Torrent of Consciousness One

For the masses and the classes that can read between the line
The whole is undefined and the shards are in the feet
And the breadline is the space in which there is something to eat
A something scraped up from the tarmac of the black skies of our dreams
Because we sleep, when we can sleep, outside our tents and white boxes
Made of the papers that we pulp beneath our feet.

In ink there is a bleeding in reading there is a feeding
On the blood squeezed out from fingers on the blood on painted nails
Through the only things still Christlike beyond profitmarginalias
Beyond pungent New Utopias swelling drowning and waving
Injected with the water that the meat is injected with
Injected with metal pointers like mouse pointers that break in

And point at the bleeding diagnose a lack of feeling
Diagnose an adolescence unworkedthrough. I am a NEET.
We are a sinking into silence and an avoiding of violence
And a folding into oppressions that tiptoe into teeth.
The lines have all disintegrated masses have ingratiated
And we love who we hated - and hate them all the same.

To He Or She Who Knocked On My Door With Such Non-Sensibility-Suggesting Abandon

Some idiot is knocking (knocking knocking) on my door,
And every knock is louder than the knock that knocked before,
And every knock vibrates into my ear like some strange score
Written for some strange film I have not seen by some strange boor.

Bang on my door, dear idiot, until your knuckles bleed,
Until they break into the woodwork and fill with splinters,
Until the splinters fall into the dust of centuries,
Until the dust of centuries burns in a dying sun...

I would not open it, dear loon, were you thunder-god Thor,
Had knocking been what went behind and what stretched out before
This pin-prick-point of MY lived time - at least it was before
You stole my time with every knock upon my chamber door.

It don't matter how hard you bang - I'll still not answer it,
Not if you fling yourself onto the floor and have a fit,
Not if you slice through the wood with a The Shining hatchet,
I won't and you can't make me. Go away your irksome git.

Reset

There is a vertigo in it,
Vertigo in my soup,
Primordial and deep - ink-black
And tacked to me in blood - each tack
A line connecting bits of brain -
A training - a pleasure - a pain -
A something-feigned to switch on smiles -
Some guilty Fantastic Fox wile -
Festooned in fire is my tail -
Read that both ways if you so wish -
A swirl outside a head hidden
In skulls beneath skins - and caught
In traps laid before my time - sought
By brain doctors and fiercely fought -
No I do not do what I ought -
I cannot fling myself from forts
So high as this one without sinking
Into the rippled jade brinking
My live coffin holding me down
From where the wings of the doves ripple the air
As though there's energy to spare - and there is there -
And East is East - and the sun will set without the least
Backward glance at my backrunning -
Prometheus was never coming -
Not to this wartorn footrest -
Where the good are good and the bad are blessed
As though I were a girl in a school
Striped all over with rulers for breaking the rules.

DRENCHED

and the living and the dead hang from my

the new lead seems to speed away from

into the breach of the preaching and bleach

this is the time to start apart now from

other side so that the slide may start like

where the blood pulses in ordinary

mortals but not in me 

among the very lowest of the dead

what is absorbed in it what is captured

in the inhaling and in the baling

pounding its own chest spaced on like...

away from the allotments

oil-drenched birds and we

know we know we know these protestations are fake

the waiting is

the worst part

and then it never starts does

it and the recycling is all that

can be done 

as though the pair of hands is

and the pity

it was the kindest thing

onto the pavement will lead to somewhere inevitably

coffee because it is impossible

butterflies as they flit so much faster

the observer the eternal loafer