Bristol (Derelict), Preset's & Fridge Magnets and Owen Pallett

Bristol (Derelict)

Life’s the metal-stud beams
Holding floors up; via window frames,
On derelict buildings.

The infrequency of your eyes
Disturbed my soul; I’m glad
You looked at me again.

Monolith of heroin-squatting parasitic;
Dead electrical receptors, greyness;
Algae-stained walls; graffiti-junked posterity -
Opened nothing; opened pane, no glass;
Veins opened; loss, death - Death denied -
A building begging euthanasia; woodrotten,
Paintfaded, metalrust history forgotten.

Aching, shouting, shat on by birds,
Begging to be knocked down -
Enjoying every last
Minute of it.

I haven’t shed a tear yet;
As much as I’ve squeezed;
Means this is real.

Could you love that? -
The boy who licks the train tracks
To taste the trapped death of the world? -
The insipid remains of a smouldering
Force; a boy who sucks the smog of
Death to taste life’s sweet breath?

If it is sweet…
- He wanted to taste it nonetheless…

- The building looms; that building looms -
It always has. Plastered previously in utility,
A skeleton covered by shawl -
Soon enough it will be dead. It lived longer
Than us, but not by long.

Allusory to decades drenched in suicide,
Serendipity; peace of sunshine; disturbance
Of rain; disinheritance of shared secrets.

For three days it’s been raining.

Could you love that?
A cynic, a pessimist, a judge?
A derelict awaiting detonator; both
Shawl and skeleton - a pretty picture of
Rotting brown leaves in the disused conservatory?

Bristol’s a grey light, a copper roof,
A constant nonplus of something;
Its magic is the gloomiest,
Until he winds the dirtied sign to
Severn Beach.


Preset’s

I’ve chosen mine, through the denied choice of
Water spilled on my head when I was but a cub.
I look on your bodily pleasures as the realm of
Higher morals, compared to these low Christian
Cowardices and ineptitudes.
- But my hands are tied, I feel.

This libidinous hell that I’m sinking into,
Could be, for some, an innocuous and warm
Hiding place, from the suckling guilt of nothingness,
But mine’s a guilt-bolstered balustrade at beginning;
A parapet-trumpeted flyer.
- Trumped-up little pamphlet.

Ere the precepts is the preset machination, life:
That unaccountable void, an androgynous amalgam;
That we formulate a plan for, a posteriori of the
Crucifixion of coming into this world.
So, it is the Christian I take into my trust,
- Into my belly and chest.

For she can’t do me those wrongs, with God, that
Bastard middleman, at her right side. Narrow eyes
That squint at ways non-New Testament keep in check
An errant little mistress, bound by a Kantian duty that
Means nothing more than a blowjob.
- Callous seamstress, web of lies.

The preset’s settled score is thrashed about in the
Gossip of the world. Peaking, peeping, peering;
Each religion, each politician, driven by a desirous
Vat of cold, half-solidified grease; artilleries in arteries
Clogging the flow of a lusty blood; a blood that ran dry
- Years ago.

But before ever having circulated the blood knew
The erect phallus and pulsating clitoris, the beating
Heart, the anxious brain, each limb, and even eyelids
As one. Undivided simple cell, entrap me! Protect me
From the slashings of such evils as monogamy.
- Preceptor, Schizophrenic!


Fridge Magnets and Owen Pallett

He said he’s looking for love, but he’s just staring at the fridge magnets;
They’re reading like the journals of some desperate housewife on Prozac.
He can’t differentiate now, between the buzz and the pulse, they’re all Cyber-
People awaiting virtual victual in the gigabytten bit-rate of chatroom chaos.

The RomCom T.V life eats their heads and the dot-com sex life protects their
Sex, condom.com’s sheathed the rest and saved them from the flesh, pretend.
The little sustenance’s a lilting substance streaming in the afternoon or sunset,
Milked from a veal baton or, to put it like those magnate magnets:

Smooth and bitter his
Under sausage has luscious produce
Only an elaborate chant felt delirious
Ask were they weak

They say, they say:

She will love the purple peach
And must lick at power pole
But my mother said raw pink delicate apparatus
Can take woman like honey for black rust

What they say?

- Repulsive drunk
Finger her sweet tiny moon
Fiddle breast and cry she may
So smear the man meat milk on her head
Lather in
Picture it

He said he’s looking for love, but the fridge is making that buzz and the kettle’s
Coming to the boil and stuck behind the grate and rail are termites terminating
That little libidinous telegraph pole, receiving the signals at 3 o’clock on the dot;
Toshiba Bathsheba’s got the whole shebang and Final Fantasy once sang:

“All the boys I have ever loved have been digital
I’ve been a guest, on a screen, or in a book!”