Billie Holiday Told Me You Were Blue

Posted in poetry with tags , on January 18, 2018 by malartart

                                             Woods as a church

                           Breeze bends over trends

                 Trees therefore become unfashionable

          Adults come

                     To shrink together

          Both bullet proof but with a poker tell

Bubble wrapped, pressed into relief

                       Said and done

                                      Speech bubbles will

                      Brush away cobwebs as we

                                               Run away hell for leather



Posted in poetry with tags , on January 15, 2018 by malartart

Look kids– fun times, fun times!

Riding on the back of rage

Sentence been passed

         but not on the same page

Script doctor’s in my house

Course correct the whole franchise

Scalpel cuts out my favourite lines

I’ll be head writer given some time

Nostalgia as capitalism’s honeytrap

A celluloid democracy caught in a nap

// you’ll be fine // pitch a plan // golden age to silver screen time //

I feel a deal’s been done with the dealer who feels they’ve been done to

turned upside down


inside out, twisted up


screwed around a while



fucked me because I signed on

the dotted line…………………………

when I should’ve just stopped a while to take time

to find out why it was I that they

had in mind at that time

and all the while

snorted lines

stabbing scabs

shooting up

in the line of fire

no one wants to know your opinion

on Kafka

// the edge is fine // pitch a plan // golden age to silver screen

nothing’s in concrete // everything’s to play // as long as you have

something original to say //

Oh Dear (Oh Me Oh My)

Posted in poetry with tags , on January 14, 2018 by malartart

Huffing on gas

Trumped up recourse

Delineate some kind of time

Betting on the wrong breed of horse

Oh me

Oh my

When I was your age

I was never so shy

Behind the front locked

Black uniforms would be an arresting sight

I’m acting foolish

I’m acting up

I’m acting like I deserve this

I’m the one and only star of Horrorwood

Tamerlane (Wave Goodbye to the Papermen)

Posted in poetry with tags , on January 14, 2018 by malartart

Guilt is my friend and memory my enemy

Chaos is quiet but tame is confused with tenderly

There is something decomposing but not yet buried

It is a bad man’s reputation of which I have seen many

The Stylus will be unpublished yet forever edited

Pinch my nose (drink the syrup) and give it back to Virginia


He was on top of her

                        And he wasn’t dancing

He was gonna make her shake her hips

                        Stirring up nothing but a falling star

She was on the streets

                  He never paid rent for the time in her head

The couch was cast in bronze, slithers of silver were her eyes

                And dreamy golden years were on a planet far far away

She learnt her lines like a good girl does

   He refused to shave the running time and let her off with just a warning


Going through old manuscripts where a paragraph of Poe in slo-mo is so much more than a script slaughtered by a hack with a butcher’s knife who has no point and is so dull that he could not cut it as a Paperman for fear of showbusiness bluster blowing his sail as he wails away sails away wailing with nothing left to say knowing that there will be hell to pay and that the pain cuts both ways as I’m enmeshed in a mess where I’m not impressed by the daily test ground down and out like black pepper but I need to keep on keeping on if I want to sing to the end of this song, read to the end of this letter, hear the moral to this tale, follow the plot-line to its unceasing bitter end that no salt can taste nor sugar sweeten


Need to back out this self-made cul de sac, leave behind Horrorwood and find Tamerlane

We Are So In Ourselves Stories Sad

Posted in poetry with tags , , , on December 23, 2017 by malartart

The Inn is insignificant.

                                      Look. Lucky you.

                                      It’s a lock in.

                                      Stay put.

                                      Don’t move.

                           Suicide pacts signed up front.

18 whiskies straight for Mrs T’s thirsty runt.

He’ll line ‘em up

                            and knock ‘em down

                                                                 knock him dead;

                        Or so the legend says he maybe did.

  And the Bouncers ain’t gonna argue with history tonight

cos’ it’s a crap shoot, a duck hunt, a white Russian’s roulette,

                         a curtain call where the golden fleece

          falls from a top window & hits the sidewalk with contempt.

                            No for I, and you, and her and him its

                                       the finale all over again,

                                        this will not end well,

                                       as we’ve already seen,

                   using a front-lobal fictional construct

                                                          before an actual back reality.

                                     The Bovver Boys are hacks,

                        they’re feeling up his bloodied collar and cravat;

                       he’s not a challenger but a decent enough fellow,

                   they spill a pint of pneumonia as they pass his table.

     God, Mary… Mary and her Daisy Chains only knows

           why, I wiped my eye and blood swims across the iris and drowns

my sight for the rest of the night, where even a snakebite can’t get it right.

                     There are poetic still remains,

                      like lyrical bones and a skull,

                  but she’s saying nothing to me,

                      not since I held the last suicide note against

  her, because the grammar and spelling were deafeningly atrocious and

               riding shotgun with her Uncle Ernie’s

         depressive Era in the round, all around, all round together.

Outside, Dostoevsky’s on the ground

                                                    manning the tank

                                         with just one round

                             (has he no compunction for himself?),

                            watching the sniper towers,

           hoping the guns turn in on themselves.

                       I want my words to lift and rhyme

               not fall on deaf ears in a death knell chime,

                      but in a rhythm that can prop up the bar.

I want to hold Sylvia close, not at bay; but I realise

              in that slim volume she’s said all she has to say.

                   No reason, no difference, no purpose Kurt screams;

                           to life on the brink and your teeth on edge

                                 kith or kin, kisses puncture wounds.

In the corner booth Emily Dickinson’s giving it up for you,

         a trove of paper pleasure she hoped no one would ever see,

                 may just work parallel to Darger’s perverse pallet—

if it wasn’t for the ego, id and I.Q. it would hop, skip, jump into criminality.

    Just as it was foretold in the words I’m permanently

                                                in the middle of writing,

                                          the significance, for what it’s worth,

                                      will be seen soon, I can only imagine.

                  And as you’ve seen above imagine is all I can seem to do.

Shortest Day of the Year

Posted in poetry with tags , , on December 21, 2017 by malartart

The mask slipped

Caught my lip

Gave me a lisp

Now I must insist

You ignore my cleft


The gloves don’t fit

Ripped at the wrist

Fell apart by tensing fists

Now I must insist

You’re forever on my right-hand


I don’t recognise this body

Don’t recognise this soul

Map ain’t helpful

For where we’re going

I want protection

From me, what I can do, what I’ll see

If you let me be free

I don’t want no Coke, no Pepsi

Don’t Disneyfy my ass

Not interested in the Multiplex to escape as is

Want leaves, and branches, and falling on my head

Something that looks like sugar but is much colder instead

The Cosmic Egg

Posted in poetry with tags , , on December 18, 2017 by malartart

I am the world—





On giants


Peeking over


Peaking to




Solidarity without others

Sincerity without speaking

Selflessness without situation

Shelter without home

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