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.
POEM
Fee the red
beat the swivel
gore a bean
what the money
turn it warless
loot the wheat
cheaple the bottle
crash the hash
bone it good
own it a problem
deal the country
mara the tryst
pull up a cloud
drug the word
read your text
see the guns
on the earth
leg it away
eat the mushroom
chain the laser
sever the O
free the bread
not the doh
we
the law
(C/
Em/ G/ F/ G/ C)
NOTE
ON TEXT
It
should be down to the writer in question whether or not he or she
goes Anon. I consider this work possibly
at least the
first and only work I have done that I
have personally agreed to be
Anon from
the outset.
Anon is the most famous composer of all time. Anon is also the author
of the earliest English poems. The first line in
English poetry 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 was
against
my wishes and
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 in
and of itself, that
requires its
own 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
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 30-odd poems with a magazine…
he would rather forget some of those.
Then you realise
he’s also done the music…
he has eleven albums or long E. P’s.
They are only demo standard.
All
this can change.
HAUNTED
BY THE MOTH
Since
I was cursed by a hypnotist,
and
made to walk the plank,
I
have been haunted by the moth
that
likes
my scented candles,
my
bare bulb three floors up
in
the night-time while I
read
the New York School.
The
midnight moth flits about
a
little bit e’ en while I sit
and
work
during the day.
I’m
so badly bruised I might be
disaffected,
so badly torn
I
might never feel good again.
Happy
days may have flown.
The
moth is dull but with its wings
it
carries
my
life
away with it.
You
should learn not to listen
to
the moth. Ignore the moth!
I’m
riddled with guilt about
something
not really my fault.
Had
it not been for that
I
might’ve been the best.
It’s
down in my bones and
in
the meantime, voices everywhere.
That’s
what I mean by the moth -
the
rate and frequency of a female irritant.
It’s
not a word-chord synthesiser
at
the edge of selection allowed
in
the band, not magic alphabet
radio,
no, not the new,
synchronised
word, not even
Smart-talking
– when it’s the moth.
They
let you believe everything
is
on tick, and don’t leave
you
alone, but then it
turns
out they want you to be
Anon
and you don’t want that,
because
you’re an Individual.
Sometimes
you want to turn
the
moth out, set it free, otherwise
sleep
under stars in the garden.
The
colour of pain turns dull.
Yellow
is not the colour of pain.
I
preferred it before it turned dull.
The
screech of the moth
I
find is
absolutely terrible.
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.
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.
ERASING THE DEBT
(for Simon Pomery)
My father told us he was a fine art dealer,
smuggled fine art o’ er the old 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 fluffy kind of stuff that crumbles under
the thumb, replete with mascara bruise,
peacock feather, butterfly-wing and velvet flare;
that that was how our private schooling was funded;
for all the schooling of his four children was
“the only thing worth spending money on”
or so he declared; 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.”
THE
GENIUS
My
latest
thinking is that my dad
was (possibly)
sponsored
by
some philosophers to
provide the real human witness from The
Lords And The New Creatures.
Already
at
seven I 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 was I that wrote it. At
eight I made
two Naturalistic Observations I didn’t understand. At eleven I was
marked by a boyhood
experiment into the maths of the new colour, and
it
didn’t turn out to be the new colour in the end.
Soon enough
I
attained the island of penguins. It
may have been observed on the other side of the universe. In 2000 I
predicted September 11th,
spoke against it, also
prophesied
the God Particle, the alignment and
wrote the highest-marked English Literature A-level exam essay in the
nation. After school, I recorded an album on state of the art,
binaural earphones. I had an effervescent mobile phone reverberating
the rhythm of ‘William Tell’ through every technological inlet in
the room before it rang. I climbed
up on the binaural earphone album and said
I would “plug my senses in the mains,” hosted
the Plough alignment for a rhythm change in the White House, got
a First despite the onset of mental illness, spotted
a tattoo of my name on Piper
At The Gates of Dawn,
worked
at a numinous,
purple-bleeding
screen, built
the Tower as an instrument of philosophy, conducted
an experiment into a tape with a pause where cut and resealed in the
flimsy reel and discovered
the sheet where pictures seemingly
depicting
my own song lyric grew. It was my brother’s sheet originally, so I
surrendered it over. It then became
time to start bringing books out, including a falsification of the
Nirvana barcode, and also for a while I attained
visual radio broadcasting dreams.
