wily guys with kindness

daily poems by // Jonathan Mann also // drawings // music

[barcelonalines]

14.09.16: late night flash

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There. In the window corner, the window’s eye teeth, a flash of blue light cracked. I wait for more, seeing that corner as a basement in hurricane alley, hoping when we step out the diner will be happy as larry, the school still brick brown and roof grey. The sky burned out.    

There. We tarry, we fell, the thunder lands and scours about town, in scurveous lumps, turns into a lovely hell. It feels like…

It feels like biting your own arm until your teeth sing.  

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[barcelonalines]

07.09.16, Nancy D

—

Los Angeles really done good   I mean it really did, there is a mount there, they have fine valleys, they have suckling honeybees that channel the seven lane dew. That honey is made for solution finding folk, the ones that do all else but breathe and bleed much better than you.

Los Angeles is innocent, it is a rut It really is, the soak of a shirt from thirty seven degrees, the smell of it, the taste of the honey on pool tile break is foil and millions and hallelujah (on the take). Little glib lizards run amok, but nothing gives. It really did, done good.

—

[barcelonalines]

06.09.16, spacetime

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Flies flick their membranous hips and just do enough to evade my own. one ducks under a wave and one dips to buzz under a shown palm falling.

These incredible things. Time to them is thick, they aren’t quick but they have engines fuelled by thrown away jewels to dip below us stiffs.

Relative, galling, we are too big a dent   in space, too lumpen for time, too full of wine and milk. We show as stiffs of vice, to a fly’s silk.

A poster in school, I remember from making curry that went so quick it never made it home, a fly and a big note, they’ll eat, sick then eat, sick.  

Relative, galling, for them to realise how I see maddening past, I am a real ten-thousand generation god. They worship me with touch and feel.

—

[barcelonalines]

05.09.16, field green fence

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A run sometimes is nice it breeds a sense of highlight: that your deadness of reach in the daylight is within touch of your lovesome head in bed at night. Wake up eh.

A run is a field green fence of indeterminate age that makes a vault of it shine with olympic value. Speaking of which, the hill I swear I will drop on is Olympic way.

—

[barcelonalines]

04.09.16, summer leaves

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Brown leaves have littered the streets. Not autumnal, mere middle of the sun weeks, the fun bits. The summer leaves for some reason fall and hide a fair part of the street sleeves.  

So it becomes, all weeks, a little routine for the shopkeeps to clear a little fiefdom with a little sweep. Some hold it like a putter lining up a long putt, backing out, pointed butt

Some seem embarrassed by the thought, they wait like I know right until you arc on by, smiling I know right back because how else do you smile deeper meanings that are more than that.

—

[barcelonalines]

03.09.16, salty

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The salt is lush and running froths up, breathes back. Wait! In the sea, it is not its own thing it is a conjoint, rant it does in duet, rants the loudest lullaby like thousand watt speaker thrum not a nice ditty, wait! shanty, to hum.

It is fish, through their bellies and translucence, threaded through squid tums, turned black, people say like ink, but just a darker salt for cousin fishes to breathe. Ooh this black salt is lush they trout. Deeper a bit, lead blue light

on red lips or tongues. Deeper more and wait, there must be so much heavy that the water just goes: done! so on the seabed there are blocks of salt underpin, not sand or abysses or volcanoes ready to come and rant real din to the sun.

It is the enemy of my old uncle bill who refused to put any inside of him. Who knows whether he still does. I agreed and then sexily licked it from the crisps for fun. This was on the beach you know, and the salt there shows itself, at last forsaking

its mother/son and making gruff little crystals after a swim, if you just sit there and let the stolen salt shed its watery bin. Licking your own arm is the fun bit, better than crisps, more sex, more wait, what?! to look at, so get it done.

—

[barcelonalines]

13.07.16 - bring it, eat it, disappear

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Mine may be weak but I’m the king of your shit

Follow me home throw me a bone, I’ll eat it

Lie down under a tree Lie down under me, over me, don’t care

You’re about a mile into my thousand yard stare.

—

[barcelonalines]

12.07.16, not excited about the future

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The small weekend I see is blurry, a big blue blur like on those cheap eats with names not much related to what’s inside of them.

I just can’t focus, really like, nah, don’t know why, but I shouldn’t look. Instead think of, like, a simulated star. A big blue one.

—

[barcelonalines]

The 4th July, for real this time

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A decade ago in Maryland (that were quick), an estuary fence, blight with sea guns, marines, suv’s, you know the ones,   gave off on the 4th July a naval salute in the sky.     History is done in a pink explosion. Saturn shaped!

