Staring Out To Sea

February 5, 2009


Captain Britain on his pushbike

Pauses in the final reel

‘We blew it,’ he says,


Taking a bite out of his marmite sandwich

And sipping from a tartan plastic flask

Of lukewarm tea

Then, adjusting his cycle clips

He turns towards the west

And rides into the setting sun

Wobbles to avoid

A heavily symbolic dog turd

And falls quite awkwardly into a bench

As credits roll

And music plays

The camera pans

Away Into the sky.

Ben Graham.

Waiting Here

February 5, 2009

Adventurous, yet featherbrained, bugger admires my fizzy inconsistent guilt distortion; contains proof of unsightly need – god-forsaken ooze in neighbourhood of mouth-watering intent. The withering brow of the slot seducer’s orthodox thrills; his mistaken accompaniment that deducts explanation from the monstrous visionary’s dispirited suspicion. Now, hankering after trouble, he puts the wind up the protagonist (the market place martyr) whose redundant impact of tittle-tattle was hounded by interference. The shifty calmness of impenetrable excess will compare the middle booby-prize calendar with a vacillating juncture so that the agonising lingo preacher turns tail. Carbon-dated monster! Cyber stars at sea change. I, the sculptor, am the landscape. A thousand leaves drawn inward. Faces in the darkness. A cardboard dragon breathing paper flames. He vanquishes bleakness and laments inherent misery. She can sparkle with hardship’s crooked pattern while whispering anxious fragments. The placid champagne muzzled by the attention devotee who washes his dirty linen in public. Who can tolerate recklessness and truthfulness? That impetuous declaration of fortune kicks off the infatuation with comfort. A dog-tired zombie exhibition organized by an industrious, administrative troll. No beating about the bush, he’s emblazoned with catherine-wheel’s potency and has indulged in ferocious symmetry.

Stupefied and stereotyped, has mastered leg-breaking and crackpot testimonials of sentimental lavatory illusions. His mutton-headed conviction surrounds her acquiescence to modesty while the undergrowth incorporates humbleness. Her delicious loftiness realises insubordination and agitation swaddled in junk. Sandflags for your castle and three little bears. Disposable camera, sterling silver true love tattoos. Itchy and scratchy cat soap tin drum. Psychic hearts go out to you while I walk on concrete.

The quarrelling, chirping runaway. The accidental heart and soul has gigantic clear-out. Buoyant and bloodthirsty, totally skirting her appalling coal-black apparatus, while the crinkly, deformed cut-throat meathead revamps the intricacies of the puzzle. Subdue the overnice churchgoers! Attack the spooky prince-imperial! Improve the idolised pussyfooting receptacle! Shameful exotique colossus. Budding, bevelled, forsaken, she pacifies the alienated sprit and unblocks the noble arrangement. She makes love with resolve and competition, scampers towards existence without exception. Her outmoded deliberation knobbles any kind of servitude, while he accommodates an harmonious blamelessness, trifling with blossom, gathering holy and inflexible garbage.

Dismiss the flimsy nondescript grown-ups! Photograph their rotten lechery and thickheaded warbling. Begin the alfresco debauchery. Break their binding revels. Absent-minded captivating music hall is their venom. Grass-eating and quick-witted they grudgingly exploit the pin-up while their crew badger any crude go-betweens. They knock together dangerous stage-coaches and sloppy grooves; they examine prayer books and wicked boozers, they interrogate eggheads and puritans, they dispose of individual Caucasians. Don’t let them orbit our fortune-telling sanctuary. We can illuminate the ballyhoo of provocation while alienating healers and dandies. Don’t ever assume the demonstrative chill of the flaky, yet stylish, dwarf. Be forever foul-mouthed and malodorous.

-Gary Goodman.