LOST MINIATURE DREAMS

 

This text is painstakingly transcribed from defaced bank notes. Some of the bank notes are damaged, illegible, others ‘missing.’ Efforts have been made to order the bank notes but were not always successful. No efforts were made to authorial-fingerprint the voice or psychoanalyse the handwriting. The text is not necessarily a critical indictment of embedded liberal capitalism of whom we are liberal, human subjects and where money, formerly neutral means of exchange, is becoming a flying, white, electrical spark passing through borders of osmotic porosity in the dark. Nor is the text necessarily about an imaginary designer drug called Strictly Free that does exactly what it says on the tin, is and makes you “strictly free” to consume. It is but an open-air poem, comprised of torn and bleeding snapshot-fragments that are given artificial insemination. Inherent in it is a notion that money is an Ode to Death, that a fiver is cheese and onion flavour, that work sets you free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sullen, silken sulks,

we drink the same rain,

spit is clean

and so is dirt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Necklace noose,

reckless truce,

drooling before

 

wet, electric eyes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is David Bonky,

I’m a knock-kneed hummingbird,

there’s a tear up my jacket.

 

(1998)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m the only one left,

left to shoot my own gun,

this is the dead land,

crack a smile and curse the sun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is joy in things

and smiles not grins like butter

but like butterflies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waves

 

[squiggle]

 

crossed the FTSE

 

[squiggle]

 

and the Helter-Skelter

 

[squiggle]

 

crashed in the electric-sea…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blessed may be the end at last,

under the sea,

below the soul,

in the upside-down

Oceans above us

 

(all that heaven sends is rain.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Down

down

down

down

down

deep

blue

below

“eh, up

mate,”

says my

mate

and is

it safe

to say

hello?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To plug my senses in the mains

might engage !00% of my brains,

but it’s gone wrong at the plug,

just a dream on a drug.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I felt a leaf,

I fell out of life,

probably no-one else knew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A trance of stalks walks on stilts

like a stance on talks only to the toilet

then back to bed to rest its head

under the soft, Pink Panther blanket.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She blows a poisonous magic

searched the corridor for a

crash had no survivors in Soviet

be weed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Il faut que je m’en aille.

Sometimes you’ve just

got to hit the road and

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaves that played on the surface of the water,

these are the leaves they have in Heaven,

these are the leaves of love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Signed by everwell,

she couldn’t hit it sideways

or maybe a soothsaying Spiderman

with the hairgel of Dracula,

Atlantis, Aquarius, the 60’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?

Looks like I’m on washing up duty.

It’s fine I don’t mind washing up.

It won’t take long then I’ll be free.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

£34. 84 at the Take-away joint

can get you quite bloated,

not just quench’d and sated;

and by now I sit here wondering

just how much it cost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My fingers have crashed,

my fingers have crashed

and my mad, crashed

fingers have connected.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A thesis as thin as the Rizla it’s in

can lead all the way to the loony bin,

can make you forget how to spell

Winnie the Pooh at the gates of Hell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day is a dream’s balcony around mellow me.

I remember when banks let pens go free.

Art gets to its feet like a cartoon Bambi.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love has gone veggie for reasons of Disney!

The future is no longer what it used to be!

I still crave a greedy DogMuckels when

the plush seat gets a hard-on at the end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Paul was talking of “McTruth”

I noticed a swarm of flies in the house.

Nobody else could even see them but me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My mother calls the pills I pop “poetry

buttons” in motley conglomerations

like pool balls or songcells and

their names should not appear in poems.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Caroline is the last yellow crayon.

This could be the door to telepathy.

My granny and grand-dad were in the R. A. F.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Under a blanket in the back of a car -

I think of it now I’ve got this far.

Alone in the solipsistic kitchen

whom it would seem is un-war-ful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking slowly down to the Irish Sea

to see if my place in life is lowly

a dying animal goes much faster.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He found himself on a plane.

