Protest Song, Prayer For Glory & To Those That Tried To Stop Us

Protest Song

Everyone is out for themselves
No one wants a piece of this
Can’t even make a statement
Without feeling fists of fists of
This is a protest song.
My banal little encompass
My fortress of sensation
A little by the wind-flow
A little by the smokestack
This is a protest song.
The morning is a cigarette
The evening is a policy
Hammered by the monastery
Of quarrelsome facility
This is a protest song.
Of the millions of the millions
Of the ignored placard-billboard
Cooperative conglomerate of
Non-half-double-conformist, lied to
This is a protest song.
To those that are in office
To those that are insane
To those that are without windows
And those with views never-ending
This is a protest song.
To those that are in coffins
To those who did and didn’t have names
To those words which we said, which
They hollowed, which we said again,
Hallowed by their name
This is a protest song. The song remains
The same.


Prayer for Glory

Assimilative prayers we propound
For glory, of beforeness, of a story,
Of a pastime, of a noontide, of a dream,
Of a sequence, of a child alone in the
High street squealing, of a month, of
Sundays, of a mouthpiece, or an organ,
Of a London, of a Manhattan, of a
Buddha and Jesus and Mohammed, of
The Cubists and Vorticists and Futurists,
Of amalgam, of singularity, of otherness
And temporality, of Marlboros and Camels,
Luckies and Dunhills, of song, of shout, of
Poem and feuilleton, of Woody Guthrie, of
Bob Dylan, of dark and illumination, of
Fuel and of fire, of hope and desolation,
Of restraint and masturbation, of soul and
Of swing, of jazz, of contemplating, of cola,
Of slow books of Kant and fast books of cunt,
Of massive loans and recessive brick walls,
Of cetrizine hydrochloride, of unleavened bread,
Of ale and absinthe, or lighter fluid, of high
(mindbrow) art, of staying up till the crack of dawn,
And of then some, of bollocks, of chatting mad-minded
With Mike all night about Explosions In The Sky and
Godspeed You! Black Emperor, of paying homage to,
Or taking fromage from Ginsberg; like he liked Blake!
Of reading with pens and writing with eyes,
Of Mays indoors when out looks pleasant, of Bloody
Marys, when they get bloody served in bloody blue
Nightclubs, of craic and craic and tipless onslaught
Of drink and drink and tipple me pinkeye, of rough
And tumble, of experimentation, of widening the
Experiential, of loss and of love, of the alive
And of the dead. Amen.


To Those That Tried To Stop Us

Your legs are our armpits now,
Wheelbarrow, wheelbarrow,
Catch a smile on this face,
Turning to the epithalamium
Of those who tried to stop us:

Struck by disturbance of mind,
Shaman; chloroform my imagery,
Album my words, album, album,
Ablum, a blumenlied, song of
My deflowered mind, de-

Mind, manifesto, tracing veined
Marble slabs; among bonfiery
Aromas of youth and firewords;
This, bis, abyss, abist, bist, in my
Mind: Fog. Tell a story. Toll a

Happenstance is a sampled scr-
Scrigguh-scree-scra-scra-scratch:
Vinyl words; which lung next?
Which lung next? To toxicate
For doxology - eulogisticise my

Trumpets, trumpets, bring walls
Up, bringing walls, between split-
Brain crevice, all my synaptic glue
Is stuck to you, we are the wall, we
Build a fourfold totem of trenchant

Existence, elate, elate, elate, um…
Bongo is the night of great leaps of
Sate! Blast that inexorable picture
With paint and endless ink, take a
Daguerreotype, type a biodegradable

Envelope, push it to the next world,
Look in my weeping eyes and love me:
We wind through galaxies of stairways
Unstoppable, brush by bums and needles,
Arm linked in arm aurora boring

Minds, minds bearing finds, discovered
Hallucinogenic shapes, spires and antennae
Above our horizon of near-death out-of-
Body ecstasy, warbling, trembling, fuzzy
Notions of non-stop heaven and heaven and

Heaven be we in glory untold our life
Is out, is out, is displayed, our tears as we peer
Glisten, pierce, coalesce, convalesce, merge,
Jell, freeze, manifold, become our statuettes;
In time we sublimely outlast a moment, truth.

Come to my House; All my Friends are Dead, Waiting & Arthur and I

Come to my House; All my Friends are Dead

The poetry has calmed down
Its plans, its plans.
The poetaster disaster of
Problematic misspellings in
Phlegmatic dirge, dirge, dirge.

I understand myself, sometimes,
Better in a mirror than in the sole
Of a shoe, or that black hole you
Meet with gazing, down, down, down.

Biscuit face, eat me, jump, jump, jump,
Forest, ooh, oh, my ma, say mama, rock!
Cool, cool, cool. Ginsberg helped me
Realise me, release, release, release.

If you came to my house
I would put on my Daniel Johnston
Vinyl of ‘Hi, How Are You’
And we could lie down and
Listen to it on my unmade bed, in

Seams, seams, seams, sew us into
Light circulatory air, smorgasbord
Of love, coarse, of course, in due, in you;
It’s ours, it’s ours, it’s ours, for the
Taking and the making, making, making.


Waiting

Tongues of change,
Lambs of cortège for bonfire
Memorials. A smattering of
Sandwiches lying unkempt
On sidewalk street. Wants
A new home, a loving home,
Put me in your window, put
Me in a book, tie my hair up
In knots, misunderstood. A
Love life left withers; well-
Wishers sneak to graves,
Astride Californian cosmetics.
Put me on a cross, put me in a
Box, put a bow on top, light a
Candle, wait, wilt in waiting.


Arthur and I

Reclusion in a tarantulan microcosm is this
Haunted life less ordinary than others, less
Innocent than I. ‘I is another.’ Arthur is I is
An Arthur. Arthur won’t you help me? I am
Past twenty and have fallen sloppy dead, I
Live inside this head, projected, protracted;
Broken.

The problem of the problem of the problem
Is the constant change of speed; whither
Velocity? Velocity and me. Cruise control
(Out of control), pause for a breather, for
Thought. It was that these palpitations would
Stop in a Cotard’s delusion, but sever instead,
Like you before you, dead.