Capeniks, B Not

Dance through work

resoundingly plangent

or pungent

a jazz group so radical

they use other people

to play the instruments,

haughty as a seagull in reduced circumstances.

Fatuously brave,

the king’s ambition

was to smooth out the country

to form a perfect sphere.

To build the highest school ever opened.

B-rated

I am afraid I am beyond your distraction,

airplay drained

zone debt

spewlicker.

A corrupted attach

brown black sweet sludge

language is a bludgeon or a ballet:

religion by ballot box.

Special fruit star

wait, pisscake

a foul mess of jokes

a hamburger flair

when ingenuity failed,

mostly cramp.

Capeniks, b not yet infill.

This is my funeral song:

don’t set your nose proud

to the order of Independent Knowledge;

The angry

iconoclast not nihilist

upbeat puddles

pigmata

pork waddler;

The treacle past

Risley sand

a lesion agaric of weepy shadows

rowdy drunk nights and delicate days

abolish terror

One day we’ll be dehydrated

all this navel gazing will be shown up for what it is:

a cast iron first class waste of effort

a clamouring oafishness.

In the end it wasn’t quite Hope,

but her younger brother

Wishing.

(Fragments from an ancient bedside pad that I just found.)