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Scattergun Opinions - Part 1

Communication if you don’t mind me saying is just bad will.
Heartland doctrine. The Garden of Eden sprayed with some
catpiss from a collection-box. Chippings chipped.

The spirit has a flatmate. Shocking to think that stuff such as
the holocaust was a matter of mundane comment in
simple spasm. Zombie chat enlivened by radio.

We throw off spools. Schools of thought play on the swings
of a future vandalized by the past and the roundabouts of an
imploding present winning crystalware. Explain yourself lips.

My anarchism is exhausted. If we can't say live and let live
then what isn’t there left to be sarcastic about. Spittle orgy.
The human desire to control everyone except the self.

These men are dying early because someone has opened
their mouth. Collective event. Dark monster of western
culture spawned from a kamikaze cult. Zip it drone.

Rigid loyalties and limbs jack-knifing in jackboots. Royalties.
Kings and their undreamed junk. Make a judge mean what
he says. It is not possible. It’s a bogus riddle without terms.

Scattergun Opinions - Part 2

Pointillism. Psychologist grading cloud formations. Shaman
taking his driving test fails the safe stopping distances on
purpose or so he impresses on us. Cryptic clue can’t be arsed.

Runover dog ends up grinning on totem. Ugly b&b ends up
taking its chances in the museum of beauty. So neutral as
to be outrageous. The neutral natural world isn’t misogynist.

Chew on the evidence. My Devil’s herd. What me throat weighs.
The place where mint-bush invades joggers’ route. What
exactly does ‘spiritual’ mean that isn’t mean like jogger gangs.

Scrabble for crab-apple. Promordial broken spirit conscripts his
body to a cause. Would you Adam and Eve it? The years are clubs.
Paint tubular bell natural yellow. A pointillist is a tired
                                                                             scientist.

Had enough of making rude signs. Far-out way round the vortex.
By-pass is the place where a gnome loses his tall hat. Hermit’s
gestural language. Joggers jog past Shell as bilge like bilge and
                                                                                         for.

Took me 10 years to find out what postmodernism was but this
                                                                                              isn’t
to say anything about me or the postmodern. After all in the 60’s
priests never wore mini-cassocks. Exorcism is disgusting.

I used to go to Mass. I was on the panel. Never swallowed pips.
Because of that poem about March wind I’d always take
more notice of the wind in March. Poetry is fake spin.

My imaginary city. Was on the other side. Of the entire country.
Tipped sand out of a flask many tines. More times than
I’ve been to the beach. The bowling team are a hamlet of
                                                                                        vampires.

Radio in. A decision for border guards. Intolerant ants
                                                                               cascading.
I was scared of going out the front door because it wasn’t my
front door and when I stepped outside widow boxes: Discuss.

I need a stiff read. You lot focus on that lot. We give in to
                                                                                      reason.
Beneath deep green landscape an emerald nine of mine went up.
The lottery gives me something to focus on. Only nerds knock it.

A philosophy fit on a postcard is a helpless postcard philosophy.
Good and bad are cyclone and anticyclone in what is called an
art-movie. All philosophies should be plastic manifestos.

All Gays should be erudite. All Jews should be talented. All
                                                                                          Blacks
should transparently buy Hello Mag and all the Irish should
be shot in films. The Anti-Vivisection League go round in
                                                                                       circles.

Belief is the least of things yet it comes back to haunt you when
you believe it no longer. A letter to the local newspaper writ
like an execution decree. Reactionaries sick of their kemo.

Women are worst. Spouting bloody. Security alarms ringing
all round the estate waking-up the day-napping burglars. Gossip
of the antechamber enough to condemn my myopic devil.

O don’t get me wrong but don’t get me right either. Please.
Hire a firing squad. An army too inhibited to stop fighting falls
over itself to put itself out. Charismatic nursed by Dylan’s
                                                                                      Sara.

The only metaphors to ever impress me were Henri Bergson’s.
I like listening to what people have to say about what people
have to say. The planet we live on is monumental.

