status update

I’m slack, cracked, tripping off track
a rusty old oil drill totally fracked

I’m ripped, rocked, chronically clocked
flipping in the flophouse, all tick & no tock

I’m strapped, clapped, sonically slapped
visions of collisions, whole religions of crap

I’m hopped, stropped, brutally dropped
Kong in a thong thing, fatally flopped

I’m reeling, kneeling, sinking through the ceiling
four parts aftershock, one part squealing

but hey – enough of this stuff
all this bullshit protesting
I’m just resting
okay?
done for today
(so why can’t I leave it that way?)

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yours forever

please, I beg you, remake me in plastic
it’d be fantastic
I could ride the ocean wide
and collide
gently
with the beautiful flotsam and whatever else some
other plastic people like me
felt happy to dump in the sea

please, I wanna go through the process
it’s a simple request
so I can witness the end of this dirty business
and grimace
innocently
in a non-degradable parade
of polymerised citizens
who’ll live on in instagram and virtual vitamins

rebirth me as a child of the polymer tree
that’s the fit for me
so I could be there at the final flare
and stare
vacantly
as the earth dies cheaply like a burger with fries
and I’m the happy meal toy
that gets tossed in the void

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writer’s block

I cannot get started
my mojo isn’t just low you know it’s totally up and departed
I’m the arrow you let go and watch disappear way off target
it’s like Margate, end of season
unfeasibly cold
where you go for a paddle with your trousers rolled
and curse the luck that led you there sevenfold

I cannot get started
the mean bean dealer I meet on the way to market
swaps my cow for a grow-your-own magic beanstalk kit
bullshit! the beans are duds!
the whole beanstalk thing’s completely fake
not only is there no land with lots of golden crap for me to take
but I’m down a cow and the best part of my lunch break

I cannot get started
my ship’s adrift off lands so lost they’re uncharted
I’m bent, spent, bad tempered & broken-hearted
cathartic, you’d think
till you see what’s up ahead of you waving from the pass
a giant so buffed and bronzed when he slaps his arse
a fart of mythical proportions rips your ship apart

I cannot get started
I’m finally and fatally outsmarted
I’m vague as a plague victim unconsciously carted
morbid, I know, but there you go
a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step
which is great advice, Laozi, undoubtedly, yep
but from here it still looks like one hell of a schlep

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punk dog

I’m sorry, STORM, but the name doesn’t suit’cha
it doesn’t seem right for a scruffy lurcher
I mean – if there’d been bigger dogs in the pound
like a Munsterlander or a Newfoundland
a Pyrenean sheepdog or an Aghan hound
well – maybe
the name would fit the breed
and STORM would do you very well indeed
but a lurcher? who, for all his graces,
just has one of those mad faces
crazy wise and clever
more wild blue day and less bad weather
but anyway
what I meant to say
who you really remind me of today
– Johnny Rotten circa 1978
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st patrick

I met this woman
a wiccan witch
she saw a beautiful angel
standing behind me
stretching his wings

It’s true
I’m telling you

The witch had a stone
heavy and black
she gave it to me
to soak up my negativity
I carried it around all day
but it got too hot in my pocket
and I had to get rid of it
what could I do?
I mean fuck it
I couldn’t just chuck it
I chose my moment
buried it under a tree
on the edge of a cemetery
it felt right to me
putting it in the ground
to cleanse it
I’ll never forget it

These are the end times
the bad, sad times
I mean – read the signs
it’s all been foretold
the war between young and old
good and evil
Saint Michael the Archangel
The Seventh Trumpet
The False Prophet
The Red Dragon
The Whore of Babylon
I could go on

Satan’s to blame
everything was good
with God
till Satan
grew sick of waiting
said he would not bow
could not
not anyhow
but that’s just pride I guess
what’s a few angels more or less
God cast them out into the wilderness

There’s so much in this world we don’t understand
I mean, why d’you think there are no snakes in Ireland?

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the IFS FFS

There’s a funky little place I know / where all the thrusting economists go / to dine like fine dinosaurs / on the Wall Street whys & wheretofores / simplifying the industrial complexes / the Wall Street Journals and Han Seng indexes / the open and shuts / the quantitative easings & budgetary cuts / the investment wrecks & spending checks / dealing with more zeros than all the heroes at the cineplex / speaking truth to power / for a coupla hundred dollars an hour

where?

the institute for fiscal studies
where forecasts blow and dollar streams muddy
and thinkers range
theoretically strange
scattering opinion like so much change

it’s a who-knows-what-the-hell-it’s-for / top drawer / less is definitely more / happening kind of club / a cross between a wishing well and a magic money shrub / a dreamy Disney depot / where punchy academics can go / to work their monetary mojo / it’s a dealer’s dream, a holy preserve / it’s a lot more fun than the Federal Reserve / it’s a safe deposit space / where no idea is too unclear or goes to waste / where even the receptionist / is a theoretical economist / waving you gently through the mist / and the canteen / is expensively inviting / and the meet & greet / is The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street / bending over to touch her feet / athletically / smiling coquettishly / pointing to her arse / because she’s very well oiled & her assets are vast

welcome

to the institute for fiscal studies
where CEOs & hedge fund buddies
can sit to lunch
on credit crunch
and watch Midas give a TedX on his golden touch

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like a stake through the heart

My dearest Dracula,

I admit – for a while it was quite spectacular
but did you REALLY have to go sneaking around like that
flipping through the window like a brilliantined bat
howling like a wolf
on the roof
or a dog
in the fog
and – the real bust –
elemental dust
ELEMENTAL DUST!
I’m completely nonplussed!
So yes – okay – you’re a transmutational sensation
and yes – yawn – you’re a master of protean creation
a victory of hope over cremation
but – my honest opinion?
save the capey capers for your bloodless minions
THEY might be impressed with all that flapping about
ME? I’ve fallen out of love with your pointy pout
I want a
monster
with a little more bite
not some creep who keeps out of the light
and only come out of his coffin at night
sure – you’re handsome and muscular
but just a tiny bit dead and way too crepuscular

hope you’re well

yours in Christ

Jonathan

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