Yippee Calloo Callay!

You have reached the foot hill of the mountains.
You are most welcome
More than worthy

Wednesday, 5 June 2013

Clock Work.

Clock Work

Trapped in a room of machines
that dont work
i want
busy bussy time
hello time
my name
is Peter
never ending
did you say
no its loud in here
i said dancing

From Somewhere.

From Somewhere

In the snuggled down carpet
of love
we like to drink
each others
hello camera
hey wanda
squeeze me
a dollar
made of tooth paste

In the singles bar at 
the cafe there was a 
grown up version of Charlotte.

She had blonde hair, bleached 
naturally from the sun, and 
was basking on the tiles
in bliss, at the adventure
her mask was having

Tax Discs & Number Plates.

Tax Discs & Number Plates

by Ribbon Dance Mews
bitte ein bit
Nissan Figaro
H162 DUF
permit holders only
spruce in
the sunlight
Mary Boast Walk
on top of the
Grand Unions
ever moving
pub tables
blue bags
for recycling
the sun on my neck
GB TGT 889
little spotty dog
the butterfly tennis club
bag it and bin it
yellow spray paint
do look down
labyrinths in the street



Im the fakest faker here
coz i just want one
on you tube
want a million
and if i got
a million
id spend it
all on clothes

Tuesday, 28 May 2013

E R.


There is a place where sleeping lions go 
a place that is the same as swirling white cloth 
inside the globes of snow. That wait... To land, and where do they land?

Are you talking about mountains? 
Lions aren't really in the mountains unless they are mountain lions.

I'm talking about children 
children that become mountains 
in the sleep of lions on the floor of the carpet 
where young hearted dreams still dare to tread.

I didn't get any of that out of that.

oh i just sent it to you 
i can fax it through again (weird!!!)
i took all four letters out 
so the whole of that is out of that : )

I didn't get anything.

yes you did although you might not know it

Nope. Didn't show up.

you got a smile and a wave



So, what's up?

I let go of a red helium balloon

Why did you do that?

Because a balloon floating in the sky is a beautiful thing

It is, but I always want to keep my balloons.

Freedom is releasing the string.


Yeah, but still....

Wouldn't it be sweet if when you let go the balloon somehow stayed with you

That would be cool

Would it be sweeter if instead of keeping balloons for themselves 
Everyone! gave them away

People already do that.

I feel better already

What do you mean?

No No No 
The opposite

I'm so confused now.

Im not now

Well, as long as you aren't.

I am Long
Long as I am
or Shou 
My first name is Shou.

Right. Anyways, I've got class soon so I need to get off. 

Get off! 

Wednesday, 8 May 2013



There is a place i go to
when i feel kind
of like the sun
light of your charms
oh my babe
you rock on
i really love to show the lights
the way they move
its all right yeah
you go through to the other side
and bring it back all right
close enough to feel
the edges heal

Tung Tide.

Tung Tide

Waiting to be allowed
to eat a satsuma
innocence struck blind
by the smell of christmas
standing over the sink
when there is no sink
quick sand
looking out the window
to the dreaming grass
i want to spill the juices of this fruit
all out there
wheres theres
are you naked
was told
never to ask
when writing
is it time to start following
there advice
trolleys and pills
i guess im not right in
im still on the border
two fingers meeting
magnets and
a horse to ride

Mr Smith.

Mr Smith

Counting holes in the ceiling
at the Maudsley
water its free
and you get a plassy cup
some times your allowed outside
into the sunshine

makes me think of
Matty Briggs
and everyone
Swimming in ladybower resevoir
like something
out of one flew over the cukoos nest
swimming into the golden
isnt it beautiful

I love this lady
patti smith
i want to make her a rock shrine
with cherry bottle cola
chewing gum
delve into your photographs
rock n roll art chick model
brave czech anna
breakfast at 350
Dalston Lane
hair your bag
your cloak
at the cross ribbons
your fullness
ear to neck
the ware house
cuts n squeaks
free n wild trinkets
car framed street
want to send your photographers heart
this book
of photographs



The only stream of consiousness i know is the spirit of garbage world.  The war zone multi piled into future suns and moons spinning backwards not forwards change it with the way you burn the candle.  Candle born.  Born with the glasses.
Easier to do when you are free.
There are pit kiffs made of jam over there shepherds made of wool.  Here is arizona, cool pump the gas the giant bellowing gas,

