Posts Tagged ‘kicks’

frog

I am just destined
To hang from your orbit
Like an intricate insect
Waiting to be allowed into the light
Of your harlequin eyes
Just a lurker in darkness
Just a fiend searching for freedom
Just a demon after succulent tubular mastication
Just a fuckwit after kicks
Just a deadweight getting junk sick
Just a demon on the make
With a pile of drugs to take
And it’s all just an illusion within an illusion
Just another mirror game of echoes
As I pant and strain beneath you
With your sphinx silent smile
And forget my real name
Trying not to feel insane

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ginsberg

Hey Ginsberg
Imagine if you came to Perth Poetry Club
Would you eye the pretty boys?
Would you hit on SPM?
Give one of your prophetic gnostic readings
Play your harmonium for us and do Father Death and the Ballad of the Skeletons
Have a joint with the boys out the back of the Salvation Army building?
Great teacher, Boddhisatva, beat progenitor
Sometimes I think of you hanging out with Kerouac, Burroughs and Cassady
Digging sky-flecked psychosexual kicks
Drinking red wine and pretending to be a bum
When the world seemed like a wild trip of jazz-flavoured psychedelia
And you made it beautiful

screen-shot-2012-10-30-at-4-28-19-pm

Felonious kicks
For stupid pricks
Cavorting like corpses through purple twilight
Tedious fucks
Out of luck
When concrete cracks
Buildings collapse
Never go back to the town of your birth
Where skeletons parade through lonely streets
First people you meet
Have no eyes and no faces
Spectres haunt corners and grimace like gargoyles
Cars pass driven by porcelain princesses
Taking their kids to school
While their identikit husbands toil
Through uneven soil
And death’s maw beckons
At every second
To suck them into the pit
Full of shit
They consume and sit in front of television
Hypnotized
Hype glazes their eyes
And zombifies their skulls till everything just seems to blur
Into a grey and infinite turd
Stinking up their neurons and rendering them vegetable
Useless as a used condom

amy_jackson_pollock_painting_by_amau41200-d4vjeut

Teenage kicks and hooligan hijinks
Drunken vandalism
Graffiti thrashed on walls

Sitck it
In your arm
Draw a bubble of blood

Don’t break
Your fragile bones
When stumbling

Mobile phones
Hypnotize masses
Like Dynamo

Shit stains in underpants
Time to do the washing

Erotic psycho-frenzy
Pants down for action

Gorgeous ass
Wobbles
Like a jelly melon

Your porcelain smile
Escalates me
For the moment

Light that cone
Inhale smoke
Cough

some pass cars
some make passes
I pass gas

Cigarettes like time
Thoughts like conversation
Tranquility

weirdo

 

Here’s to the wild ones, the weird ones
Who take a crap on the desk at Centrelink with a shit-eating grimace on their faces and demand to be addressed as Jesus Christ
Who go wild on whiskey or whatever and run amuck through the back-alleys and cheap boarding houses of Perth
Who polish their guts with bourbon and stoke their tobacco fires constantly
Who cry out against that military industrial mind-fuck- the consumerist gobbledegook of advertising
Who always know where to get good drugs and how to avoid getting ripped off by other, meaner freaks
Who want to bring down capitalism and Nickleback with a single gesture of flagrant love
Who when captured by the pigs paint a Sistine Chapel of shit all over their cells and gibber like gibbons
Who keep detailed records of the worldwide conspiracy of Masons to achieve world domination by writing on the insides of gum wrappers
Who write their lives all over the public walls of the city in murals that would scare a representative member of society- whatever that is
Who ricochet through late-night hipster bars clad in tattoos and tobacco and get kicked out for questioning the purpose of the universe
Who participate in threesomes with persons of indeterminate gender in the late-night anal darkness
Who plunder the night for kicks and hi-jinks and scare the crap out of the forces of conformity
Who preen and style for fashion darlings in op-shop rags with multiple piercings
As they bless the world, may God bless them all

mystifying vibrations rapture brainwaves
20 mill shot then roam the night
beating Urizen to self destruction
eyes realize what brains synthesize

psychedelic messages from the heart of a demon-god
syringe of ice immaculate into vein
pharmacological music broadcasts bloodlike awareness

monitored conscious reading on
inflammatory creative afternoons
suffer plaster mountains of cancer
another shot into the saint vein

leafy spirit slithers to a realm beyond anti-psychotics
listen to my mind blur images
through opaque windows
under the Boab tree

intricate salvation
green succulent voices
a mind-bath most pleasing

cocktail-effect transient stare
incandescent self destruction
muttering measures of death

increasingly nothing rocks my world
a naked child with wings angelic
says blood-rivers flow like death-stench

ancient god Urizen has balls of brass and an iron-plated ass
blood infected abcesses of pain
locked in the overflow post-medication nightmare

