman, dancing in white,

your short dress hugs your figure tight.

It’s only a photo, only a still,

but still how you’re dressed to kill.

I’ve never seen love from this angle before,

totally useless, but the thing we adore.

I see you among the adverts there

online, tossing your blonde hair

in a leonine way, and want to know

who you are and in what show.

Of course if I click on you I fall

for the adverts and so instead I stall

at you, the bait, to suck us all in,

with a promise of wanton-ness and sin.

I don’t wish to be re-directed

feeling as badly as if I am rejected,

I wish to know more of your eloquent shapes,

for in my mind your beauty shapes apes.

You dance in a sensuous graffiti of

blind white light, proving only love,

but all we can see is a split-second caught

on a camera whose lens can distort.

Distortion is clarity with a guitar

that stretches between star and star,

but not with your body, for it is clear

that I would love to hold you near.

I’ve seen you in yellow and in red,

but white is best, like words unsaid.

Come closer, please do, for I am alone

without any use for my mobile phone.

JUST ANOTHER LET DOWN

(Am/ G/ F/ C/ Dm/ F/ Am/ G)

Hey bro – what do you know?

It’s always raining at the station.

Hey dude – it seems a bit crude

but is it time for medication?

Hey sis – if I give it a miss

they say bad things can happen.

Hey man – I do what I can

to help my mother in the garden…

(F/ C/ Em)

and dreams of love are over

but still something is distilled

and though I’m not too clever

with my brother I am chilled

and though I’m getting older

love is still my first ideal

and when I was much younger

I was more inclined to steal

(Am/ G/ F/ C/ Dm/ F/ Am/ G)

Hey friend – where does it end?

Is it with another let down?

Hey mate – what’s your fate?

Is it arriving at a new town?

Dear Sir – I hope you concur…

it took us all this way just to get down.

Dear Maam – you’re a cherry palm -

I hope you like your new night-gown...

(F/ C/ Em)

and dreams of love are over

but still something is distilled

and though I’m not too clever

with my brother I am chilled

and though I’m getting older

love is still my first ideal

and when I was much younger

I was more inclined to steal

(Am/ G/ F/ C/ Dm/ F/ Am/ G)

Hey dad – it makes me sad

to know we’ll never speak again.

Hey mum – it’s not that I’m dumb

it’s just that some things are in vain.

Hey ho - here we go -

trying to sing away the pain…

Oh yeah – I’ll meet you there,

where we discuss my brother’s stain...

(F/ C/ Em)

and dreams of love are over

but still something is distilled

and though I’m not too clever

with my brother I am chilled

and though I’m getting older

love is still my first ideal

and when I was much younger

I was more inclined to steal.

HERE COME THE WAVES

Here they come,

here come the waves,

let’s move our bodies

and dance a little bit

and when they come

in all shapes and sizes

that’s when we need

to average out the waves

here they come,

here come the waves,

let’s see through music,

let’s rule our kingdoms with song

don’t pave the wave,

unless you’re a slave,

unless you want

things to turn out wrong

here they come,

here come the waves,

let’s let the phet

be a little bet with the myriad mind

and when we lose

and have the blues

that’s when we choose

to not continue colour-blind

FOUNDSTEIN

(a new fingerpicking song)

How do you do Ryuken?

Ableton is broken,

like the first morning,

nothing left to decide.

The kids will want a garden,

spaces that are open,

I wish I had some pollen,

surrender to the tide.

The morning’s come to names,

we left our old flames

in the land of dreams

and now will play our games.

I’m not up for fighting,

witness in the lightning,

the winter wind is biting,

I dreamed of love and trust.

There has been a sighting

of something that is fleeting,

the job is a good one,

ending up in dust.

The morning’s come to names,

we left our old flames

in the land of dreams

and now will play our games.

Drake is in the wilderness,

suffer teeming emptiness,

nothing comes from Nothingness

except nothing at all.

Another day has begun,

and even though there is no sun,

it could be a good one,

where I remember Paul.

The morning’s come to names,

we left our old flames

in the land of dreams

and now will play our games.



















