I will sit upon my fat arse all day | and drink wheat beer, smoke stinking cigarillos | and toss the empty bottles and the stubs | around the room | because I like living in my own waste | it makes me feel | closer to history

And when I wake | sometimes from my stupor | the first thing I’ll hear | is the glassy burble of a Weissbeir bottle | inadvertently | kicked from under a chair | rolling across the bare floorboards | to clunk and sing | against the rotten skirting | or the iron | leg of the bed | or softly thump | into the fleshy breast or belly | of one of my lovers | reclining on the Persian rug | passed out after a particularly | heavy session | hair not quite | how it looked when they first came in | maybe a little frizzled and burnt | where a flicked cigarillo caught | on the product and lit up | for one of those Witchfinder General moments | or with ash or bits of | orange peel | or jam or stiff | with semen | or margarine | or paint or ink or matted | by shit or mucous or dried wheat beer or | dried blood | mascara | blusher | lard | dope or tangled with snapped strands | of rubber band or scraps of torn | silver paper…

Petronius, my monkey with the golden fur | the furrowed brow of burping babies | or of intellectuals too | literal-minded to quite understand | the workings of wit or irony | sashays stroke flits along the hallway | an anxious buccaneer stroke explorer | searching for a settled | place in evolution | snarls and shows his disdain for me | and for Black Sabbath | early period | He looks good in gloom | as a proper capuchin | in the coffees and tans | of a minor Zubaran | little background creature | with his peanuts and raisins and grapes | is just right for the big mirror | draped in mildewed burgundy velvet | fiddles with Clancy’s mobile phone | as if looking for numbers on speed-dial

Jennifer is a dragon girl | her withered tits and obvious | signs of major surgery | like a tattered national flag | sliced and peppered and flayed and ripped | and besmirched and burnt | by battle | but she can lie quiet in a pool | of clear water | fed by the consistent whisper | of an icy stream | look up at the moon | from among blue carp and wrinkled knives | patched together from all she has gathered | over the eventful years | and find herself at a complete loss | and be happy | Is she right | to feel that way? | Isn’t it

too early to say?

Whatever, we can spend hours | comparing tattoos | arguing handguns | orchestrating our funeral music | I like her choices | but yearn for a little more | Sabbath | and surely | junk the Sigur Ros?

I will sit on my fat arse all day | thinking of crimes I’d like to commit | great scams and heists | hacks and whacks | consider the poisons I’d prefer to use | the prisons I’d construct | systems of abuse I’d gradually perfect | how slowly to torture my enemies | before finally offing them | dream of the pump in the trunk | 50 in my hand | powder blue suit in metallic bronze sedan | different sets of wheels | roadsters, black trucks, convertibles | and bless the incontrovertible fact | my fat arse is so comfortable | to sit on all day | and the nun is so young and pale and pure | I just wish | she’d allowed | the sunlight to reach her skin | a little more…

Paranoid is the perfect track | and Vertigo its perfect label | even Jennifer | admits that | though by the way he bares his teeth | and coughs and spits | it seems Petronius | does not agree | He’s pretty tasteless

Still, there’s room on my fat arse for many | different opinions | dogmas | errors | points of view | My fat arse is lush and rolling | like the English countryside in May | say the Sussex Downs or Yorkshire wolds | you could lie down in my fat arse as in a meadow | on the first really warm | spring day | and look up at the gas | giants of clouds | formulating nothing across the sky | not GRIND nightclub | or the Vatican or some | dusty tome | in a government library | or a corner of bits on a secret server | or an omphalos or logos or piece of geometrical | confectionery | a dot or point | notion or cast | iron truth | but the centre of everything | is my fat arse | and I | happen to own it | and with possession being nine tenths of the law | I regret to announce | access is limited | Show your tickets

at the door

And so, I will sit here | frankly for the foreseeable | future | and write elegies and odes | and make grand statements and indulge | in childish horseplay | and pen grave laments | so we can all be sad and worry | about our status or mortality | legacy or supremacy | primacy or sexuality | psyche, mortgages and work | the fate of our class, our race, our values, our entire | civilisation | I like a good lament | before Jennifer and I | and Karl and Bent | possibly | and probably | Rae if she | wakes up in time | and even | Petronius if he | can be enticed | will get slick into the asterisks and chiocciolas and exclamation marks | hashes and kanellbule | and dollars and other | raw and liquid matter | for censors and voyeurs | hypocrites and lecteurs | imagining ourselves back into the signs | that have no signs | to get back to | the lonely widows and orphans | on poorly set pages | for a bad romance or dated pulp | with narks and coppers and ponces | or grisly saw-blade blood-gout | penny dreadful | or unread, the elusive 50s masterpiece | by Roland Bardot | presciently titled | Le Grand Silence

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: August, 2015)

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