Hey there heres a soldier
standing upright erect
an electricutioner
furry hat move like a mickey taking
the micheal
bumble bee cyclone
wizard to the tiger lilly
diagonal trails of butter
blipping flying butter
hot tea sips
open door
football people n cool air
breezes in and out
clean static true picture
a one legged weather man
squeezing a horn
attatched to a wheelchair
as sirens sound
even more to be found
in the whisky bar
where nearly everyone
drinks pints instead of whisky
blink and you
love the spirits in the glass
the bottle
yo ho ho
and a factory
convereyor belting
pallet trucking joy ride
dough nuts
good hot n sugar dipped
on the inside is a wheel chair
a juke box
and a
jack appleby
made for drinking

Clothes that go missing and you dont know where they are.

Clothes that go missing and you dont know where they are

The chicks grow up fast
one minute tiny
on the pond
the next they get bigger
on the grass

New clothes
old clothes
fresh clothes
clean clothes
where did that red jacket go
out the window
on the doll
your the doll
drip drip drips
circles in the puddle
and bubbles
rain bows
with rocks
under spring
rachel carson
bird song

Sunday, 17 February 2013

Bastard Brag.

Bastard Brag

what am i doing in this god forsaken place where they say grace before eating their evening meals.  Getting covered in cow and pig shit to help them make and sell cheese.  Just so i can eat and sleep.  I should be in the city making naked dreams with you instead of running round on my own.  Loose.  A screw without a home.  Im down on luck.  Im down on dough.  Im down on life.  Down in dead end tee pee valley.  Someplace somewhere i got find me something other than myself to call my own.
Better start making waves blue eyed kid.  Surf the stream to pop the edge.  Easy listening aint talking.  Speak easy kid.  The streets of the ghetto give birth to you.  Follow the lamps follow the fox.  New age plastic for the white rabbit.  Sew them on and sell them rice.  Get you through the door.  Of the pink invisible squirrel club.  Where the old lady says,
"theres only way way to skin a cat"
And you know exactly what to say Mac.
One quick wink is five times as good as a knock.
Put your point on the map and drive drive it all the way. Live young & Die Hard.
You havent long to go.

Sunday, 10 February 2013



Theres a dog looking at me with puppy eyes
baby bedroom eyes
begging me to give to the blind
theres a bar maid baby
a tattooed bar maid baby
laughing hard
who i just ignore shade
and otherwise
i wouldnt ignore
id push the blinds up
on top of my head
engage her with a smile
and slide over a hand written note
ink seeping into the soft pillow of a napkin
spreading dots and lines
a hunter s thompson
back yard baby
baby spanky baby
begging me baby
to give to the blind
i ignore her
and picture us
lighting sandwiches
with a zippo lighter
let the light burn baby
until one foot is on top of the other
squirming in frustration
this bitch isnt used to being ignored
shes a portrait in the gallery
where i write
id rather have a coke with you
so sexy nymphettareetis legs get tight
they press together
with Zeus's touch all over her hand
the punters dont see
shes getting flushed bar room baby
but we do we sniff varnish and fold
the smell of sex
bursting from the pour
ride on time
we blow the joint
as her flop explodes
i flick my sandwich like a movie
archwheeling to a puddle full of gasoline
you flick a coin
like its the moon sailing backwards over your shoulder
into the slot of the fruit machine
three cherrys in a row

Thursday, 7 February 2013

Tea Leaf.

Tea Leaf

the beads of light
that you wear as a chain
are made from dreams

where lines you read
arnt make believe

the girl in red
a dress for you

every word that you type
is a leaf from the tree

i dove right through
after mixing the drinks
to find the seed

i gambled away
the day and night
playing cards
till i fell asleep

the slops of our potion
mixed on the floor
they made a puddle
and in the puddle
was a moving city

i went back in time
and saw the seed
fall from the table
it didnt float
like a grain of rice
a white boat
it went right through
didnt stop at the floor
till it was gone
from one world
to the next

i dove right through
to the land of Om
didnt know id meet him
or what would i find

this world was my dream

the seed
the seed
the seed
of the tree of life

He was a puddle maker, he carried a bamboo stick, he made puddles from the rain.  His name was Um because no-one knew his name.