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.
THE
BLUE CAT
Who
taught the cat
to
swim in a bucket of water?
Can
we be surprised
the
cat only ran away?
Who
knows where
cats
crawl off to die?
Even
if I knew
I
still wouldn’t say!
The
cat was
a laugh
between
me and my brother...
but
I
was the pussy
who
actually saved its skin.
Can
we be surprised
he
ran
off from the laughter?
To
find his paradise
with
its own
big,
cheesy grin?
Imagine
if
the
mice
got
in through the attic
because
that’s where
I
helped invent
the net…
then
it would be nice
to
have the cat still with us
but
we couldn’t stop
our
pussy getting wet.
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.
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!
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
evil
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
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.
THE
INADEQUATE TRANSPOSITION
The house-pipes glugging a guilty gulp
from a big, culpable jug of the “ug” of “drug”
or
“smuggle”
or Ugly
Truth
Revealed
Inside;
the
loose, Betfair jingle of shingle lifted
from
the big, flat bird-table when
cars
arrive in the drive or if they leave;
the
singing of the upstairs Tap too;
and
the scowl or frown of the downstairs
toilet
flushing and its cistern refilling:
I
imagine these
as parts
of a popular
a song.
I
imagine them transposing a specific hit.
More
than a blank page,
flung
from the sun,
on
a mixture of mushrooms and Ecstasy,
in
a vision
at yet another Glastonbury,
I
think that yes you
can get this.
THROUGH
THE FRAME OF MUSIC
When
perceived
through the frame of music,
the
horizon is
a drone,
the
apple blossom a dulcimer.
If
the apple blossom made a sound
it
would be tintinnabulation.
Already
the beck’s tumbling
down
a mini waterfall
resembles
a kettle drum’s metal
petals
of silver bliss…
already
the trumpet wears
his
foreskin on the inside.
Already
there
is an upturned canoe for a drum.
Already
there
is a dog for a frontman
and
there are poppadom hi-hats
allowed
in
the raggedy
band.
At
least when I look through them,
they
look really good.
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.
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
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
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.
THINK
IN LIGHT
Think
in light and don’t back down…
two
strangers clap together
on
the edge of town.
Marry
dark, when darkness falls,
miles
away from the valley
when
you’re down at Paul’s.
Tick
tock went the clock
one
too many a time…
free
beer from the tap
is
a passage of rhyme…
it
might go quite well
with
a droplet of lime.
Daydreamers
and doodlers alike
I
urge you come together
in
the name of Nike.
I’m
telling you, it’s happened again
and
may a further time
but
I don’t know when.
Tick
tock went the clock
one
too many a time…
free
beer from the tap
is
a passage of rhyme…
it
might go quite well
with
a droplet of lime.
THE
SPIDER W/ A HARP THAT’S MADE OF STRING
The
spider w/ a harp that’s made of string
must’ve
thought Autumn time
was Spring,
challenged
me to see if I could sing,
the
spider w/ a harp that’s made of string.
He
took my mind back years and years,
through
rivers of tears and bicycle gears,
filling
this lonely old
house
w/ cheers,
until
maybe it’s time to hit the beers.
I
sang for the spider when in the bath,
(after
guzzling
some of mum’s lovely broth),
and
it seemed in
song I melted
death,
which
was better than a scientific graph…
the
spider w/ a harp that’s made of string,
he
was less evil than you’re thinking,
thinking
that he’s an impossible thing,
and
he listened in to my singing the song…
it
wasn’t very good, but at least I tried.
At
least on seeing him I didn’t hide.
I
knew it was another one deep inside.
He
scurried
away, off
to find his bride.
