Posts Tagged ‘darkness’

AOC-John-Berryman

A subtle shift of bone beneath reddened skin:
Pock-marked in places, Henry oscillates a mood-wave
Between a grimace of enthusiasm and reactive misery.
Alone in a crowd and dissolving into misty dream states,
As his consciousness thickens to a paste of confusion,
He meditates on a morbid wish for numbness.

Henry cultivates a rambunctious beard.
‘This is most unseemly’ says Mr Bones.
‘I think you have misplaced your ethics,
And your proclivities are as problematic
Starting with the alcoholism and then the drugs
Which ripple out from your unwholesome impulsivity’

Henry drinks from the event horizon of literary glory,
Then vomits a kaleidoscope abstract onto his shirt.
He is luminous in the pantheon of beautiful screw-ups
But spasms of salience and mystery are seldom rewarded with happiness.
Sooner than is fair he will suffer like a dog-turd underfoot again,
And long for the blessed suction of the infinite void of nonexistence.

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alone boy - original size

 

Cone of chilli powder
Boot in guts
Laughter at your expense
Shoved off your feet
Punched in the face
Shaven head immersed in alcohol
Gonad paralysis
Mental misfire
Tumours in soul
Knife in eyeball

It is important not to make loneliness and romantic failure your identity
Like a coat of woe over your personality
Which emits doom and darkness
Life will not reach out and grab you
A horrible scene
Prophecy of subterranean madness
Rubber man
Plastic man
Strip off your paranoia like shitty underpants
Before you die in a puddle of self-deprecation
Hiding in corners like a spider or a gecko
Just observing passively
Because afraid anxious confused
Sometimes it’s hard to find the right thing to say
So I remain silent as a sphynx

Meeting Nick Cave

Posted: December 20, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

nick-cave-04

Metropolis, Fremantle, 1990s.
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds and the Cruel Sea are playing
My legendary brother Nick, passed on now, possessed the gift of extravagant bullshitting and gets us in back stage
Nick Cave and Tex Perkins are playing pool
We are in rock and roll paradise, and the deepest vaults of hell at the same time
The Bad Seeds are there looking like the ‘before’ ad for a drug rehab, but elegant in suits
You’ve got to do it with style
My brother and my mate play them at pool, but instead of shaking hands at the end they brush their hair back- too cool for school
Nick Cave asks me: ‘Hey man, have you got any speed?’
Captain junkie darkness, Mr Black Trousers who towers over Rock and Roll like a dark brooding demon wants to score drugs from me
I curse myself for not having the drugs and apologize
Imagine what it would be like shooting up with Nick Cave
They find some somewhere else and have a dang in the toilet
Then the gig, which was awesome like a threesome with cocaine-basted Swedish identical twins both called Helga
We watched from the side
Afterwards, the bands had a rider of at least twenty cartons of Heineken and we all get into it
I approach the Master.
He looks like a particularly cool vampire-devil with unearthly pale skin and an explosion of night-black hair
Piercing dark blue eyes with massive pupils
Thin, spectral, gangly yet more real than any person I have ever seen
Nick Cave
Who once wrote his twisted nightmare lyrics of death, perversion, murder and retribution in blood with a syringe
Who is an Antarctica-cool gentleman-junkie, living embodiment of the blackest rock and roll mythology
Who wrote a brilliant, dense novel about death and deformity in the deep south on blitzkrieg Berlin speed and smack
Who inspired a thousand crappy Goth bands but never sold out
Who has did a shit-load of drugs and produced great art by always following the muse

And that is the trick, that’s the gimmick
To turn the fractures in your consciousness into mountains and valleys of creativity
To mutate into a seer and visionary prophet by putting your senses in a blender
To transform your worst faults, fears and nightmares into art
To create from primal sex, death, addiction and hallucination with the aim of visionary transcendence and transformation.
To birth a comprehensive universe of pain and perversity which pulverizes the powerful forces of conformity and destroys monolithic totalitarian mind-fuckers
To embody new creation, revolution, rebellion and subversion
Not just be a stupid junkie nodding off in a corner doing fuck all, more conformist than a yuppie.

I ask him about what drugs he was on when he did the ‘Nick the Stripper’ video
‘Speed and Heroin’ he replies
Said he doesn’t like pot much
Likes drugs you stick in your arm

We talk about a song on the Tender Prey album that I like but they have never performed live
We talk about art, literature, music and the shadows of religion
I sing him a song I wrote about trying to score ganja from Syd Barret and smoking the corpse of Jimmy Hendrix
He says ‘You’re a pretty funny cunt.’
I take it as a compliment.
Afterwards we steal his empty packet of Marlboro Lights, and we stick it to the wall with a sign saying ‘Nick Cave’s Cigarettes’

allenginsberg
Running to holy joy with my ears pinned back and hurricane love in my heart
Joy of kicks against the vicious anal darkness
Joy of tweaking the nose of the federal conspiracy of cabalistic capitalism
Joy of dacking Tony Abbot and laughing at his microscopic penis
Joy of reverberating with hilarious companions and feeling love-struck and passionate blessed awe
Joy if being overwhelmed with enthusiasm for all fruits of fertile earth,full of budding glory
The air is holy, space and time are holy, the chora of coincidence is double-choc holy
Every tree and creature is a Bible portraying a loving Buddha-God incarnate
O sacred Ginsberg
Great bearded bodhisattva who berates the military mind-fuck conspiracy
Calling them out on their death-lust and murderous urgings from ultra-zen East Village New York side-walks
Dancing down the technicolour road with harmonium and humour
Spinning words like yo-yos with Whitmanesque wonder and universal compassion
I hear your voice great sage and prophet-poet who blasts the bomb by saying Om
And calls forth forgotten America with lascivious dactylic lines of passionate poesy
I hear your voice master teacher, gentle prophet and blessed fool for love in all your sacred inscriptions
You beat down the CIA with hobo love and succulent sound-bites
You pumped out magic texts against the rapist mind of Moloch
You took off your clothes to say that America had your entire soul revealed for health and healing
You ignited the children of flowers with Buddhist Jedi mind gimmicks and dancing sunshine Manhattan madness
As you heard Blake I long to hear your stratagems, stoned and impeccable with my beard well stroked by books and day-dreams

moonlight-lovers-wallpaper
The serious moonlight silvers the illuminated surfaces, leaving the shadows where I lurk, and watch the lovers,
Shades of grey, shades of blue, images of a darker hue, much is concealed, little revealed.
Lovers meet in the oscillating night-time luminescence, words of love are spoken to the infinite dark, passion seethes in the absence of the sun.
Meeting at corners, and under pergolas, at parks and at the doorstep.
Oh to be close, to have lovers’ secrets and a realm all our own which we create with our words and gestures.
What bliss to be joined together for what seems at the moment an eternity, feeling happy and complete, dancing to the same tune!
To exist as an entity with an ‘and’ in the middle, a couple, a pairing, a dyad, a twosome.
And yet it can all decompose so easily, leaving me broken apart again, destitute and lonely because I have an actual experience to compare my present state to.
Pictures and images of time together shutter by my mind’s eye and confuse me in a delicious reverie, pictures of us together are like songs that stick in your mind so you can’t get rid of them.
Lonely again and howling at the memory of making love, overcome with the emptiness at the base of my soul, with mortality sucking my bones for marrow.
But things are looking up. It’s ladies night.