Monday, 4 February 2013

Stir fry.

Stir fry

Buddy dropped into my life like a long last lover falling from the stars
i caught him on the sand
bare foot and scraggly
this is me at my most ugly
making mothers behind the window shops of Edinburgh
look in disgust as i pass
and remark what could a women have done
to deserve such a creature for a son
i catch my reflection and am ashamed
to see my face and body have become the picture of Dorian Gray

I can only think of the glass
i see it flying through the air
and breaking into pieces
as it smashes on the pavement

This is my body

I can only think of the glass
i see globules of it dropping
onto two parallel screws
it travels as they rotate
and turns into a sphere
as it cools


I can only think of the glass
as the wind sends a dustbin lid flying
like a piece of wood with an apple on top
attacked with the wax of a melting gamble
to cymbalise gum stuck to the pavement
gum from a gun shooting up at the bus stop
dirty filthy bust up

Take it

I can only think of the glass
inside my
Whored out body
my prostituted mind
its sick boy sick
rent boy rent
payed it hard
this life all slanted like the rain
loser man a loser man

I can only think of the glass
a jerry clutching flip flops
on top of the  lighting storm
redemption in the monson
falling squirrel to laughing duck mountian
the rain falling
hot oil in a pan
invisible birds chirp
were on the  ball
and the loud chopped onions

Whyd you do that? or You don't have to write over Bitburg.

Whyd you do that? or You don't have to write over Bitburg

Ive been building sandcastles to smash inside my head
i dont think youve ever understood a single word ive said
you got to pick at the pieces pick at the pieces

Thursday, 31 January 2013



Salmon jumping in the water away from the sea driving me to images of you in my dreams we are still not near enough to be togethor seperate feathers on the pillow made of shiny shiny i get up and stand above the heads that rock as a voice in song lets the bullets from a shotgun wash away the scars on my back need to relax sit back in the arms of a dove that is warm fuzzy honey sugar baby runny runny trickles on my skin in the golden light where everything spins is the centre when the moon goes round in a circle were turning and turning into the chains of levels litter layer little layer little layer leves its easy when you sit in the middle stirring your finger with another in a puddle a jar full of liquid with a spoon and hey were blowing bubbles you ever wonder when you see one floating by on the day and think the colours of my team arnt right claret instead of blue and white like the blood of my veins its another tottenham sky just give up and play it outside spin spinner spin spin spin

Sunday, 27 January 2013

Natural reaction.

Natural reaction

just write inside or outside it doesnt matter
it all comes from your mind
in between the lines
are gaps for you to fill in 

chilling or burning on the hot thoughts
like hot rocks dropping
blood popping
in between the trestles on the vessels
little ships flying to the tips
of my gravity finger kissing blips slipping
and sliding backwards when
im walking sometimes why i dont know
maybe ive not drunk enough water
this light all of a sudden so bright
and everything around you comes to life
all colours shining so much brighter than the bright
emotions cart wheeling pure feeling
into motion no comotion can bring you down
such a sweet sound the town is awake
and when it sleeps it is a nest for you to believe in
keys and piano and drums and guitar
and when im asleep
i like to be a thief
that returns all the dreams
stolen by the rough hands of the mad queens magi
which is why when im in a shop of charity
i rub every  lantern wont stop trying to free the genie from the lamp
both of the ends of the candle i burning to relax
so we can melt again into
relaxing chemisty on the table dripping on the table
that turns like a fire on the forest without flood
no dove of peace
to bring me some blessed release
i need to begin again
didnt mean to sell my soul to a enemy
that i thought was my best friend
for a toke on a ciggerette
i need to wipe away
that shamefull past
so that my future from this present
will no longer dance scars
and monkeys all across my back
kicking me in the ribs
and shutting me with cloth
 a hard knot tied up at the top of a sack
that is slipping to the bottom of the sea
with my body in the middle
and im waiting to drown
sinking down in the wet sand
all over
game over
until i start again
i wonder with curiousity
am i a cat and is that another life
whos counting
passing by why
i always land back on my feet
dry sand between the toes feels sweet
in the sunlight or at night
just like sparkling grains of sugar
skipping on the tongue
behind your teeth
that likes to lick
and flick
like the surf
rolling on the crest of these green blue waves
full of lazers and lights
and the rotting bodies
of everyone thats died like a tear drop in the ocean
of earth

Tuesday, 8 January 2013

Cats Lock.