HYPOTHALAMUS

She said her name was Freedom,

and love is born in chaos,

desirous for your whisper,

your hypothalamus

controls the universe,

the universe-hearse

is in your soul-hole…

but don’t break the Hollow Claw,

waving for the raven’s throne,

for it’s not against the law

just to always feel alone

alone as a stone

in the great unknown.

(2000)

FLOPS

It’s just another problem

for me to sort out,

intelligence is sadness,

intelligence is doubt,

the band aren’t with me,

the band have gone,

we still don’t know

if my first word is Anon,

the music I am writing

is meant for the book,

I’m still feeling empty

from the things that I took,

with Colgate toothpaste

you can’t go wrong,

I want to put a roundabout

in the middle of the song.

A WALLETY WALLETY WALTER

I was walking down the valley,

in search of Where’s Wally,

and I became a silly billy

and everything was willy nilly

and the squiggles on the page

were the corners of the room

and everything was in a cage

at the foot of Black Combe.

There were eight pills in the evening,

six pills in the morning,

three pills at lunch time,

while the Golden Age was dawning,

and there was an emotive charge

in the cables overhead

and the headlines were a splurge

and some things are best left unsaid.

GIVEN THAT <BEE> MIGHT BE MY BROTHER

The children of our friends are growing up to do <BEE>.

The idea is that <BEE> may soon ensue from @ in the international language alphabet.

Given that it’s my brother who came up with it, my brother might be <BEE>.

Given that my brother might be <BEE> I should write about him.

He is working on an epic sci-fi novel set over 1000 years in space.

He is left-handed and even dreams creatively.

My dad used to say with him that still waters run deep.

He used to be a rugby player at school but took it no further.

I would say that he is a Bentley among the Ford Fiestas.

We share what I call “co-imagination” and what he calls “sympathy.”

Given that <BEE> might be my brother, I would say he’s a genius.

I would say he’s a genius though was never good at school.

He says “a dog is a dog is a dog is a dog.”

He says “if you buy cheap you buy twice.”

He spends most of his time shut in his bedroom at his laptop.

He plays chess online and also other computer games too.

I once got him to read The Lords And The New Creatures by Jim Morrison.

He said it was good but not as good as his own work.

His own work is yet to be seen, read, appreciated.

Unless that is you count the sheet where pictures grew.

The pictures seem to depict the lyric to my song.

But the sheet is my brother’s for he designed it and laid it down.

He is not a poet or songwriter in the traditional sense.

If <BEE> is my brother I’d say he’s invented a new art.

He’s actually a good chef and makes a nice chocolate mousse.

He makes spag bol according to a traditional Italian recipe.

I think he thinks philosophy is a kind of spaghetti.

The way he likes spaghetti best is al dente.

SALAD DRESSING

Yesterday we had a warm salad with roasted beetroot.

Today we went down the Sunset Cafe at the beach.

I had a ham sandwich and mum had a quiche.

Her quiche came with salad with mustard dressing.

When we came home we walked into the kitchen.

There was still some salad left from yesterday.

The flies might’ve been at it but it’s still edible.

I might polish off yesterday’s salad later on.

Now it seems to be a time of peace and quiet.

The day has drifted free of the ice berg like an island.

The raft has drifted free of the medical gaze.

I open a pocket of sanity with Negative Capability.

Occasionally cars whoosh past but not often.

Most of all, the voices have gone away for now.

Now the plot is that I have eaten the salad in question.

It is later and the day is still bright and sunny.

To what horizon of significance does this tend?

Nothing but the piping up of the drone of the fridge.

Nothing but the wind in the bright grass outside.

Nothing but the slant of light in the kitchen.

Nothing but a state of mindful awareness I enter.

Nothing but my mother sneezing upstairs.

Let’s hope she’s not getting ill all over again.

She already had to endure a course of antibiotics.

Now through the thump and dump of medication I see.

Now my heart is a dumping ground for spare medication.

Now her sneezing fit has been passed down to me.

I sit downstairs at a lonely vigil at the kitchen window.

Sometimes the wind throttles the arthritic window.

Now we have peace and quiet elongating.

Now I eat an extremely hot chilli which I like.

