Tag Archives: Kerouac-Style

Dirty Stop Out – a poem

Dirty Stop Out

Left you

In your bed.

Smell of you;

Easily led.

Pizza slice

On my way out;

Rolling dice,

& messing about.

Crunch on snow

to where I stay.

Consequences flow—

Come what may.

Netflix chill

Just another night

Might not fill

What I fight.

AEW

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Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #30

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Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

Crossed the street for a cuppa Joe—watered down and strictly coffee in the academic sense because, around here, they seem to think everyone takes it with milk and sugar and will not taste the difference— They will knock it back, finish their sausage roll and flick up their blue collar—“oooh but coffee isn’t tea, is it, duck?”—and light a cigarette.

I smile–chew my gum— muse on mushrooms at breakfast with tinned tomatoes and fried egg vs. long-ago-IHOP days and memory of boysenberry syrup– I see you jogging to the car park– flowers in hand–fumbling for your keys–parking stub between your lips—I check my phone for the time of day and wonder, is it her birthday or your anniversary?

I thought to call your name—thought to catch you up—thought to smile–thought I might forgive you today—if only you would wander into Casey’s for a cup of brew. But I smiled and turned away.

Walking into Casey’s—I ordered a bagel sandwich to go—and my cup of Joe.


Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #29

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You’re a Genius all the time

I know you have pain but let me spin something at you, just to see if you can relate.

So– I sat there once– in some blackhole– thinking of a time when I was running through a meadow—Not a real meadow—A nostalgic meadow– like the one in some axiomatic scene in some powerfully wild cinematic film where the camera does that crazy-ass zoom in thing at the same time that the camera trucks out— you know that scene–that one that feels like the moment you realise what you just inhaled was the real thing and not a waste of money—That fluuuuuuuueeeee-better than being on some rollercoaster ride moment. Or that moment when all eyes are on you and everyone is smiling and nodding in agreement. Yeah, that moment when you realise the simple fact: You got this thing down, Ace.

Those moments are like that bit of God that touches you through someone else’s lyrics on the radio. The lyrics that make you ejaculate “TUNE!” before you collapse into the cushions in that softie-sound-afterglow.

That’s where you need to be right now, yo?

Don’t be coy. Don’t be calm. Don’t be sedate. Don’t be humble. Just go. Go with it and have faith that you are absolutely fantastic–the power–the key–the foretold. You are the man with a plan–whether the plan is immediately obvious or not is of no consequence at this time. Time is but a name to what we have loads of–honest.

Think about it–that last time you were all freaking out about “stuff not happening” or “stuff being a bit of a bummer”–who knew you would be right here, right now? The accomplishments achieved thus far are a far cry more rock and roll than the accomplishments made over a year ago.

So The Man said “no” today. Maybe that is for the best. That “no” probably gives you the freedom to not worry about getting untangled from regret at a later date—like that a narrow escape I had in Mexico with not being able to find that street with that burrito man. The one that was cooking up his neighbour’s dogs, it turned out—the one that was responsible for all those people getting sick and dying. That was a wild time. Remember how much I kept whinging about not being able to have that burrito and how hungry I was. But then we went back to Raul’s mom’s house and we had home-cooked menudo instead and we woke up all copasetic and with no hangover.

But I digress.

I will not be sitting here regurgitating proverbs and conventional greeting card sayings to get you through your shit. Just remember, You are going places. Rock and roll, fool! Rock and roll! Fire up that great, massive, cerebral riff and shred that bad ass tune.

Oh yeah. Keep the beard and don’t go bald.

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Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #28

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Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better

At The Globe Inn, Dumfries 2:15pm

Johno MacDougal talking to Prissey

It’s all down to chance, really. If you think of everything that has ever come into your life…it’s all chance. Them Frenchies– what do they call it? Le bon chance. The good luck. The roll of the almighty dice (albeit sometimes they feel loaded) but a chance thrown and odds and sods are it. Either you is or you is not someone’s baby at that point in time.

And all of life’s scary monsters. What of them? How do they figure, mate?

Ah, them. They are just thrown in for shits and giggles, hen. You didnae think any of it was ever planned, did ye? Even though you think you plan it down to the last thing–roll of the dice–it all goes tits up, ken?