Urizen strains in the dissonant mirror
electro-chemical squatting
angry schizophrenic God fire

candy surging consciousness
tastes sweet like boiled lollies
tingling beats across brainwaves
mind-matrices intricate and replicated

Urizen sucks Dopamine
these preconceptions challenge our walk through existence
speed like rush to nowhere
conniving a shot from a mystifying syringe
earth-quake inspiration forms a new kind of radio

failing spirits lurk ethereally
free medication vibration
reality for my molecules

the soul unmedicated
knows a meat madness of spirit
dead lord of bentness

tribal veins pump my brain
impaled on a cross
pierced for kicks

 

lonelyperson
Fuck this shit
I like women
Women don’t like me
It’s a conundrum
A paradox
Who the fuck wants to fuck a middle-aged fat bastard
Who the fuck wants to cuddle up to someone sweaty, bloated and pointless
How much longer will I self-destruct:
For love
For the sake of pain
For madness
For joy
For kicks
For blitzkrieg insanity
For lack of a good woman

I like women
Women don’t like me
I am:
Too fat
Too lonely
Too desperate
Too maudlin
Too pathetic
Too weird
Too stoned
Too drunk
So I have another beer
And I have another cigarette
I have another cone
Occasionally I have a shot
And exude infinite soul-longing for silent death-bliss
Which will come on like a shot of smack and euthanize my emptiness
And set me free to roam the realm of Spirits
With angel’s wings

Half a point of ice and twenty milligrams of morphine
Is a pleasing combination
Stick it in your arm it will do you no harm
There’s nothing like that moment
When the blood squirts into the syringe and I know I’ve hit the vein
Then I push down the plunger
A hurricane candy rush shoots up my veins and into my brain
Sweet tingling all over my body
Feel like I’m flying and sinking at the same time
Sinking into the opiate mind-bath while buzzing from the speed
Chemical kicks in the succulent moon-light
Pharmacological fun-times on a Friday afternoon
Let it rush over me
Let it rush through me
Then it’s time for a cone
Warm fuzzy marijuana mind-blur breaks over my consciousness
And the cocktail is complete

Kurt_Cobain_drawing_by_HerEvilGothM

To me the nineties were a wild ride through an anamorphic mountain range with mystic-ecstatic highs and dark suicidal lows
Living on the sharp edge of reality enjoying the futile effervescent joy of mindless adolescent kicks
Everything is more real and intense when you’re twenties
And some crazy shit goes down
Some of my friends didn’t make it out alive
I focus on the mountain peaks now when I dream:
Kurt Cobain saving rock and roll from hair metal with a serious punk rock injection
Cool music being in the charts thanks to Kurt
One crime- breaking into a Deli and stealing cigarettes only to find when I got them home they were all Menthol
That moment when a serious hangover was steamrollered to nothing by a shot of smack- the ultimate hangover cure
Hundreds of cones, bongs, pipes and joints to a soundtrack of the great distorted guitar music
Singing along to the Pixies ‘Some Marijuana- if you’ve got some’
Kissing the gorgeous lead singer of the Dumb Angels full on the mouth with a dash of tongue on New Year’s Eve- they were like the Ramones if they were women
Playing a New Years’ gig at the Orient off my head on speed and picking up a groupie
Having an actual beautiful girlfriend who was not made of rubber and enjoyed fucking me
Going to the second Big Day Out with Sonic Youth, Nick Cave and Iggy Pop accompanied by shit-load of quality pharmaceuticals
Iggy started tearing down the stage and shouting ‘Let’s fuck this shit up’
Playing a gig with my band at a punk-rock-party and getting paid in morphine.
Playing my songs to great applause from the other psychiatric patients at Fremantle Hospital and realizing that crazy people are the best people- my tribe
Playing a gig where we sang a song about killing the pigs and smashing the state to an audience that included policemen-who were way pissed off
Getting kicked out of my own gig at the Loft for being too punk rock as I was channelling Iggy Pop while pissed as Shane MacGowan
Dropping acid five times in five days when lining up for the Cure then ending up with an engrossing drug induced psychosis which lead me to believe I was Nick Cave
Playing a gig in a tutu to get in touch with my feminine side and annoy the homophobes
Great friends, great beers, great music, great drugs
Only briefly interrupted by
Occasional classes at University
Occasional weeks of work at crappy jobs

But not enough to spoil the fun

Of sacred rebellion

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