jelly boy

Haven’t seen much for a few (what they call) days,

The only reflection I ever see, (always see, cant escape, are swans still white?) is that bouncing round my sphreical prism,

my doughy loaf encrusted throughout with shards of tinted glass

Light beams rattle round, refract, constantly change, (pretty much) bend, twist, piroette, startle, appear, disappear, reappear, they stop and consider what they are and what they’re for, direction seems pointless, (they’re bored), they dream, they imagine

They whisper (and they scream) images into the black of my eyelids, they colonise them, spear their flag in and are met with no resistance, so I am now them and they are me

What do they reflect?

They shed light (haha) on skin which is pallid and terse, almost crispy like cardboard, plumped up by melted fat which flows viscous, slow and comfortable like cows milk, lovingly warmed to remedy an anxious night,

carbohydrate pimples (as round as a bosom) contour the pale cardboard, all over the person

All over its (almost) boneless structure, bones slowly dissolve in blood which pools and ferments like a stagnant, forgotten pond, subsuming an intact rib cage and clean, unbruised knuckles which try and let themselves known along long jelly fingers (the same yellow as holly Willoughby’s hair), attached to a blobby jelly palm (the same cream as the walls), attached to a long wobbling jelly arm of the jelly boy, the jelly boy

An arm which rises from between the sofa cushions, from between the duvet and pillows, escaping from the duck-feather ocean

Attempt, strain, strain,

Strain, strain, (try not to flop), strain to raise that jelly arm in the air as an argument which points like the end of a pencil, piercing through parentheses,

direction, difficult, upwards, forward, try and open your eyes jelly boy, try and think of outside:

Jelly boy tries to shout, jelly boy tries to talk about boris johnson in disdain, jelly boy tries to remember how to laugh at something other than the smell of his silent farts, and tries to write something distinct from suburban boredom, boredom, (inescapable boredom) because hes surely, definitely, certainly, (cmon, he must be), a bit more grown up??

an adult? a man?

Can’t do it… try…

cmon…

cmon……

Sweating sweat as sweet as neat orange squash

Cmon,

Ugh, cmon, c’mon

Not happening

Not happening

Give up

No

Give up

Give up

The weight of the strain is too much for jelly boys jelly muscles

Too heavy

Not made to move

Ugh

He resigns to a sigh

The expels air which smells of secret, midnight cigarettes and tinned beer

the smell rises thick like a fume and makes jelly boy’s eyes roll back, roll back

pointlessly bend, twist, piroette, anonymously appear, disappear, reappear behind closed eyelids,

What else to do

But Surf the light beams in all their absurdity?

Surf the light beams because its something to do

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that wasn’t it

Stagger down peckham highstreet as if it’s sutton’s

Drunk by the same spoons beer, same best mate, same sentimentality, the same revolutions of thought which caress and bite a goodbye kiss,

What better metaphor than the train I’m on?

Sitting across the seats so I’m perpendicular to the movement

Rolling past zone 2 terraces standing resolute and quantified, lit in an orange burning brighter than sodium ever could

I’ve packed up my suitcase,

It sits at my feet,

Pandora’s box and bag of sweets,

A pint glass clinked to a rock’roll dream,

Sportswear punk jumper needing a clean,

A new telephone with new missed calls,

Good gigs, empty rooms, peaks and pitfalls

Kicking our heels tryna find a foothole

Hard to do when the floors concrete

Licking teeth to taste yesterday’s dinner

Wince at the bitter, wince at the sweet

A glitter-face little-miss sits opposite and sways with each hiccup from the day’s spirit mixer,

Take her home, take her home,

Carnivals over and now she’s alone,

Take her home, take us home,

The parties over, now we’re alone,

Her eyelids slide shut

And I do the same 

To apprehend eyeballs before they roll back

Instead, they’ll paint tomorrow morning’s sun

Ah fuck I’m 22

But hope’s still a solace

That wasnt it

good to me (1)

They’re good to me, they’re good to me
Self-hate says “these? they couldn’t be”
Sucking meat off chicken bones
Kiss a girl from low london zones
Rub my eye so it’s not sore
Wait under leaves when it pours
Tap my toes to some old soul
Apply to bite from the jam roll
Get told to keep my pecker up
The reflection from a buttercup
Admire straight lines on front-lawns
2 for 1 so I buy four
Out of season strawberries and cream
Meet a mate and toast a dream
Hot leather in green jaguars
Fall asleep whilst in the bath
New signing by my favourite team
Trotters on my frontroom screen
Brush my teeth before I go
Move my body to and fro
Hit me, it’s hit me that
All these things they’re good to me,
They’re good to me, they’re good to me,
God help me if they couldn’t be

lets go

Shall we get a beer?

But it’s 7 in the morning

Yeah but tomorrows boring and the corner shop’s near, 2017 is just another year, a poisoned liver is just another fear,

Here, here

Two fifty, click click, cheers, cheers, clink, clink

Drink slips down and sits atop of a mixture ready to be pissed,

A liquid to be missed in the desert of tomorrows drought

We must look shifty out our heads at this time, here here, clink clink, cheers, cheers, drink, drink, echo of two mens footsteps sear, penetrate boys eardrums, reverberates round the humdrum

Let’s shed a tear son, because its me and you, its us and blues, moving through, its us and the black, moving forward, moving forward,

Where is there to go back?

