Lowestoft Holler

There’s this little green town on the East coast
Where work all gets lost in the cloudy smoke
There’s a tan on the beach if you’re visiting
It still comes with cheap chips and ice cream

Every day the sun lifts the darkness
Breaking memories anchored in some trawling past
No crowds fill the streets, they’re in online
Gossiping or gaming over flat wine

Books banked in dust pad the library
While shops stocked in staple brands of jewellery
Alternate with smoking miscellany
As broad across as sacred is our greenery

When you pass by, and you will, don’t be afeared
The East coast is not the place it used to be
As calm and cool as any burg is wont to be
A little slower true, but aren’t we meant to be

 

Creek Crossing

Above the gentle rumble of 114’s motor
There’s the low holla-and-walla of
Internationals making deals and promises.

Sandy squares of Creek-side villas bob by
Shaded by grand yachts
Of the super rich.

Our 1-Dirham dinghy chugs
Slopping to moorings
Crowded with all of those faces of Earth.

Too loud and close
A colossal dhow blazes
Beaming phone-lights and faces…

In it’s wake our disembarkation
Is a hoppy affair
Scuffed sandals and ruffled kandura’s

Gateaux Piment

When you’re short of breath walking up the street
Gateaux Piments

When your jeans hug tight and your buttons squeeze
Gateaux Piments

When you’ve just the time for a sneaky snack
Gateaux Piments

You wake with a start from a sweaty nap
Gateaux Piments

When your itching toes get no soothing scratch
Gateaux Piments

A tasty treat in a handy batch
Gateaux Piments

The Keeper of the In…

Remember when you were lightening,
in the dark so wholly frightening.
You were the free one, so fantastic,
Wise as Thales, deep with magic

You escaped the demon slaying:
You escaped the holy, praying:
And you escaped a mind,
lost fraying.

I followed footsteps in the twilight:
I called to others to save your limelight.
Yet in the morn’ you’d lost the sunlight!
I summoned voices to save your last night…

I knew you could, you would, return –
Your name would once again
The throats of others burn.

We could’ve lived on forever
Although I pleaded, you claimed never,
Days would come when I’d know fever
Bear this heat (with you, survivor).

Our web of lies will not be forgotten
Another fable of the truly rotten
This high-hyped-pyre, this treaty written
Large of sound, yet lite on wisdom

Echoes of your grand lightening
Once in the dark, so wholly frightening.
You seemed the free one:
Pulsing magic.
Was just my minds burst –
thoughts fantastic.

  • this is an edited version of poem originally posted in summer of 2015.

Local Cafe

This bubbling hubbub of babies and boobies
This packed rack of scooters, of trikes and of buggies
Steaming hot flat-whites and freezing cold smoothies
And tapas treats, chocolate sweets, all kinds of lovelies.

Here where the roads cross, facing the old cross
Where crosswords fill time or just buoy the headline’s dross
Where pizza gets eaten by Saturday dads
Where Friday lunch mums dish the news good and sad.

This raucous in calm, our oasis of mania
Awaits you in plain sight down Beckenham high street
The pit at the back for your kids to go batty in
Entices the spectrum of lively South London in.

 

 

 

about: Deli nene

The Last Word

These fucking fuckers
Fucking up our lives
For their personal stake
In our political state
Sucking our lives dry
Leading fates awry
Leaving fears to dry

And this comment’ry
That comedy
Which tries to make it seem alright
Is now as bad
And ignorant
As the fuckers so merrily fucking us
So shame on me
for plugging in
For staying tuned and trying
How sorely fucked the feeling is
As wit washes over this fucking
It’s us,
it’s you,
it’s me
That’s really surely fucking up
I hardly ever knew the game
Yet know that I’m now
Royally f**ked

 

Bedlam Museum of the Mind

A visit to Bethlem Hospital
Museum of the Mind this week.
Open Wednesday to Friday 10am-5pm
(unless you’re in a ‘group’).
I find myself struck by the times.

There is a wide range of art
as well as historical lunacies to enjoy
and the staff and ‘service users’
are impeccably informed and helpful.

Here are two of the few photo’s I took to remind me of the visit.

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan

Harriet Jordan (after)

Harriet Jordan (after)

4:20

A return to attempting to find my poetic voice. We have come to the end of a string of Beck’ Beat Poetry events, which have been a series of fantastical occasions! Enabling me and others to meet and hear top-class poets from across south London (and Hackney)!

Here is the 420

 

Another 1

Screen Shot 2016-07-20 at 16.47.55

Text: Adam Bujons, image (c) http://www.shutterstock.com/th/video/clip-7402507-stock-footage-white-feathers-spurt-alpha-fast-flying-animation-with-transparent-back-as-transition.html

June

We’re finally at the end of the crazy-June! Leaving us still with 2 months of silly season (English summer) to go… Where that will take us who can possibly know?!

June Oh June

With your bitch, full, blue moon.
You run on in pieces
in drips so drab
and break up the fun
that we waited to have.
You tyrannous slut
of a month
– Cat June!

Bringing the promise of sun and fun
to dash them and crush us –
you run on and run.
So you’ll guess I’m not pleased with you;
guess we’re not growing
to love your foul days of rain,
while you hide the suns glowing!

