BOSIE AND BANJO RETURN TO CALIFORNIA

Day One

brief due to jet-lag...
1 Ate a massive salad
2 Bought a mac book pro
3 Drank red wine from a plastic cup
4 Bedtime

WHAT ARE YOUR WORDS WORTH?

I wandered lonely as a funeral shroud, shamefully sucking each hapless cloud, putting them to paper as cotton wool: what an obvious originality cull. But is it any worse that your repetitive green; the only symbol you have to display jealousy, or your infinite love prose, hued in red, do you really think that’s better instead?
For these words and their meanings are words in themselves and into the cannon our minds often delve and we’re searching for new ways to say the same thing; I’ll try hard not to use the image of ‘spring’. By the looks on your faces, you seem confused perhaps unclear are the symbols I’ve used? You see, words are like daffodils, in bulbs and dormant, fighting off parasites, a daily torment. And parasites represent clichés, forever worming their way into phrase but if you work hard to protect all your words; make sure the bulbs are safe from the birds, then what a glorious emotion you’ll feel when you order ideas to create the ideal and out of the ground just like ink out your quill will sprout the shining daffodil.

This yellow no longer has hue of decay but looks to me like a pleasing bouquet. And oft when on my couch and say: “There’s no worth to words without joy of word play.”

ILL POET

The map of a thousand inky worms; an unfathomable deep of wordy concerns but we’ll hold on to beacons; our symbolic terms; those obvious words that our hearts often yearn.

Oh vile uncertainty! How our minds do return, Oh you vague, ugly signs, yes for you we do spurn! But in sickly anxiety our brains they will churn ‘til we build up a fortress that’s deformed and infirm.

Your castle of words is crumbling down and into the moat your symbols will drown, you should dredge out the mould and recover the crown and bestow it (ill poet) to forgotten nouns.

Why laugh at the thought that poetry’s dead when all you do is repeat what you’ve read and the literary spider is spreading its web but you don’t seem to realise it’s captured your head.

Is it lexical choice, or your love for James Joyce that has stopped you from having original voice? How absurd that you drown out of arrogant choice!



And we take it in turns to repeat what we’ve learnt, how we love that precision of shared, ailing terms, but when will we see the inbred is infirm? We will die in this moat ‘less innovation returns.

You can’t just live in summer days; in quiet breeze and happy haze; we’re gliding down the night-time ways; I hope you know it’s just a phase; I feel like it’s all slipped away; the feigning smiles; the disarray; we’re working through the black; the grey; empty bottles; stale ashtrays; but when you turn to me and say; ‘please help me not to feel this way’; I’ll say, my dear, you’re just the prey; the green will feed off your dismay; I’ll say that we have hell to pay 'cause Eli Lilly made things this way.

PLEA TO S.W.M - the Yellow Wallpaper

Petals shatter off delicate trees
While the songbirds and swallows litter the eaves
For a winter of silence and a terrible breeze
And the sunshine that’s starving its heat for disease

It’s icy and shallow and as shattered as she
There for hours in coldness and waiting to leave
But all power and warmness is caught in the eaves
For a winter of silence and that terrible breeze

But she’s waiting and hoping the knowing trees bleeds
Out a sap all of fire, blazing energy freed
But it’s cold and it’s quiet and as quiet as she
In the rooftops of treetops in the eaves saved for she

So come crashing and trashing alone through an air
Cold and piercing and evil and dead and unfair
Unforgiving, aborting the stale, stagnant air
There’s no room in the house for this strong female heir

But she’s breaking and stabbing and filled with despair
Full of anger she’s winning this game: solitaire
And the men are downstairs smoking pipes unaware
That the prayer she is screaming is piercing the air


Take your chances, be different and paint over yellow
Then just wait and be pleased at the people who follow

NEW-OLD WORLD

We bribed the sun to sit near Icarus
So we could make more candles
And we used the candles to shed some light
On this vast pink-papered scandal

They needed more cheese for their bread
But then they needed more bread for their cheese

The door slammed in the kitchen and
The windows screamed sweet nothings to the wind
They’ll take you back to the storm
But it’s not so tempestuous and not so big
It’s round and quiet and it echoes myths
A wishing well where all the coins have been stolen by gypsies

So we won’t build ruins anymore
Or let the horse in through the door
Let’s not cry over muddy mounds
But help pick Icarus off the ground