Sunday, 29 April 2012

The Ode of Bishop Fish: Found Amoung Fragments of an Old Papal Documents Recently Recovered From The Archives.

bishop fish
I am now made a pious man
Affirmed when these events began
And yet when young I was priest
But even then I was not least
Among the men of God, so found
Myself among the clerk’s renowned.
Oh! And that I the sepulchre of Rome
Did call my single happy Home
And walked it’s corridors with grace
It was to me a perfect place;
But then one day was called abroad
To service for Polish Lord
And after months of servitude
Came such events of  magnitude
That I with little skill impart
Though through God’s grace, I may find art.

One day when writing in my cloister
(There is no room which could be moister)
Was brought to me a creature weary
Shaped like man and yet skin dreary
Scales and fins, and yet a robe
There was no like thing in all the globe;
The fish man he did speak to me
(for in his powers dwelt prolixity)
And taught a new approach to canon
The gospel truth but via Salmon.
And when he concluded his address
It seemed that he grew more distressed
Until I took him to the ocean
Where he gazed at me with such emotion
And said that he was sure to die
While that through faith we may satisfy
His time had come, last of his kind
And the one with greatest mind
And then he leapt into the water
And left me alone, but no more a pauper
So now I transcribe his words to you, oh Pope
That by his truth we may find hope.

These are the testaments of Bishop Fish
His one and final dying wish
That I to man do these impart
Words delivered from aquari’n heart
Writ on writ for mortal piety
And the good of man’s society.

One, that Moses was a solemn plaice
And, although imbued with holy grace
Did never part the sea of red
But swimming, through the water led
His shoal and faithful congregation
Men and fish, pious crustacean
On a pilgrimage through water salty
To Zion went, and never faulty-
And not upon a mountain high
That conjoins to meet the fixéd sky
But rather in the briny deep
Did Ten new Commandments come to reap
The dictation of a holy law-
Was once enough, but now here’s more;

For tenants corrupted need renew
We cannot survive with just these few
And so we come unto our second,
A truth you already will have reckoned
Namely that Jesus was a herring too
And not such man of decent Jew;
Caught by disciples, fishers of men
Pluck’d from thrashing nets, and then
What surprise! to hear a fish discourse
On terms so learned; truth, remorse
This oracle called far and wide
And brought his followers to side
And gesturing with dainty fin
He preached a message free from sin
And when upon that holy mount
With crowds that gathered beyond count
With stomachs rumbling for reprieve
The herring may have the bread cleaved-
But not his watery brethren slain
For they found sustenance enough in grain
And cried that the fish hath split the loaves
And fed his followers in their droves
Yet never cannibalised his flock;
The ones beyond the human dock.

And yet one day, when all was grand
A time of import came to hand
Neptune called back his sacred son
From such causes lost and causes won
Betrayed, and battered
His robes were tattered
Herring Jesus was undone
And the sound of treachery begun.
A trusted brother halibut
‘scaped from the solace of the hut
And went unto the Pharisees
And was gifted silver on his knees-
That night a lonely wind blew round
And whipped about the shadow mound
Upon which stood fair Gethsemane
And Herring prayed beneath a tree
But then, lo! What new light was this
That came through evening’s gentle mist?
A party foul and rude, tis true
Watch out fish Jesus, they came for you!
Yet Herring merely stood his ground
As all about him gathered round
Faces mean in torchlight lit
They appear’d creatures from the Pit.
And out the midst came Halibut
To make the bargin fully shut
So clasping Jesus’ offered fin,
He kissed him on his scaly skin.
And then they took the Lord away
And he was dipped without delay
Into a foul and pestilent fryer
That burned with all of Satan’s fire
And though at that moment hev’nly choir
Did mitigate God’s total ire
Upon mankind he placed a blight
And many men did he then smite
And forestalled knowledge of Jesus’ form
So that our hearts are never warm
Until this day, when now I say
In divine truth you all can pray
For this gnosis I now impart
To unshackled your beleaguered heart.

And Thrice, that many other patriarchs once swan the ocean
Singing psalms to Lord in great devotion
Joshua the fierce Piranha
David trout, not Hebrew farmer
For once the daughter Zion swam the depths
A sea of many cubits breadths
But now that congregation’s gone
And I alone sing Whale’s swan song
So back unto the deep I go
Leagues beneath where man doth row
To pray in final supplication
Now that I conclude my application
Giv’n to me by almighty Jove
To travel to where there men do rove
And preach to them this final truth
So they may profit by this proof
And come unto some great affinity
With this my Lord and fish divinity
Who lives not above the world of man
In clouds residing to bless or damn
But rather the ocean’s his enclosure
The heavnl’y realm of our Jehovah.
So go now, and preach my gospel word
Ensure the truth is widely herd;
I slip into the water’s pass
And there conduct my final mass.

