I breath heavily and sit confidently.

Most of me is born of pain and the rest is taking the piss.

Shut up man.

if this aint poetry then you know where to go

because you won’t say it to my face

I can strip a shotgun

faster

faster

faster than you can strip a hooker

there is no end

dog ends witness the spiral silently

as I cling on and climb on to the gravy train.

No train I know runs on gravy.

Its savagely bad but I cant speak the write way

and I can’t right well neither 

Bree saw a cat up a tree today, that in itself is not unusual. However this cat had the jazz in his eyes. Man he was wild.

Bree is not actually sure that the feline was male. And he certainly did not disturb the be-bop kitty to find out.

Most cats do not like Jazz, which to Bree came as a bit of shock. Some of you younger hipsters may know this already but Bree, you see, doesn’t leave the desert much these days.

 The reason being is I’m counting the sand to disprove infinity and to find his shades which Bree knew he put down somewhere…

 So Bree left the cat alone. he had much to think on.

Finding a cat up a tree who likes jazz in the desert is a rare thing indeed.

You push buttons and they allow it.

It’s a feature of the vista age that we all recycle endlessly

We all sing tunes hard at the wall

But it doesn’t come down

there were 30 Million voices

and now there is only mine

but I cant hear what I’m saying

So I push buttons

some punk linked me in facebook. i don’t really know the guy. Fucking hangers on…

Bree hasn’t always like the taste of gasoline.

But   he    likes   it    now.

He recomends you pick up the first Pick Up you get your hands on.

Fill it with the stuff.

I mean to the point tho where it spills all over the asphalt.

After all,  it’s just fossils and they’re long dead.

What’s this about ice caps and droughts in africa?

Does anybody care?

Bree was born in the desert

I think thats all we deserve

Switch on cruise control and see where we go….

 A complex alcholic fudge.

Hairy drinks lost hopelessly in the hedge

A blurry knife edge stagger from day to night.

Bank holidays belong to God through the red vision of Jack.

Can we see to guide each other home.

An existential walk alone

Does anybody remember Eddy King? Bree does. Met him last time I went to England. he was at Exeter racecourse reading his words over a loud speaker. Words, strung together. Not poetry.

“I hang words round the necks of victims”

Eddy King is a hero, he always speaks the truth.  Bree spent the night drinking red wine with him. We spoke about The war in Iraq and Eddys intention to fight the good fight. Eddy King is going to join up. He likes to fight a losing battle. Bree thinks his words are urainum depleted. They land like the slugs blown from tanks. they whistle through walls and burrow deep into the brain.

Eddy King could win the unwinnable. Not sure if he has a passport though, and he has flat feet.

if I have to drag the corpse of past hope up the stairs

Then so do you.

the lift don’t work.

No the lift never works.

The fat man smiles at passing passes.

Swipe and load yourself into government files.

flies hold court inside whilst the birds

mostly gulls

dreaming of eating pigeon innards

squashed by cheap mass transport.

I was born in the desert

sang ballads with babies of the grain

some things are never the same

never the same,

-Llangammarch Sessions 91.

You remember that night guys, some words flew around the bar. Steve V got himself a catapult and lost his eye.

Some of the finest BreeSome of the finest Bree

Bree Wedges, the man – the myth