Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

a newer wasteland

in the dark wasteland of the night
i sit by the luminous blue light
of the screen and scry out
into a universe not made to be seen

the bladder emptied into a deck of hearts
and the madman on the golden toilet
will turn the cities into plasticine
and all our lives will meld like in a dream

the paradox of the pointed pointlessness
seems to grow like an ugly vest
washed too much on the hottest setting
but still the one we fit into best

walking in the bush, the family
at a hideout high in the treeline
find others who have fleed the jamboree
and drink the poisoned lake for tea

they say to me "what shall we do?
the world has gone to crap!"
and i wish that i could answer back
but the wasteland has got into me too

lets just hope the worst will soon be over
and some of us will float back up
and those that don't will be the heroes
their tombs will be the new ground zeros

their lives will start a century
of songs and mournful poetry
and living ours we'll think back often
wishing we could join them

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Bleeding Nose Poems

My new collection is now out.  If you'd like a free copy, DM me through twitter (@yellow_vincent) or email me through my website (www.plosm.net).

You can also buy it from Lulu (and Amazon soon).

Thursday, July 6, 2017

writing poetry on an antique typewriter

 orange glow
on the paper past
a silverfish flicks on the grate
the heat burns
my cheek
and I write
 I write only to create

 how complete
to be wrapped in flesh
ruled by Venus and Saturn
dancing over Earth
 like a lighted wick
 expecting to be blessed

 if I could fillet the lie
and remove its spleen
my cat would come quick
for the reward—
 a taste of the notochord

(this shows how far we have erred
                             from the path)

 my back is cold
it is that time of year
there is nothing to fear
still we grow old
older than our clothes
 old into our particular doom

Sunday, June 25, 2017

junk post

a very very thin membrane
wafer thin, like
a shaft of sun on the eyelashes
or a trumpet sounding the blues 

the sun wheel
belongs in the home
from whence the spokes emanate
into a thousand chariots
across the heavens

open nose
fast faucet

the memory of
the conversation of a river
would keep me happy 
through any torture

they opened my legs
and peeled away the skin
how interesting to see myself
am I in pain?

"I am not my body—
you cannot destroy my song"

in arguing for this
I disembowel myself
for publicity

I publish the essay
to discovery only
the fat survives

peeling off the laughs
like old enamel paint
the ships enter my fingers



let me learn latin
to learn latvian
 learn latia
earn later

 the later day seints
   the rather dry farts
arthur cluricue plickett
  fantasia in A
 god bowel
dog bowl

 We're all in the gonlangd
  the epices worthy
ashguard essence etix
 arx ataxia

Vanguard gravy fanguard g
(g)abby baggage job
the tide swallows
 every muscle
in the

dead cat. pax. afrika
the flavourful asset
 nice skivvy ornament
my neck

egg isotap. spanic gag (indigo)
the colour revoleves on an axle
of aspic tregearth
the roman mysteries

 gristly grindstone unwaund
the handle slowly
turning argyle
plot of


a lenz opend.
gladly inkd.
gaudicle ningalu
aspic ea

grassroots antelope spy
 feisty vagabond street
  nigella apartment oh
 fagus albion

crass lined paper post
card. attack. dog eye
velvet penis I
in may air

egrerious greg gig
grey's egrerion gig

camera obscura

up against calligraphy
the pen is wild

a narrow child
of obscure lyric. [time in a jar]

don't detail
the orders
the bridge
will be built

don't inquire
after the deficit
all the debt
will be recovered

the san destruction
will be sonomaan
in a club hat

Same difference anyway
but it should matter
to the party line

as it grows in power
near to the darkness

bleeding nose poems
 fear of the dark
  there is wax
   walk in the park

work safety here

solid root
downward plunge
going down
into forests

nothing had been added
 to exiled artists during the War
in Paris