We all have scars

Fools cap blown like the grass straw of dogs written in the sand with numbers
more than i could see
feel or hear
dirty patterns of sky
kites dog wheeling
under villages
buried by the surf the sand the
hidden by the voice of truth
can you write in the dark?

I wanted to know what she meant
but i dont think i could
i dont even think i know what i mean
when i say that it is what it is anyway

The tips of my fingers like to dance over the clicks of squares and letters
surrounded by numbers symbols and bars
full of of half cut drinkers talking fat or skinny
or filling the gaps with liquid
beyond them is the dust of skin and dirt
and the occasional hair
a voodoo jackpot
waiting to be sucked up by human vacuums

the trousered men without feet or upper bodies
point in both directions
sideways victories
corned beef sandwiches and sailors climbing up lampposts
in love covered with bunting for Europe

On one hand i can write your my enemy on the other your my friend

Fill a room full of monkeys with keyboards and give them acid
Cynicism told me
the disgust on his face revealing more
leaving me with the feeling that id presented him with what i thought was
a piece of enjoyable cheese
but actually in his mouth turned into a lump of
why not fill your shoes with a load of crunched up glass
walk until your feet bleed
a light goes of in the factory
on the wall its written
words are only a letter away from becoming worlds
bridging the divide between fiction and reality
until the there is no gap between
the souls of the sand singing to our feet
Hush now sweet darling
wash away your weary scars

I can remember the diamonds in the car park
cubes of jade that spilled like dreams
over the dark space of tarmac
I can remember in our rush
and fever
that we both thought the same
unless you were pretending all along
that this was ours, our treasure,
a fortune laid bare for us to find
alone in the glittering sunshine
we swooped
down and scooped them up
let them spill over our hands and through the gaps between our fingers
threw them over our heads
down the alley behind your house and away
like we were in Aladdin's cave
swimming in a pool full of gold and silver
until our cheeks were cut
and our bleeding palms
were covered in sparkles
that caught the light as we let them candyfloss
through the air dancing streams like
rhinestones sewn into a moon walkers golf glove
and i know at some point our treasure
must have turned to pain
that you must have seen the cuts on my face
and i could see yours
the cut above your left eye and the little trickle
running from the gash in your cheek
I can remember feeling 
the stings on my fingers and palms
looking into my hands noticing how white they had become
which made the multitude of nicks and cuts show up stronger
as i extended my legs
some pieces of jade that had been pressed into my bare knees
fell, some remained
mixed with the dirt and blood on my skin making my kneecaps
a pair of dirty pretty ovals
for maybe a little too long we 
managed to half pretend the little cubes of jade were still our fortune
until Aladdin's cave vanished down on the tarmac
beside the car with a smashed window
at the back of the car park
and our treasure turned to broken glass.

She kept a baby cube of green like emerald
in a little box with hinges that like an island
split in two was closed more then when ever it was open
by her own hands
her used fingers dirt laced traced the scar where i had been cut
from her belly ripe and full
a drop of fat in the cream
those hands that gripped the sides
as she tore chunks off with her teeth
eating the block of cheese like it was the holy bible
late at night when she thought no one was looking
id find her sat looking up at the stars from the top step
outside the front door
with the little box open on her lap
and on a soft cushion that looked like it had been blessed
with the rub of the lips of queen mab and all the fairies
themselfs so much so that i wanted to walk into it
and be swallowed by its depths
that to me were the journey
to the city through the wetness of your eyes
into the oceans of sweet blood that harden
as heart shapes scabs on my knees
if id have known it
i would have called it mecca
mecca on a cushion blessed by fairies
it shone so
illuminating all around like emerald city
and her lips broke
sweet love of love
i thought what would
it be like to put a crumb of white bread there
soft in the middle of the red
a nurse for all the scratches of her bottom lip
if i was sleeping by the window
i dont know if they were meant for me
as her breath became a stroke upon the air
tracing a finger over her skin
imprisoned in the glass
before she closed the lid on the box
with the words
this and the scars on my legs
are all i have to remind me of your father