Rocks crushed. To make a road. Of rock through rocks’ reason.
In white palace shade a hymn became professional. By night the
shadow dissolved and strengthened. Slack hymn raised the roof.

Jabber jabber. Uncanny how the rapper relaxes into the rhythm
of his coughed-up tenet. I might even agree but it doesn’t stop
                                                                                               me.
Sad gestural politics. Hack’s vindictive foreskinknowledge.

Old men suck on humbug while I smile to myself. Juggernaut spi
lls the milk. I dream of a new language and I wake shaking
and screaming. The dead have only muzak to listen to.

*

Scattergun Opinions - Part 3

In a conversation I told Dali that his conversion was down
to chronic deafness. This man who understood more than most
what it was to sleep with eyes propped open with hatpins.

His mouth sprawled across America suffocating rocket-science
and liquidising buildings. Art as shame. His armour-plated Tshirt
earns a place because the fool bought maggots instead of diggin’.

Jeremy called me a McLuhanist. ‘Fishers of men’ is probably the
most telling metaphor ever. Lager puts less words in our mouths
than that lout sermonizing on the mount. Apocalyptic 4pack.

The great attraction of the natural world is that it lacks an ass
essment of itself. The greater attraction of the man-made is that
                                                                                               as
chaos it’s exotic and as order it’s a load of old rubbish.

Government is patronisation. It does harm not because it’s too
stupid or too clever but because it’s a monster who imagines it’s
human. Let the gun do the talking. Hold your peace.

The bowling green is level. Had a fight on the phone.
Children’s author didn’t consider me a child he looked through
me as though I was an adult orphan. Answer ad in an admission.

Cybersafe. The Atlantic place. The interior of Hamlet empties.
Keep watching Oliver or A Night To Remember waiting for
Nancy not to die and the Titanic to rise like an orchid from a
                                                                                         vase.

Getting to Exeter on cross-moor-link-bus example of saxon riddle.
Was so hungry I ate the plates and so thirsty I drank the cups.
No pleat of ambiguity for love nor money. Theory and betrayal.

Enemy deports you what’s the point of that. Mirror or filter?
The whole village had parts in the production of Hamlet. The kids
were created by alchemy but our children are compacted wet sand.

Yes. I’ve no son. Not one in the basement and none under stairs.
Not one in the attic or fiddling in the no-go garage. Three
daughters think differently from what they think of me.

The ‘I’ is a hunter. Track ‘him’ down. Follow him back and marry
his widow. There is something we have to do. We’ve forgotten
what it is thank gOD. If only the indifferent could be so
                                                                                     charming.

Revolutions. Dirges. Shut-up howling dogs at the intersection.
Impossible evocation. The most northerly part of the city
is a field where nobody goes. Horses over barrels.

Tescos. Huge corner shop ethereal in the Sunday twilight.
Ribbon-development. Slash-and-Burn economics of poetics.
The metaphysicals smelling of everything. Super Rorschach.

Glove swollen with petrol. Cow consulting its desk-diary.
When I grow up I’ll eat supper off the periodic table. Imagine
what state-consumerism would be like. Uncommonly vernacular.

Tactile without texture or Shakespeare without plot. Prowess.
Masculine images in thrall to the rhythms of the tomb. Plotters
trapped at sea while gOD is shown around the new factory.

North American Indians and the problems of open-air theatre.
Imagine what guts for garters would be like. Insignia.
Those who won’t find work will be worked to death.

Imagine what Pound for Pound would be like. Imagine what not
for love nor money would be like. Decent rain indecent seed.
A thrifty bullet democratising mockery. The chosen phew.

Gentle crusader fighting aggressive bog-cleaner with nervous
lust. Gentleman tiling the Ladies with scenes of the bayou
while adolescent witch squints. Methodism in Cuckoo City.

Librarian on floating memory recommends the Gutenberg Galaxy.
Dyslexia don’t exist but Dylanology do. Scatter-Gun misses
dead centre hitting some awful live album’s cast of minions.