Ah right…so nothing is anything you ever really worked on then?

No. Not as such. Because what you are working on depended on another die you rolled or coin you tossed when you were deciding if that is what you were going to go for in the first place, ken?

Aye, I ken. Mind you, what if you have always known what you wanted. Surely, that is something that is not up to chance. You are the master of your own destiny. The captain of your own proverbial ship, right?

That’s a myth, hen. That really never happens.

Oh?

Think about it. Your very existence was a chance. Your Da’s sperm either gets there or will not. So you sitting here was just down to luck. Then your thought process is never absolute. Whether you do it aloud or inside your heid, it’s always flip-flopping. You have no clue what you want for sure– Will I? Will I not?–You are given all the options ever thought of—past present future—all of it just floating about around your head—

Like in orbit.

Aye, in orbit around your heid. Only some of us mask it better than you do, hen, with all your indecision. Aye, it’s cute, I’ll give you that but even when you make a decision, there is always that wee moment of regret that you didnea go “the road less travelled”, ken?

I guess it’s all down to wondering if you made the right choice.

It matters not since each choice comes with all its negatives and positives. There is never a completely right choice or a completely wrong choice. Mainly because what you decide to do and the repercussions that follow may be either good or bad for you but will be either good or bad for those around you. At the end of the day, you do what you do–decide what you decide–live with what happens after and make more decisions based on chance to either improve or rectify what happened on the last turn.

Ok.

Have you made your decision then, hen? What did you decide on?

I’ll just have a Tennent’s lager, mate.

Right.


Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #27

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In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness

The Lodger

Woodward. He’s just there—but not like a piece of furniture—more like a pet—but one that no one particularly wanted in the first place– a stray, taken in on the short term—and no one has had the heart to chuck him out.

He wakes up cocooned in duvet warmth on a fold-away bed across from the double bed he once slept in before Macaulay came home from university. That was seven months ago and Woodward has not made any effort to find new digs. He sleeps in until well after noon—groggily coming to—laying in vacuous thought in the cot over his worldly possessions—fantasy books, scraggy clothes, a bong and porn. His long, blond hair and Jesus-like countenance makes him look docile as he rises from the cot, stretches and glides into the hall before quietly closing himself in the loo.

Downstairs, Macaulay’s girlfriend startles as she realises they are not alone in the house. Her uneasiness makes her oddly self-conscious. Macaulay reads this and reassures her that they will not be disturbed.

“He was late coming home last night. Coked out of his mind. He might just stay up there,” he said and kisses her. She tenses and shakes her head.

“He should get a job. Why is he still allowed to live here if he can’t pay rent? Isn’t that what a lodger is supposed to do?”

“He said he thinks he is ready to start looking for a job now. So that is good, right?” Macaulay smiled, kissed her again. Upstairs, they heard the toilet flush and the wispy-whisking-whisk sound of baggy trousers moving down the stairs. The couple’s eyes opened as they were still locked in their kiss. Diffidently, they pulled apart from each other and forced some distance between them.

Woodward appeared in the doorway, asked if the kettle had just boiled and if there was any milk. Macaulay and the lodger lapsed into a conversation that must have been started at some other time because to the girlfriend it made no sense. The lodger moved from the doorway and back into the kitchen and Macaulay got up from the couch and followed him. The girlfriend checked her outfit and began looking around for her bag and coat.

Macaulay reappeared to find his girlfriend getting ready to leave. She made her apologies to Macaulay, passed the lodger in the front hall and caught a whiff of marijuana entwined with tea — “Sorry, I’ve got to go. See you, babe– Bye Woodward.”—The lodger turned around and sat in the front room with Macaulay—he put his mug of tea on the table and picked up the Nintendo controller and settled in to play until someone moved him out of the front room or until he got an invitation to go out of the house.

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Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #26

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Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form

Oh bang, yo! Letter from Gramma in the States and stinky dead presidents– and he struts into town to change dollars into sterling– weaving in and out of Saturday commerce– £16.60 from $30 — like a boss he’s already spent it on 2nd hand XBox games and sweets– minted and freespirited– boy!