He found himself on a.

He found himself on.

He found himself.

He found.

P.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If dog = pi times MC squared

it is because you wish to think him round

while O is the key of water shared

when rolling round on the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

O for a Muse of fire that descends

from the brightest Heaven of invention;

Rintrah roars and shakes his icy fires

into the burdened air, breathing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One night, Jim Morrison pointed up

at the night sky on LSD and said “look!

It’s the infinite cocks fucking the infinite cunts!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Barnes’s goal against Brazil,

it was was not born under a hill,

it is the best goal I’ve seen still,

Barnes’s goal against Brazil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If the windows were washed – every one -

we’d still see nothing through them but

the white mirrors reaffirming the quiet

interior of this solipsistic kitchen of fiction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bart Simpson’s yellow zigzag hair apostrophe d

@ Van Goghian black border sun

heard James Joyce would just use |||| 4

ROYGBIV in Fibonacci sequence barcode smile

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’ve been writing about bifters.

 

Hello my name is Pirripa.

 

[sound of sucking in of smoke.)

 

That’s my boyfriend.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now we are gathered to appoint the Gods,

now we are gathered to consecrate ourselves,

now we are gathered to ordain this dust,

we are gathered to live and to dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you believe it, it is there,

naked under nearer stars,

softly swashing, backwashing music,

music in a room with no door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A

A Yellow

A Yellow Pages

May dawn behead me

A Yellow Pages will suffice

A Yellow Pages will

Farewell my life

A Yellow

A

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I. T. might stand for Instant Travel too,

NHS for Lucy in the Soul w/ Demons,

H20 for hypothalamus tattoo,

ESA for extra sensory allowance

but I for one still don’t really know

if Lucy even happens to be an actual substance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I remember happy, sunny days,

days when we scored some weed and went

out in the meadows, when Paul

would turn to me and say

“wear an emotional condom

before you fuck my mind, man.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wouldn’t it be pollen

if Barnes has scored a chicken

and spring is a red horse?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enough is the hope the heart

literally needs in order for it to survive

without which it can stop, meaning

Duff, which is H suspended in deafness

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I cannot tell if sipping sugarless tea

or stretching honesty is the more easy

an encryption for the future that

ain’t what it used to be but I still

await the future with rapt uncertainty

and cannot stand the suspense.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We are the velvet e’s,

we’re shitting in Cuntington’s letterbox,

the Roman Rd below,

beneath us as we fly.

 

[enter bass organ of ‘The End’]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Butter is good when you’re a nutter,

but I can think of something that’s better,

so had better write her a letter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Opened unto the gloom under

sliver moon I slide her over.

Semen spills like silver water.

We’re soon enough in the flotsam ether.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forlorn as fallen autumn leaves,

is the wave that misbehaves,

goes out taking E at raves,

and soon enough no more believes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One thing I learned I shouldn’t say too soon,

underneath this new moon,

but might instead just impart,

it is because I have a heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What actually happened was, I ended up robbing a bank, with a banana smuggled under a tea cloth and a balaclava on my head and face…there was a get-away car outside, and we went far and to a separate country too. We started to loan the money out and thus made money off it which meant we had plenty with which to use for a blank canvas. We had to be concise, when writing our contract on the money. The police were onto us, so what we did was wait until we had disseminated our message, and earned more money off the loaning of it than we stole in the first place, and quietly stormed into the bank with a banana openly protruding from a balaclava in my hand, and h-a-n-d-e-d the money – and the extra too – back to the bank. The police then let us off the crime and we went home, knowing our nodes were encrypted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of all the work I had achieved, be it before or after my mental illness, I still think of the binaural earphone album and the defaced bank note text as being among the best. I think if you remain on the left it’s alright but only when it’s phoney, for defacing actual bank notes is against the law. I think if you have to read Homer in order to be a philosopher everyone should get that opportunity should they choose and probably for free too. I think that is my philosophy and even more so, yours.