Reboot - 2009 reworkings

When We Come

Luscious intrepidation of bitten souls; syllables blare.

Heavy heads of confused misunderstanding,

Catching feathers with rustled hearts.

Enliven yourself, a withdrawn smile

and the orange question of exit liberties

like the screaming countries of war.

Nightly penicillin, Absolut fucks and rehab deposits,

the inside job of vampire tickets

and arresting branded threesomes of the pub porn band.

A baby jacket bell jar and their heavy instruments,

the cocktail sharks that swarm goldened cages,

baiting blood which weeps.

Little despair brings the biggest joy, from the vantage of the disowned.

Where driven drumbeats push pauper kings and queens

through streets of jade-mongered thought cowards.

The settling dust coats conduits, a view of light encapsulated thorns

Like the constant faded reminiscence

Of gleams that catch the concave.

Seconds fleet eternal as black holes begin to absorb,

the cascading jagged fingers witter

Precious ideals, now trinkets violated

Bright lights always eventually dim

like lost vessels in the night

Devoid of any

inspiration,

everything

just

Not Level

You're a Liverpool Green Noodle Box
Just a white suit and chocolate wrappers
On Lovells' Snow Hill.

Spired bricks make cover
Non-stop recycled make off
An apple corporate.

Energy's not in service anymore
Where lazy piano keys play
And red bar circles follow.

Two weeks of assumption 
And a coffee cup walking by,
punching above their weight.

Tartan legs circle and
white labels blow, all nods
and mumbles inconsequential.

Questions and/or statements,
all they say is "...Hello..."
Steam clouds give reply.

The Dead Set

The Dead Set,
Honey lightning rod barricades him in,
Look up, says he
Numero faccio contare inverso,
The beasts of the taiga hiss and buzz
Heaven's spots of light are women
in the Holocaust.
But there are no Anne Franks here.
Thirsty toil takes tritiatation
Wake up Donnie, Go to sleep John
'Holdmust i hendur allur heimurinn oskyr' says he.
A smoked menthol swallow and
fly away, Morph to '92
where Power Rangers play
on top tiaga tribesmen roamed
Spots now light heavy watching
One day he will touch. Now he says
"I'd lose myself in clarity
and find myself in chaos"
Look down, says he
The still golden castle holding
him out in open arms

Don’t Leave Coco,

All the yellowed tickets and fairytales

Of the boys and girls of this Bricken’d Lane.

The Cushion Reindeer art, the vintage Polaroids strewn.

Samba Mexicana strained with Mother’s,

Mix matched Converse that wash by,

The staler smell of wet cancer sticks

Wear it down.

Taking broken bangles

And playing in the rain.

(Mis)Educated spirits,

There’s a lot of that going around.

Like plastic boats lining rivers,

Streaming down like corporate art,

Sunshine fruit and morning’s mud and

Paper tickets fly away.

Don’t Leave Coco,

Heavy lovemaker and wearied tendon,

Solar plexus and soul represses.

Be evermore an delusion intoxicated.