Saturday, 28 April 2012

David Morrissey: Morning Glory

I awake with the setting moon
Within my head already a tune
To transcribe within that tattered book
That I keep close in shallow nook
One which brims with mind’s undressings
Psalms and sonnets, laments and blessings
I am a master at my craft
And as I scribe initial draft
I’m overcome by my construction
Perfect form and grand seduction
Words that leap and words that flow
At places high and Voltas low
They’ll shout my name’s enunciation
And issue true and grand devotion
And I will hear them shout my name
Again in chorus, lov’d again
By crowds that clamour and call for more
Yet still I feel irrevocably poor
All their happy cheers are lie
I wish to kick them in the eye
And end their joyful suppositions
With my eternal deposition;
I am a maggot, foul and rude
By fear and loss I am pursued;
A miserable ragged crow
That like a daemon dwells below
Beneath the fecund peaty mulch
I glib and greer and pleb and gulch
Alive and rotting in my grave
A tight and worm infested cave;
My body lost! and still I weep,
A charming man invades my sleep
And seduces me with subtle prepositions
That I will record in d’ble editions
In Vinyl and in CD form
But for all this wealth I am not warm
It is in misery I find my solace
It wraps me round like charming bodice
And when I think of all my hate
A sleeping dragon lies await
And roars alive as my erection
Huge and wide and pure perfection
It clefts a blow against my chin
That juts so large, and I begin
To gasp, and clasp, and then to sin.
My melancholy fuels my lusts
As I unleash my seminal gusts
That smash the ceiling, plaster falls
And little rocks dash ‘gainst my balls
And as my teary ecstasy concludes
I realise I am in my nude
The force of desire rent my pyjamas
Exploding with a panorama
Snowy white, and potent, pure
How can no one see mine allure?
And as again I feel alone
Within my groin does stir my bone;
My misery is my great joy;
But if only I could love a boy.


Friday, 27 April 2012

LORD Gibberyjabberath, the golden hawk God and the Holy Land of Zion, Part 1.

LORD Gibberyjabberath, the golden hawk God, beats his mighty brazen wings above the tumult of the grey waters. The World Sea stretches beneath him, turbulent and rude, foam liking and spitting, gigantic waves taller than the tallest ships crushing back down on themselves beneath their huge weight. Looking out at the sea from one of the many compartments aboard the God Hawk, in my cloister I scrawl these words by candlelight; the wick dwindles, outside the crash of the cacophony of the waves mingles with the indomitable moans of the workers that pierce even my golden walls. My name is Hassan ben il’Hitler II, and I am a monk and priest of Sadducees of LORD Gibberyjabberath. Ten long years I have spend aboard this gigantic monstrosity, ten summers and ten indeterminable winters; it is always winter outside of Zion. Soon it shall be time for my service to be suspended, and then another ten years of freedom in Zion. I think of now, that perpetual paradise forged for us by LORD Gibberyjabberath, its rivers a thousand cubits in girth that feed the World Sea, its groves and hilltops, all founded from the scarred rubble of a war ravaged planet. The surface crumbled beneath the waves by the Gold Hawk, and then raised up again in a picture of paradise. Soon my reprieve will come. And yet. And yet.

Doubts abound. It is the year 2159, LORD Gibberyjabberath is over 150 years old since his construction at the behest of victorious Adolf Hitler, who planted his axis flag over the scorched rubble of the world, and the Hawk grows weary. His golden gears get stuck, tubes and pipes crack, the God is running at reduced capacity. Greater and greater manpower is needed not just to fuel and operate the hellish furnaces within the bowels of the God Hawk but to continue unending and fruitless repairs just to keep LORD Gibberyjabberath airborne. I fear my time here may be extended, an unprecedented move, and yet these are dire times. A gust buffets me through a crack in my porthole, and  pull my monk’s habit tighter about my emaciated person.

A clanking above me that shakes my cloister can be only one thing. Mecha-Hitler, embedded in his industrial ZORD suit. Hitler, kept alive beyond mortal limits by the possession of the Spear of Longinus, in 1985 finally perspired when the spear was broken in a coup in the High Palace. And yet he lives on. In his later years as World Emperor, Hitler became a famed composer, and the wavelengths of his compositions were translated into brain waves that were confined within a glass brain. Inside existed all of Hitler’s creative spirit, a distilled consciousness  that was mounted atop a transforming mecha suit of cybertronic armour. And now, over 150 years on, he still patrols the gangways of  LORD Gibberyjabberath, a mind gone broken and syphilitic, and yet imprisoned within a warrior shell, the workers see it wise to avoid him. Uncontrollable, unpredictable, he is no longer a figure of authority, rather a decaying talisman of a bygone era that strides atop a dying God.

