life in nonsenseland

head

bloodrush. milk. black.

head

diabetic priest. confessional chocolate. cunt cheese.

head

take it. whimper. gimp mask. lips.

head

bang. pottery. stairs. daddy. bang.

head.

choke. throttle. motor.

head

head

head

guitar. meth. monkey-wrench. chord.

head

wet. grey. in. pink. switchblade.

head

thrash thrash thrash thrash

thrash thrash thrash

head

there are these moments when everything is transparent and I’m seeing through me and you to the edge

head

ludicrous random

head

scab. linen. clot.

head

thrash

head

thrash

head

tulips. galileo. toner. glass.

head

glitter. snot. deelyboppers. halo.

head

thigh. neck. eyes. horizon.

head

through me and you to the edge.

This is the season of the dying and the dead

The poorly fed and those that life misled,

Of keening dread and unheard screaming in their head

And suicide notes that go unread

This is the season of the dying and the dead

The names that no one knows

A nation’s blinded conscience painted red upon the snow.

Through unpulled curtains,

Yellow nets

Through sherry vodka and regrets

We watch a nation with its Christmas box –

Poptastic toss

And TV dross

And things designed to remind you of your loss

Stocking lines of hope

Are folded down to cards and enveloped

Are posted and forgotten like the cold congealing roast

Children’s smiles

Remind the childless of the mindless chance of life

Its idle dance while idols rise from circumstance

Don’t spare a thought for those

Who wake alone, turn on the lights alone

And watch TV and eat,

Put out the lights and go to sleep at night alone

And while they might be out of sight alone

You never ask if they’re all right alone

You just bemoan the family fights

And wish that you could spend one night alone

Watching Twilight alone

Well, quite alone,

It’s not like you’d like to share their plight alone.

Don’t spare a line at a slam or a rhyme

Or prayers to non-existent gods when mass bells chime.

If you want to give.

If you want to stop the clocks

To put the slow tick tock of grown men’s loneliness in stocks

And let them live…

Give

Time

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry stark bollock naked with its genitals stapled to the steps of the ashmolean

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry shredded into 95 pieces and pinned to the cathedral door

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry drowning in a froth of every skinny mochalattecino any hipster ever sipped

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry spread-eagled across the red tops for unspeakable crimes against, you know, that kid that went missing that no one can remember the name of but we all vaguely remember the photo and some placards about how awful it was misspelt and providing fidget distractions for hands that would rather burn libraries

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry after it was strangled and anally and vaginally raped by someone in that bolaño novel

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry after i got sick of it and wandered off to listen to justin bieber fellating lolcatz instead

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry when it wasn’t crucified in piss christ

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry only it’s not because i got too bored to google it

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry and quite possibly at the end of the universe in amongst all the black dwarves there’ll be professor brian cox still banging a beat from d-ream and saying entropy is what happens when everything breaks down into a billion billion ineluctable sub-particular soups of geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry after you spent every existential crisis pulling it apart and your poetry was still more shit

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry because i put it on a blog and said it was

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry because it’s all about remixing now anyway yeah

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry on so much acid timothy leary reassembled himself from spaceshit just so he could give himself an enema of it

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry god help us turn out the lights

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry so now do you understand why there’s knife crime and sex trafficking and overdoses in stairwells when kids get in from school and find their dealer pimping out their baby sister while she’s still in the pram and the green belt sometimes looks ever so slightly yellow

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry graffiti it on ministerial car doors and scribble it under the wigs of gameshow hosts and tattoo it on the inside of the cheek of every celebrity chef with their own kebab skewer

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry meaning meaning layer layer meaning layer meaning meaning meaning meaning i don’t want to fucking rhyme because that has no MEANING

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry as it would appear if they did a new domesday book and asked everyone how much geoffrey hill poetry they owned and what it looked like after it had been skyscrapered over by hedge funds in the name of progress

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry and that’s the last word on the matter

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry and it has so much more to say than all the self-obsessed shit you come out with

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry yes this here this is all of it doesn’t anyone have a spray can

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry and it’s got a gary glitter onesie with your name on it

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry and if damien hirst diamond encrusted every stress and syllable it would still be utterly abjectly worthless

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry it’s been locked away so long its eyes have evolved themselves out of existence but that’s ok because every other sense has evolved to compensate and that’s why it’s so fucking perceptive

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry cold and alone somewhere at the edge of a ghost-town watching the lights go out one by one

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry and no one cried

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry stark bollock naked howling celebratory howls while an oxford moon makes its excrement glisten black underfoot

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

this is geoffrey hill’s poetry

When there’s no one to raise the alarm

then I turn in my thoughts to self-harm.

So my wife is too late

for reversals of fate

but she wipes the dried blood from my arm.

He wears pain like a badge on his sleeves

and his wounds are the threads that he weaves

but the bliss of each cut

lifts him out of the rut

till the pain’s just a ghost that he leaves.

The celebrity gossip was rife

till she caved and went under the knife.

When she opened her eyes

she too late realised

that the scars on her mind were for life.

Do not gasp when I open a vein.

Do not think that it makes me insane.

From your middle class yurt

you forget that the hurt

is as nothing compared to the pain.