I like it because the pleasure and pain areas of the brain

are right next door to each other, which explains a lot.

I still have to wash the hotness down with milk.

In the morning I crash my face into water.

It’s a tried and trusted method all round the world.

Now I drink tea and my mouth is still scorched.

It’s the feeling of turning off an annoying Youtube video.

It’s an abeyance in which the soul can languish.

It’s a soft, putrefied armchair of lethargy for the soul.

It’s a mirror that is blank to all that is before it.

POSITIVE SELF-MESSAGING

“By now the only P is we know you did all that.”

“To do all that you’d need to be Jesus

and they are making you be Anon.”

“To not mention the curse

you’d need to be Jesus.”

“You’re doing what we’ll do

when you are a ghost.”

The Tetris pieces keep falling;

the comments keep coming in.

“They may even know of your It in America.”

“Whom it seems sleeps across the seas.”

WEATHER-WASHED VIGIL

Here I sit ( ), still in

the solipsistic kitchen of fiction,

checking the file, anxious

that my brother is still in it,

that my friendships are still intact.

My brother hasn’t left

his room all day, but

will likely get up in the night,

wake us all up, making

beans on toast. Therefore

I am. The voices recede,

the emotive charge at the end

of The New Creatures comes

into play, like a cable

above a twilight wood.

Birds scatter. Night falls.

“We deem it the best you’ll ever do,

and the rest are just scones.”

ON ANON

It should be down to the writer in question whether or not he or she goes Anon. I consider this work the first and only work I have done that is Anon. Anon is the most famous composer of all time. Anon is also the author of the earliest English poems. The first line is “Well-wrought this wall: Weirds broke it.” Weirds could be weather systems; and combining the fact that the earliest subject is ruin’d architecture and the earliest recipe known to man is for beer, as discovered by monks, could make a poem’s definition something like “a statue of alcohol.” Normally I take the stance of John Stuart Mill: that a progressive country can quickly become backward if there is a decrease in Individuality. Normally, I also take the stance of my father: that a writer has a Right to a Name otherwise an Exclusion of the Individual Machine can close ranks against you. For there are valid arguments against being Anon. But still, an Anon work was required of me, to give back to society, and I am putting myself into it too, to give as I say, to make something that is ours. The problem I had with Anonymity is that all previous work that they were trying to make Anon against my wishes was only falsely Anon, for it was really written by myself, as myself and to retroimpose anonymity was false. And if an Anon work is required of me, despite my CV, I should rather have the Right to determine what it is going to be, and that would mean I give myself to it more as an art form that requires skill. So it is that it depends on the content as to whether or not I am happy to provide some Anon work. To go against a writer’s desires to be Anon or not is illegal for a reason. Now that I have the present text herein, I am hoping that I might consequently not go Anon with other work that they have been trying to take away from me. For if it is Anon it means you didn’t really do it.

– Anon

THE SAME HYMN SHEET

Here I am ( ), taking

my place among the congregation

of souls, holding the hymn sheet

I have written, but as if I were just

one of the congregation who

hadn’t written it. But really, no,

I am but occupying a kitchen, trying

to think of angles of approach.

A new experiment but into what

we do not yet know is underway.

And I miss my brother, his input,

and I miss him twice as well.

He may not come down from his

bedroom, to help me out, if I am

Anon. Last night I dreamt of my

father, that we found a pollen

smuggler in a corner shop planted

beside a motorway driven through

the Lake District’s green and fecund

heart. The dream opened up until

there were many people all with

their pollen sorted out, round

the back of the corner shop, and later

on in the dream, there was skunk,

as if the subtext of the dream was

the history and evolution of cannabis.

I say evolution but GM skunk

is man-made so might not qualify,

much as they try and disqualify

the new creatures if there is human

intention behind them, or funding.

When I woke it was time for

medication, then we went down

to the Sunset Cafe for some lunch.

Now it is later and it is late too.

To obviate not titivate, I pad

upstairs to check on my brother

whom it seems would rather

not be in it; and I find he has

only five minutes ago woken up.

We agree on beans on toast, so

I come back downstairs to make it,

then take it, back up to his bedroom,

with a glass of milk to wash it down.