السبت، 31 مارس، 2012

A man I saw from Heaven, 

الجمعة، 23 مارس، 2012

The Heater

the cat eyes me like a china-man, through kitchen clouds of hashish.

There are leafs in the tea, then Grandmother feeds the cat polo-mints.

Someone had vomited into the bong.

A brick went through the window, because the room was filling up with smoke.

We bought brown squashed herbs at a market-stall.

A famous plane crashed and a few minutes later the tin of weed is washed down the sink.

The girls are young tarts, they line the walls of a tiny bedroom, smoking cannabis, I'm too frightened.

I hold my head out of a fast car, like a doggie, passing fields of yellow.

A cube is found in the gaps of the ' settee. '

I hide my block under the fridge when the cops come knocking. I lock myself out, they drive me to my uncles, I look out of the little barred window, and I arrive in a riot van.

Leaf after leaf.

I bump into boys in the dark night, on the bridge over the railway, and they sell me a block. 

I decline a joint, inside the smoking room hospital, bumping into the woman-smoker late into the night. ---

Some-ones put buds in a sparkly white-silver dust. So, I know it's time to climb through the hallucination, begin the nuclear war. More buds in dust, a regular free supply.

---

The heaters too hot, and the television is screaming. Ash trays, offered ashtrays. Disappointment. ...Love. The Angel of Hope stares, twists a leather foot round and round.

The rise;

"We the People; ...."

"KILL THE CATS! KILL THE CATS!!!!!!!!!!" I'm standing naked in an empty bath. Splat! Goes the cat, found covered in petrol and thrown over the alley wall...

---

The hand movements are like an effeminate king.

Peach is the colour of a good mother. There are mixes that fly around sometimes, and I reject them, like cobalt blue mixed grey with white.

---


A significant event:

The beginning of Hippie;

A nuclear showdown, the aftermath inside a terraced house' kitchen. 5 people known to have survived. Drives into petrol-garages, lost in a silk cover of lemon-white glowing light. Unhappy. Fought. Disgusted. Pass Anne Bolyn highway, roudn a same roundabout, because Im high and the driver is screaming...

So all the country roads of England are singing, mass of dark green highways, round and round, never stop driving,

I see; The Crown of England.

"I am the Queen of England. Why?? Do you know what I see? Why are you killing, me, why are you killing me? Look at the colour, the colour of England is Lord...."

The driver screams, he has every opportunity to kill. He slams the car, and it goes round and round, he'll force me down drive me to Satan. He spin my head til I'm weeping in the passenger seat.

I can feel that Evil is rising.

I'm happy in the glow of Lord.

I have to drive away, the house is full of smoke, the walls are black, the man are sick.

"I can't breathe, I can't breathe."

I vomit at the backdoor, and cry for Queen Brigid...She's hunted in a song, she is the Fertility, the Arts...she is the feminine screaming in traffic of heavy metal tools, metal boxes...

There are work-mens tools all over the house.

"I'm allergic to metal."

The fungus grew all over the spare room, mould, in tins and jars, and fungus up the walls, spilling over the table, all over the bed.

I painted the window sill, with flowers and colourful figures.

I brought a growth of flowers/ "fungus" here. I took the power of Mother Earth. And I am here.

She gave the feminine ... the ultra feminine.

She sent a sign, And I'm ready to fight. I wont go. I will fight.

---

I'm seated in faint guitar instrumentals, holding a rolled cigarette, the sparkly white dust on the beds. Is driving em in silver horses to The Angels of Hope's house, a pageant of towns-people lining the pavements down my route, down my road. My town.

It's a prettier high that I want again and again.

I must have died.

I was in shock, so she sat me down, the sunlight darkened by the closed curtains, and sat on the other end of the settee.

It was the shock of the kissing...

It was the most, closest moment to Death.

It was a sleepy lover, instrumental music, gold and orange sun in curtains of black. No-one outside, no one ever. Just one.

السبت، 10 مارس، 2012

Repay Revenge

I read over the phonetics of Al Kawthur, mindlessly drawing circles connected by lines on the paper.

The point was to tell Allah, my thoughts as I read slowly overe each line. A report, what happened, what the shishka man, that's 8 years of saying, crying, reaching. I read the first line, and said:

It's me.

This is him.

The third line, I stared at the lines and circles. I rolled up every single, word or action he had made, into the ayah.

I see this is silly to you. Or, what a shiska man is.

Or why I tell you.

Or why in this third ever post, he got killed,

Black magic against Black.

I heard he would get Hell.

A vendetta that seems to you;

Heathen? perhaps?

A longtime of War. A never-ending battle. And Unwanted...

I believed what I heard over the Surah.

I wiggled my ears, and listened to where-ever the shiska man could be. I heard a scream, and saw a man fall to his knees.

I believed, that. But I repeated again and again what had happened to Heaven.

And women cried, and I screamed, and I leapt, and I knifed, and I ran, and I stopped.

And the Fear was:

That every death is soul, most men lie, he twists into your mind, dirt and hisses. his dead-soul cackles, he gets freedom when they're worse, he has killed freedom. He laughs at Haloes, with spits and curses. He blues a witch, but burns her pretty hair, twists in fell, and claps back to me, when he is at the most of his hate. He wears the dirt. He bleeds fairer. He licks ugly. Tastes Satan. He burns happy. He drives...he spat. He cursed. He blacks your wife like he is special. He winks, he fights her. He gets through to her in her mind, and he makes her weep. She prays for help. I curse. I curse Heaven, and I'm mindless, I'm blanker, I'm no lover. I'm weaker. There is no protect her.

I burn red through skin and veins and blood. I don't pity.

I learn the worse.

I go to sleep.

I never pity.

I lack Love, and weep.

I can see now.

Never, never, never. She is weeping to Allah.

I am force hatred.

Her soul is weeping. I burn knife. I burn like dagger. I fight...

I call and call and fight and fight.

And I want no more of him. I want him to flame, and vanish.

"I will Kill."

"I have Never Love."

I blame force men and holy men.

I fight like I am Damnation.

I carry the curse.

I don't kiss.
It lives it lives.

I get superstitious. Place that there, or here, and he will appear.
I never care.

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