Ewell silently dwindles like a dying fire with a shine as dead as an old copper, lost but not forgotten down the back of the sofa

At what cost?

A lot probably, but no need to tell me as the water which drowns the blue of your eyes tells all as it fights hard to extinguish the remnants of the wretched flames of a waste of time, waste of space, waste of place,

What are we gonna do?

I dunno about me, what about you?

Same with me too, look up at the moon, look down at our shoes stained by toes bloodied and blue from walking the streets in search for some truth

Truth’s a funny thing which doesn’t exist in a sentence,

Truth’s a thing claimed by lost souls trapped in pretence,

In actual fact its a thing which creeps up like this sun,

This sun made of the same flames as the tragedy been done,

Home now, here, here, clink, clink, cheers, cheers, drink, drink, tilt your chin up and I’ll do the same,

lets gulp down one last time to try and forget why we came,

To try and build up the courage to say,

To whisper, to scream, to let the world know our names,

Let’s shed a tear son,

because its me and you,

its us and blues,

moving through,

its us and the black,

moving forward, moving forward,

No point going back

new house

Its funny homely rhymes with lonely
Can’t say lonely without low
It’s silly the city is so gritty
But is prettier than home
Serene green scenes of aged childhood dreams
Seem more bitter than sweet
Hard to believe that though the concrete screams
I’ve never felt more at peace

a shower of one summer word after another

humid mist, humid mist, blissful wince in the shower as the water splish, splashes on yesterday’s sunburn, sizzling pinches, hot rich breaths on my shoulders lounging, loafing, stuck by sweat on the leather sofa stolen from the street looking neat in my garden nestled between healthy nettles and the roses for cheeks on english roses, english noses which lead on, follow the leader leader leader to the park, to the grass which couldn’t be greener greener greener, its been a long time since I’ve seen ya, how are ya? I love ya, you’re my best mate, let’s kick it, great pass, fall on your ass, hysterical implosion, laugh, cackle, shriek, heaving deep as your back is mercifully broken by the weight of the world, food lover consumed in absurdity, satisfied sportswear punk, lucid drunk, naked lunch, glistening silver-plated ripped packet of wotsits, life-confirming fag drag wisps, plastic bag drifting free and content from somewhere heavent sent to somewhere half-spent in a sympathetic wind sighing despair, care, life and all it’s light and dark haired little boy giggles at a fart that his little mate donny done, that’s funny, everything’s funny really, you got any money? Dunno, probably, wanna go two’s on twenties are the best years a life you wanna lead according to this terrible magazine daydreaming pupils read, twenties are sold in 10-pound boxes which ridiculously detail how they help you pass away, twenties debaucery, the decade long party meant to be cautionary but lets throw that into a breeze mentioned in a distant memory, get carried like arrows in a parry, like a toddler with her whole life ahead of her giggling, kicking waddling legs in a swaddling blanket to sunbathers in brockwell park, to a tragic old rockstar in the elephants head, to dancing with a 6-foot model getting west in east, south london blunt chuffing rastas forking out for rum in spoons, to stars knifing the unpolluted cornish sky, to 5am bleary eyed holiday takers in gatwick’s Costa, to the sweaty musk on a runner running through dusk, gotta win, gotta be first, maybe I’ll just settle for seconds as vacuous as midnight promises between puppy lovers in pub booths bashing heads, nuzzling necks, twisting tongues to silently solve troubles time-trapped and tangled tongue twisters, tonsil tennis, 40-15, 40 loves a game we’re winning in 30-40 degree heat, its all good sport logos sported by good sports, good sorts, she’s a sort, she’s pure sauce, sorta broad I’d court woops caught short thinking silly thoughts I shouldn’t ought staring at her taut short shorts, stalk-like, bald-white legs out, thats alright, whoever you are, wherever you are in this whether to have a drink now or later, what’s later? Later is not now somehow but I don’t know how not now could every be found, conceived, seen by a minds eye blinded by cloudless light, like seriously what’s night? A friend I’ve known for years tells me its when you dream. Whats a dream? Not sure, probably something worth hoping for. Like what? I dunno, like right now, when hours taste like souffles, so sweet, sweet sweeties treat me to a torn up tongue humming an 80s tune, this is a tune, who are you? I love loving too we say with moistened eyes refracting fruit machine rainbows like dust dancing rays through a grubby, glass of water my booze decicated, emaciated, salt emaciated face reflects what it ought to, what is shouldn’t ought to: my rippling reflection burning as blisteringly true as cigarettes, a untroubling reflection which reflects a bubbling, blistering complexion swearing as clinically as tourettes that it doesn’t get better than this, this bliss, misty eyes, hot wet highs, mist, humid mist, humid humid mist from water which splish, splashes on yesterdays sunburn, sizzling pinches causing a blissful wince, what bliss, what bliss

fathers day

When a second lacks promise like 3.30am

And full days seem just as dark

What my dad did doth done teach me

Is stretch your legs and find a laugh.

 

A belly-bellow televised in Technicolor,

Uninhibited and gleeful like Spike,

Which fizzes and swirls and turns against the world,

Beating any sour, old Boycott for flight