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Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #25

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Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it

There had been a moon that night, if I remember correctly. Only it served as feeble backlighting for threatening clouds. But there I stood in front of the fire pit made in the back garden last summer–The fire cackled and crackled– and me just close enough to feel the burn but out of the reach of a hole protected by remnants of a failed rockery, dark and soulless through Christmas. But here I was staring into the pit– my face just out of reach from pawing fire fingers— crouching down just close enough to feel the burn–just close.

I stood up, put one hand in my pocket, the other holding a can of Carling–David Bowie singing out “oooo look out for rock n rollers”– Me in layers of fleece and wool–fingerless mittens–cold cutting through the back of my denim jeans–toes feeling the January black below–But the warmth on my thighs made it so worth it. The lager felt good going down my throat. Oddly refreshing on such a night.

I fed the flames with my days work– poetry that did not feel right–scraps of images–some lines meant to be a book–you– and some receipts that I found tucked away— I meant to scrapbook them– But who has the time?

I smiled because I thought I needed all these shards of past endeavours. It turns out, no one misses things they do not know exist–like the chupacabra, tunnel fairies and God. And whatever that was before–the stuff that happened but did not. Amber and red and white and orange, flipping and flapping and burning and turning against the black of night–But then, I felt a drop on forehead–on nose–on cheek–then the sky poured down. I picked up the radio in one hand and crushed the can of Carling in the other and went back in the house.

“Time may change me, but I can’t change time…”–


Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #20

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Believe in the holy contour of life

For Sarah Lee

Tristful and grey, the day languidly comes into focus. The howling of the wind and the slap of rain against my bedroom window last night gave way to a coma-like slumber. Waking from it proves problematic. I cannot shake it off. I sit on the edge of my bed. I fight the compulsion to ring in sick–or to just not show up and insist it was an emergency annual leave day—I can lie. I can lie. I sit on the edge– resist falling back into rumpled duvet womb.

Time elapse—I stand in the warm glow of halogen lamps—clean, pressed, blurry eyed—and the kettle goes on. The kettle goes on. The kettle—it whirls and gurgles like a hash pipe of old—seducing me to promises of all things copasetic—it will be fine, fine, fine.

Sacramental cup on counter, blessed Assam seeping, swirling–fragrance across my consciousness finding its way into my depth and working magic from within—bringing the full light of colour to my frame of reference.

The sunrise of a desert sky blooms before me. This sunrise from my childhood spreads through time and space to reach me in England—here and now.


Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #19

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19. Accept loss forever

Keys. Goddamned lost my keys. Everything in those keys. Stability, freedom, tranquillity, worldly wealth, the words on my papers that tell me who I am–what I am–who I will be at some point if I live that long—or who will get what if I do not. I reach in to my childhood for St. Anthony to come and search for those keys—to let me in the house—to help me let the dogs out—to let me use the bathroom—to sleep.

Keys are beautiful—dangled, distracting my crying baby boy–Tinkling in summer wind through art room window at college—keys dangling from the wood beam, holding within them locked away memories in long ago houses from some time that was but will never be again. Forgotten rooms, elapsed moments, long ago lust, hidden away Spector in stasis–precious things– keys all rusting away in some man’s utility drawer; expendable like so many disremembered names of those that faded away when pain expired.

I stand accused of not being bothered because I cannot access my mail– those All important missives laden with requirements that sit just within the locked door. I lost my keys.

The locksmith will come anyway.


Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #18

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Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea

Corporate strategies and quintessential knowledge aside, how good does it feel to take over a meeting with a flash of eye– sleight of hand—getting that mojo in the pow-bang-whaz of power point porn! You can stake hold this, baby! I’ve got the deliverable goods to make sure this party is going forward, moving forward, breaking through the clutter and pushing the envelope. Full thrust, yo, we’re doing the needful. Globalize the lot. We’ve brought a clear goal to the table and we are getting ready to chow down!

Let’s calibrate expectations and open this kimono, baby. We got an exit strategy on the runway. The high order thinking on soul engagement is the paradigm shift that will bring on that robust sea change that will allow us to run like a business…

Or we can just sit back with a cup of tea and a comic and groove on the colours.


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