A startling vision of dystopia


LORD Gibberyjabberath the god-hawk of gold descends from the sky, towards Zion, where I sit by the river, a thousand cubits in breadth, We dare not speak his name, it has a beak of bronze and a mighty piercing beak.




The Nazis crawl over the surface of the mighty steam god, the furnaces burn and the slaves toil under the hot sun of the upper atmosphere. Oxygen is sparse the workers fall easily and we sometimes see their flailing bodies fall into the grey sea that surrounds Zion.



A Sadducee of Zion, I have spent my ten years onboard the hawk, and I write by candlelight in my cloister on the paradise. We work for a decade in the steam pits of Gibberyjabberath that dark and avian bowel in the sky and then we come here, to live out the next ten years in heaven.

The Nazis built the hawk in the 50s after they won the war. A giant god in the sky, benevolently watching over us it forged us a new Zion out of the charred earth. The untermenschen work all their lives under whip and chain, we the master race must only serve half our lives onboard the great bird.


They preserved Hitler’s body and he roams The Birds’s decks in his ZORD made with Goebbels and Hess.


Mark and John arrive:

Mark, it is good, ten years I have worked and ten years rest I shall have

A time for toil, and a time for rest,
I time to let go of prize posess’d
A time to work on the giant gold hawk
A time not to work on the giant gold hawk
A time to time for a boy in his years of youth
A time for breaking down the surface of the world
and a time for building up

John: We must destroy the hawk Gibberyjabberath, it is not worth the toil to sweat and burn and toil aboard the wheels of the giant hawk

Mark, you are wrong, you oxen rapist
John, you are a child molester

Guys, guys, he’s a child molester


Mark: silence John!
You know there are no nonces in nirvana

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

The Cycle of Life

Cherry blossom falls
A garden in the tranquillity of distance
Rhinoceros pierces glans


A maple bends by wind
The silent rustle of the grass deafens
Snapping Turtle severs perineum


Breath on adjacent pillow
The steady sea sway of a nocturnal ocean
Rattlesnake head penetrates anus.

fin.

Fistus Christus (A Hymn in the Manner of Blake)

Fistus Christus was my name
Imparting fistus was my game
Fistus, fistus, every day
First for free, and then for pay
Fistus up and fistus down
Fistus blue and fistus brown
From Tiber to the oriental ocean
Fistus became my sole emotion
From forest Black to maple blossom
Fistus sheep and fistus possum
I do dance my merry way
Fistus, Fistus, joy and gay!

One day I shall reach the sky
And fistus into heavnl’y eye
Through the pillows of the clouds
With fistus rend the airy shrouds
Like some lost cosomaunt of old
They hear of me so oft’n told
That I, with arm like sturdy rod
Did reach out
and fistus the face of God.

Haiku cont.

Spring morning,
Cold air sits on wet leaves,
The shears tear off his cock.

Two lovers,
Cloaked up in eiderdowns
The shears tear off his cock.

Fragrant tea,
Cherry blossom, sea breeze,
The shears tear off his cock.

Porcelain shrine,
Incense, the cadence of the river,
The elephant crushes his balls

Late night,
Drunkards waddle under amber glows
The elephant crushes his balls

The smell of pine needles
heron dive from the heavens
The elephant crushes his balls

Nocturnal Observations During Astral Projection Documented Through the Medium of (Irregular) Haiku.

Moonlight askance on pane
Vintage car nestled among bushy shadows
Dogging.


Warm bungalow glowing
The amber light of a TV show
Dog turd on exquisite carpet.


Leaves rustle whispers
Midnight cloaks the drunken homes
Too impotent to conceive.


Half a pizza remains
A stray cat cat calls to the moon
Coitus in an alley.


Lights dimmed low
Blood flushes to wheezing cheeks
The cock ring is stuck


The chapel a night shadow
Starlight laps the gravestone rims like waves
The vicar gently masturbates.


Trees rustle waves
The dead lie deep within their graves
Somewhere, a call girl shaves.


Two baby bunnies
Lit and wreathed by the streetlamp light
Their parents fuck like rabbits.


Outside the window
A shooting star like a mote of dust;
Too drunk to fuck.


A drained beer rolls
The gutter runs with cheesy chips
Somewhere, a cock crows.

Sunday, 15 April 2012

Poem in the sytle of Hugo Ball

CuntCunt
...Cunt
  • C...Cunt
Cunt?

[Ciggidy;
Ciggidy!]
Cunt Cunt Cunt

RIP; A painting of Gil Scott Heron



RIP
Oil on Canvas
15/04/12

Kitsch Art as an imitation of reality

Plato believes there to be a hierarchy of loves.