Yet, idiotically, I can’t recall the scene I may have been too busy being unseen to this odd girl I wanted. It was the first time I’d heard the word Pilates. I teared up on a jetty under glowworm light. Sexily wrong.

So Independence Day, despite the Saturn light and the glow, is mean to me. I was at the very lowest low   at least I told myself so to cover the crazy.   I’d tell you more but instead I’ll use the cover of lazy.

—

[barcelonalines]

4th July Patriot Poem for all Americans or alternatively for none

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The man in 8d, I couldn’t really tell, was maybe a child, but bearded, had some starburst, colour coded, ate every single one, in colour order.

His fist, feeling the fun,     achingly made a production line from advocaat yellow to orange on the run from its inspiration.

I felt for his teeth, his wife, his gums, his nice watch won. And his nice little ankle socks may be a fashion crime or a sign

of things to come. I want to know if that is true. Meanwhile the pile of wrapper chew goes from proud to this is for you. Stewardess says

thankyou.

—

[barcelonalines]

01.07.16, gay beach after work

—

I asked a Japanese guy With a map and a nice knapsack To look after my stuff While I found a friend.

He looked at me like, why? Aren't there more to ask that? What if it's a bluff For nefarious end?

It's cool said my brow You literally do not know How trust my bones are Plus I'll be just above

Then, enough of why or how I literally made a show Of rushing so it'd no longer bar My Japanese love.

—

[barcelonalines]

30.06.15, northish lean

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Whenever I see the beach having its northish lean by satellite beam I think: knife!  

So the wind across it now seems sharpening. Between groyne sticks is life  

and life may not realise it lies and soaks up on a slung blade, sun rays.

And lying flat underneath, that wind is not wind but the world turning faster. Days

become short from it, from June high to a windy winter and then I sleep with none dreams

get burnt, just the sleeves burnt by the sun joining forces with the satellite beams.

—

[barcelonalines]

18.05.16, this is my made up house to come

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I’ve a story over thee and many on the walls of my two storey halls of furniture, leathery.  

Starts afore born. Was a mine-striker a wife, used to like her now gone. Uff, forlorn.

There are others, son, interred, washing uppers, fine diners done at supper but they blend into one.

So those tales I said need to be separate and all put in sexy little halls to be ace, to be read.

—

[barcelonalines]

07.01.16 // anniversary night blues

—

The girl from France at Llacuna metro had a face full of make-up, was slightly lost in that surreptitious way. I tried to see if I could help without jumping her And then the train held sway. Adieu French girl, and the others too on this platform wide as, quiet as, a church pew, Tuesday through.

—

[barcelonalines]

06.01.16 // mardy lust

—

The wind fairly rushed down my new street tonight rushed in my mouth mid-word and gagged, nature bored and trying to shut me up, right. Trying to pique me for what I’ve blagged.

Well, the new year is mine, dick, beat it won’t you I wish the year full of high-topped mounts, you know, and sea-cliffs - beaches also count. A sweet view of bright Tokyo city light or Sapporo bearing snow.

If only to say I did, or offset the bend. I must have real, abiding newness. The sort that stays still when the wind goes, lasting out brill a gale or gust, cool this mardy lust, suppress the gag, if you will.

—

[barcelonalines]

05.01.16 // orion service module stacking assembly

—

Bloody hell, they made me pretty straight and then they open up my throat.

I mean, I don’t mind, but look at this. Only caught the littlest glimpse as they wheeled it in.

A spin of space thing, a wheel of whiteness for the black black lid I get near, but never butt.

Strong as always, feel the split of the sea on my bumped up brow. Clouds, to me, you are nothing much.

Do you think I’m beautiful, even head back like this? Will you see me as the hero in the space-track task list?

Oh, I’m closed again, full of kit and go-mode. Will it. Go on. Will me to be going on.

Space is probably my daddy if I could think like that. Space is in my caddy, if you will. Not a whale, a cat.

—

[barcelonalines]

04.01.16 // peanut

—

I am a peanut. I am none the wiser. I’ve thought about it a lot. Also Blank it out a lot.

Then on messed up nights, I have chat. Have dream while fully wake up, of meanness. Of play.

To make this clearer, as if, I held agape a hope so low and forlorn I should make it out of a loop of rope. I should write that last one in lipstick on the mirror. What colour though. Cheapest I can get.

I am a peanut with a beer aloft beer with a wet base and the drip drops. Down it goes is the game up, doc?

This monday smells bad So to elope and debauch and lay prone. Think of messed up chat a lot.

What?

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