product concept
Pineapple soda in the cattle trough.
Hyperactive livestock - faces of stupor,
Smiles racked with yellow teeth.
Eyes congealed with fairy floss.
Glucose veins.
Sugar-cube brains.
Brittle legs of musk stick.
Tasty sugar-sick ruminants.
Grazing implacably under sherbet Nebula.
Farmer Baddingfield’s junk food cows.
I go to my cafe and you are there again. Cyclists. In hordes. I just want breakfast for once without the view of your sweaty lycra covered figs. Plus most of you are still fat anyway - just with really toned quads. It must be all those hash browns and lattes you have after every ride……it’s counterproductive. I don’t get it, Cyclists. Drinking a milkshake while wearing roller-skates? Hot. A beer in ski boots? Yes please. A long mac while looking like a brightly coloured, tightly covered cycla-borg? Ridiculous.
Your bike is worth more than my car. My car has a cigarette lighter. So it leads me to think - what does swimming cost? Nothings….………Running? The price of decent shoes. “Yeah but feel how light it is,” one says. Who gives a fuck?
You’re just a bunch of yuppie toffs in aerodynamic sunglasses, high on life. Get your own fucking cafe.
I look into the portal of your Grandfather eyes,
to see my ending and your beginning.
Where our ghosts are the same age - and nearly share the same face.
We fight seventeen wars side by side - inside your eyes.
Where I see suppressions of bloody knives and clenched teeth.
Soil filled fingernails and grazed palms.
Candle-lit dinners - no match struck for ambiance!
My booklet got rained on in Brazil, I was bummed at first, but now I kind of like it that way. The red from my run - ran, and it had a pink baby with some water. The baby made an island around my ferret that looks like Africa. But you got it wrong, stupid baby, it was not Africa we were in, it was South America.
oh so sorry dear alex….. but it had to be written
From sealed bus windows the derelict cannot lick you,
and you find yourself in Salvador,
five hands in your pockets,
only one your own.
Desperation swarms to you,
in the city at polar ends with its beginning.
So we suck ourselves back to seventh floor balconies,
and dream their open hands, hollow eyes, and the place it once was.
A place where a leather-tin man was once-a-walking,
his only vocal, his leather-tin.
-
You sleep forward now,
grinding and shaking into town,
miles from where the train guard threw your cervaja out the window,
as if the hills could open it, sip it,
to a high walled un-hostile hostel.
A salad of once scattered fruits.
The Latvian in the tracksuit who cannot stop to breathe it in,
the stoner from Bristol - a cartoon who shares our puff.
The German girl who limps and the French that do not smile,
all stay here for a while.
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