3.) The love of a woman by a man
2.) The love of a young boy by a teacher
1.) The love of the Forms.

If love of the Forms is the highest of the three loves then where does "the love of art" fit into this picture? A painting is not a woman, or a young boy and so it seems it must fall under (3) the final category. But a painting or, or indeed a sculpture or a photograph is in a sense a portrait of something material, something corporeal. Now the material world according to Plato is only an imitation of the Forms, those perfect objects that exist in the Platonic ether; the perfect chair, the perfect number 5, the perfect goose etc.

If one strives then to paint "the perfect chair" can one really rival the glory of the Form in all its celestial grandeur? If it is the case that art can never live up to the reality of existence and to the beauty of the actual then art must strive for something other than imitation. Art must strive for the novel, the fresh and the challenging.

Fine art



The Relentless Orgy of Creation as Discerned by an Itinerent Monk

Fragmented on a jumpstrip drag way straight out of texacon
Adrift on the barge of the inane and spurious
I make my nest like a humming bird afflicted by lethargy
Spiral spinnings of manifold dimensions compacted into neat boxes
Packed by serfs on an industrial field of plate glass grasses
Springing with flower fountains of colour madness
Red and blue and yellow and purple and difference
And stark and muted in rows
                                          of rows
                                                     of rows
                                                                 of rows
That lead to who knows where over the hill
Long live the tree that bends it’s ruffled branches
Dead monarch! corrupted prince! we revere you
Skin like dead skin, veins like glass box runnings
Filtered through some complex system jerry rigged with transistor elements
--------------------------[ / ]------------------------------| |-------------
Maximum Current, Overload and Reset
Jump the gap, cross the river, vault the canyon and the far bank
Falls and is not, nothing but a cobweb of x’s and y’s and z’s
Substance insubstantitive, the falling bridge, the sinking barge
The clamour, the incessant drift of human desire
The compass spinning south glued to point north
Shattered glass face patched with wasp blood
Falling bricks shatter like broken hearts
Dearly departed from brethren masonry
Lives fall on swords with the pitter patter of rain
Again and again and again and again
Wilting flowers final sunlight
Consumated brainwave passed by microwave
                                                                     Emitter
Redacted and repurposed into the image of a disgraced saint
In cyberspace green on a screen buzzing with interference
Life lived and loved by accident
Like a drifting breeze bringing cherry blossom to float on a pool of water
The lost son returns and the candle dwindles
Waxwork waterfalls caught in statue
Roll down its side like libidous tongues
Melt and coalesce in intimate embrace
Liquid oceans paved over by the bones of dead whales
Ground to powder and processed on an industrial scale by a faceless culprit
El Bandito, ci culprito
A cactus blossoms
The sun sets
A bird calls
The night
And silence
Comes.

Saturday, 14 April 2012

A parable Part 1



There is a boat, sitting upon the shades of amber that fractalate upon the water
There are reeds and a bold heron, it looks out upon its domain of the marsh
and fish part its lips, as it looks upon Beirut

It has one leg, to rage against the dead fist of gravity
the other is mangled
and bent
and flops up and down in the water

The toad looks upon the heron, and is jealous,
It sees its riches (fish, long legs) 
and its breath is as a fiery incense such as myrrh
it looks upon its head of hair and its fine clothes
and raises its fist in anger

The flies torment its bosom, its hair is unparted
the grease that covers its globby body is old and dry
an Arab plays the violin
in the sweltering desert heat
and the toad is aflame with torment
aghast and afraid that the vultures will mock its passing

It looks out of a beady eye, yellow like frozen sap
with a black pea in the middle
and it sees life,
its enemy

Enter Jealousy

"Toad, you are parched and dry, surely the heron is hogging the pond?"
The toad ponders
"Yes"
"the water is mine as well"
as a well is to a village

Toad looks at Heron and is envious, and is filled with greed and lust of wealth and power

Imagine I in a palatial pond, Imagine me, a heron!
with a beak with girth and length
and a mighty wrathful beak
with wings that tame the sky
and wings that put the air to labour
and eyes that see over the marshes
and eyes that see into the souls of others
and a bright white jacket of feathers
and legs, stilts to float upon
the marshes


A parable Pt 2

Heron looks upon Toad
and says

look at its silken beard of moss
look at its sensual globby body
observe how it uses its versatile tongue

The two look upon each other and
each in his heart says
"I shall kill he who I resent"

THE NEW LAW - Opium Den


Opium Den
Indian Chill

Friday, 13 April 2012

An Orphan (An original painting)

An Orphan
Oil on Canvas 12/04/12


Change and Futility, an image


Popular art, popular music and popular politics, set against a quote from Shakespeare's Macbeth.

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Macbeth Act 5, scene 5, 19–28"