1017 S 4th Avenue, tonight.

And with that the bells reset their equilibrium gongs to drum beat,
the artery ropes string well again,
in the lone tusk buildings where shadows loiter together
there is an eyeball seeking out the skies,
it comes on nights like these
listening to the leaves scratch window nets
preparing the city earth
for summer storm times ahead again.

I view the days passed preservatives now,
I know the only way to scratch the itch of heartache
is to jump to the next well and dig
through the next months more.
I’m trialling my blade days with whisking
of koan and night sweat,
dreams of time lost in eyes of elderly wives
lurking on porch steps.

A gunshot waltzes with a wailing locomotive
that chugs on through the night,
mysterious to my bedroom mind
as wind-chimes chime.

"Red River Breath" spoken word vid

NEW EBOOK

Here's the link to my latest ebook, "Break it up we'll run screeched again whattayasay Harry?"

GEt it HerE

The porch, the garden, the field, the fireplace

Going through old notepads looking for writings and found this little rant. Made all the more fun by the fact that I now have an old rickety porch to sit on.

All poets ranting of moons, angels, galactics, destinies... I just want fried eggs and beer breakfast from now till the day I die. 

***

Good lord is it ever just enough to sit and be? I guess we tell ourselves plenty of time for that when we die’ and rightly so, but to vacate, to escape - even the life I love to lead and am very much leading - just to cruise a little in the separate for a while - to tell a stranger a different story - to not think of how today will be tomorrow and then you look back it’s what’s there to show yadda yadda...

total small town community thought i guess, how easy to not help enough, to not give enough, not donate. When dead we are ash or worm food either way we stop talking and start just unselfishly giving. 

It’s living that kills us. 

I’m not being down in the dumps here I’m in a good mood but just writing the truth. One day things will be enough. One day there’ll be a day when it’s too late and the weight will lift because there’ll be nothing you can do about it anymore. 

On this green day i’ll lay back and think only of the now and forever that will be the case. I’ll eat fatty taste food and drink beers with chasers and wallow with laughter on porches as the world goes by - and the world will go by and look at me and say ‘oh there’s old man Lidster, drunk again, such a shame, such a waste’... but little will they know the ecstasy, I’ll be saddened only by the fact that they may never get to know.. and whether they’ll see it or not I’ll tip my hat and toast my glass their way and wish them well. Life will not be dramatic because all need for the dramatic will have died. 

The porch, the garden, the field, the fireplace - wherever, will be my hard rock candy mountain. I’ll strum guitar and banjo strings singing along not in so much tune but with huge passion. 

I’ll tap my feet and be overcome like gospel singers in my own personal way, and people will walk past and say ‘old man Lidster, such a shame’ but I won’t hear them. I’ll finish up, with old back and legs, open the front door and get me a fresh batch of beers and whisky or tequila, and I’ll go again. 

A clip from my diary

Ginsberg I caught you reading my diary last night

somewhere in my dream 

between some parables of acupuncture 

raiding through the twists and wisps of 

scattered no thought pours...

And I thought a little instance of broken,

like my black bile was about to be shared

and there’s me

having written these perverse wonders

an anchored photo for a moment

but then realizing that

it was you, yes YOU!

that wrote 

“If we don’t show anyone, we’re free to write anything”

and washes of

empathetic nature of you poet

made right the possibility of two heads

knowing this 

that I’ve only lately known to be

true through streams

and vein odysseys 

all relentless. 

And so I’m casting me, the me, afar -

letting the carbon talk a while

where in this bowl of precious human birth,

where we meet beginning beginning again,

growing the changes of chances,

joking to me that I can cast me, the me, afar

any further than can be implied in waves, 

or drowning in them, 

but the then sudden wonderment 

of clean air. 

Ah, why do I let myself fester on worry,

everything’s ending, everything is changing

and growing and shrinking, 

the two people sleeping on each side of this room

are getting older and dying.

We are dying. 

The colossal conjunction of human sadness is dying,

happiness is dying,

I am dead born and you are dead born 

and we are just going to be dead again

so why would I fret over such secret words Allen?

and why punish ourselves for histories 

and why wonder about my body pains

and why cry about the scope of death

and why let impact impact at all?

So, we’ve known we are just a ring of flesh

pumping through itself 

that craves the shit of the world

in a frantic effort to embellish our windows 

and that is the booster for our 

gloomy gloomy winters

that will pass it will pass it will pass

it will pass it will pass it will pass it will pass

and this body that we are

is just the eyes of the thing we are looking at

but can’t see

the universe needs us to see itself

we are not us

we are that - that “”””around”””” -

accepting our result is not

accepting our result

because it is not our result -

is this giving up and excuse?

it is not our giving up or excuse to give up or excuse.

All we can do is not understand and

sit back and let it happen

and drink our tea or our wine with

every temporary enunciation valid

to air to the earth

the earth we know but don’t know

don’t feel, can’t feel -

insane that we are all kinds of upside down

but we are not upside down

we are everything but upside down

and our filling invisibility is all that is needed

for anything -

any idea of love or illness

to be existent though not real not real.

It is my simple cleave incision 

into the ways of the world I see

that I seek forever to understand

and more so maybe the ways

the world you see,

all reflector and reasonless,

I want to read through your eyes,

to work through your mouth, 

to vigil with your thoughts

as they pass and deliver onto

the next saving grace,

a double helix of us 

cordoning the galaxies

one at a time

on violin string theories. 

No one is immune, Allen.

How teasingly we are told this

by layer lessons

listing the malleable meanings 

of veins we wrap when wanting

and never looking to undo

until the only words to run by are 

Moon’s:

“No yesterdays on the road”.

So read my diary as you will 

while I sleep through the day or night, 

and you will learn a little river

or two before I type

and my fears will be met 

by the warranty 

of simple

dark

truths.

Gland Parables is go!

I've finally got around to getting this book out... there's a good few years worth of poetry in here, ranging from crazed paranoia nights to jumping madmen nights out seeking anything and everything and back again to big travelling nights or stuck inside nights. A compendium of everything so far.

It's a compilation of 5 previously unreleased volumes, totalling 75 poems.

"All poems written with light fuzz in mind either among bedroom looms/train station drags/airport listenings/rivers on wine/backs of cars/seasides/irreversible wallet paper scraps/kitchens/doorsteps/bars/mostly 3am's thinking sometimes too hard but mostly letting fall out about paranoia, dramatics, storm-chasing, Li Po, R. Crumb, people dying and people living."

GeT it HeRe

cover for my poetry book "Gland Parables"