Oh June.
Oh my.
What have you become
now so late and wet
were you once called the sun?
I cry for you, baby
and the tears sting my cheeks!
I cry everyday
through your long blasted weeks.

Beck sun

This is an updated post from 2012…

Over (tribute)

Play it slow; wake me when it’s over.
Feel the music lift you, love a supernova.

Sleep is quiet.
Sleep is quiet when I’m with you.

Faking love: Push me I roll over,
feel so warm inside – join me in a Rover.

Floating past, gone further than ever.
Quiet, dark, solitude.
Now the moments over.

Dreaming still,
Standing still, dreaming that I’m with you.
Now the feeling’s over.

Ode to a bed

What’s this about the bed of Ware?
The bed of where?
The bed of Ware
I hear it’s big:
Indeed what’s more,
I heard it once slept 44!
Incredible! That’s quite a feat
This bed is more than just a treat
It’s twice as long
and twice as deep
I’ll surely love this coming sleep.*

The Great Bed of Ware

The Great Bed of Ware

*Ironnically those who attempted to sleep in this famous bed would find themselves beaten and bruised in the morning*

Birthen

Woman; you were born a lady
pure as earth before the sea.
Lady I can see you calling
but I cannot stop you falling,
in this dark, they once called night –
you’re the person throwing light!
When each day has come on silent
this your knife; a final repent?

Shakrilana

Last time in those pretty eyes
where your lust lay
behind cried spies
I sought fame
and found your breast
where rested head
these thoughts forget

Here the sun breaks bleak thru days
blown clouds fly free
float forms which ‘maze.
This last enchantment
seeks your gaze
though all are blinded
eyes ablaze

This single psalm is sung by tune
in pretty lanes
on afternoons
though winds and rain
fight for small sounds
their crash is quieted
when you frown

Beautiful Night

Turbulent, mindful and full of delight
Mortimer sits through day into the night.
Aware that his being here’s not wholly right,
Silent twitches and grins, though, are all that’s in sight.

When all of a sudden night falls, and all’s dark
Mortimer crawls out from under his Snark,
Pulls all his hair out which signals the start,
And wanders alone to his midnight sweetheart.

Way up a hill down the wrong end of town
The last drips of water slip onto the ground,
From a succulent body wrapped warm in a gown.
And Wanda, all fresh flesh, figures on love knocking round…

Reflected moon shimmers off Mortimer’s head,
As he passes dim bars where the punters – long dead
– argue intently of pitches that bled
From Saturday games beamed direct to their heads!

A bang and a whoop and a crunch at the door
Wakes Wanda, from slumber –
From dreams of amour.
Her shout down, like chocolate,
I’m on the 3rd floor.
Sends shivers through (thudding up stairs) Mortimer.

Lights from her face beam our man on his way
Through doorway, ajar, to a bliss where she lays.
As wonder envelopes in all of loves ways,
These lovers embrace this sweet time and for days.

_she_will_be_loved__by_larosaperlata-d3dhm2m

She Will Be Loved, Larosaperiata (Click image to jump)

Reviewed and reposted from 2011

Sweet short

Here she sits a lady truly blue
Sweet heart lays in her lap for you
She whispers some sweet treat in time
And blurs the lines of your afternoon

Like something is wrong
In the tune in her song
Like something has left
She has sung it so long

She’s your silent Dido – carved of stone
Living in a life you dreamed was blown
As shadows stretch and rise and die
Your night lights with her white-rose tone

[revisited from Dec 2012]

Musical Dawn

When that Black thatch
with them Blue eyes
shook the old cat
out of White lies:
Swiftly all the noise
of morning broke.

And this Grey crowd
full of Red heads
caught great Pink clouds
‘cross their cold beds…
And it dawned on!

Then tears soaked each side
and washed all colours clean
bleaching each bright with pride
– shining through what they mean:
Only the Gold sun left reflections
on this gory scene.

Polisylum

Standby…
Standby.
Standby you!
Can’t get enough of that magic you do!
Stocks are broke
Oil’s all down the drain
you too get the feeling you’re here once again?
Standby – hold tight –
We’ll shoot when it’s time
wait for the clamour of bangs on the line.

Here’s the latest
broken news
We’ve forgiven Iran
The Soviets too.
Out of their madness and out of their heads
Our greatest have failed
to lead us to death.

Standby anxious
You’re not due yet
There’s time to drop bombs
Our gods hedging his bets
Stately you wait on
The pride of good taste
Please be in no hurry
to rush with the race.

Rhetoric

How is it slightly shocking
when the jokers cease their mocking?
When our silent door’s been knocked in?
When this time spent out is slept in?
How our lovers call their debts in?

Why does the thought make criers
of those bigots
maggots
liars?
All the cheaters and deceivers?
All the thieves-crooks-plebs-receivers?

Where can the buck be halted?
Why is the last,
defaulted?
Where are our truths remoulded?
Why are our mem’ries jolted
and when will this Hate be hated?!

[from November 2011]

Lost for words

lost for words

image: http://rustyage.deviantart.com/art/Faceless-478167007,

words: Bujonswords