Saturday 22 August 2020

Peace Triangle (uvw), 2020

crystal laminated floor vinyl, 75cm x 60cm

Friday 21 August 2020

not saving but drowning (DRAFT)

Glebe potted in hypertension
the garment cloches 
a national jeremiad 
in representing no people
o'ere the mess
crossbred before we set sail
on stewed grass so green 
cup of tremens wet 
to crash the bitterness 
of preachers from palace 
to palace and moped up with 
fair-weather friends 

House of Lords (Whisky Tasting Book/Distorted portcullis painted by mouth), 2020

210cmx160cm Brass enamel on household paint 
(enlarge for better quality image)

Thursday 20 August 2020

pissed hands in Leicester Sq. (DRAFT)

Good cheer of nightshade draining 
gourmet pellets out on 
nothing, this eczema tongue 
sticks dear beloved
marriage is a dusty excuse 
for ecchymosis on pelvis 
where's blood with your chock 
on living good 
to a snapped downgraded eat
my minded business again,
I sleep a year on alimony 

Wednesday 19 August 2020

House of Commons (Golf Score Book/Distorted portcullis painted by mouth) 2020

210cmx160cm Brass enamel on household paint 
(enlarge for better quality image)

Monday 17 August 2020


Brass fox horn on bony excrescence
going home broken flumes of sad pat
having the whip hand shroud in ranunculus
rose heavenly the gold cup of reason
or quenched black versions pissed in spasm 
to rebid love unworthy done for marigold,
I carry with me long run
into imagined voices clogging a vogue
heart to share-hold 
a gastronomic life is of no real importance
in these dithering starres 
S.O.S the milk gravy
cry out in vain brotherhood,
the toxic monster is on his wetting stone
in morbid psychology with no more tonics
to antiquate I now leap to rue vue 
no sharing now and never again 
this planting on each others stands, 
or known in backwash departee 
punched out protecting the currency
in your played pair of Oxford fakes
the shoe box rammed with
mad cash the money by grab dredge 
all over the walls all over the floor 
in the heights of tide in the chartered depths 
off your neck the earnest bounce 
makes a blind enchant boll at crown 
now dole walla, 
to find another coeval in den
on cobbled tooth spent to last 
the draft horses of day 

Saturday 15 August 2020

Fontanelles (Social Distance), 2020

SERE, 2020

Oil on canvas, 45x45cm  Painted on my behalf in Dafen, Shenzhen. Based on Christopher Hitchens own ‘Lashed to the Mast’ experience for Vanity Fair 2008.

Libertines at the Palace, 2020

Oil on canvas, 45x45cm  Painted on my behalf in Dafen, Shenzhen. Depicting the lighting fixtures present in the libertines palace in Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom by Pier Paolo Pasolini.

Thursday 13 August 2020


Box boy bruised cockles a spasim in tricot,
blaggard look out spikes in my red barite 
hammering the fully clothed germane types this is
a Georgian revivalist catacomb scenario
if bonded by air and the slow decline of parkour 
leaves us in grave lament! 
a big take at the depthless nights,
its passing dingy or mock bridge encompassing
the whitest ridge tips of discourse 
further along my bowels a blue boat 
sinks the contest and there is no gaming isotopes! 
you only game yourself to bits
on behalf of the Home Office,
I Tawse the Younger instate all in the room
its a Friday luncheon raid, Madame!
the xenophobes play Mahler Piano rolls
ich ging mit Lust durch einen grünen Wald
the potato salad just is everyday LIFE, 
don't quibble Goodbye! Goodnight! 
to our Leavers Hip Hip Hooray! Hip Hip Hooray! 
Come, boys/girls there is more on Tuesday 
centurion facility service will put paid 
to a Hornet Feast! they do all for none 
and none for all 
fuck em' all pull em' up against the wall
spread those place settings 
and check those names,
Mahlers too drab for parting ways 
boombox the hell gates 
it isn't a reach around meant for Danube beauty!
this is the swelling party trick further down tide
whatever it is you are getting sunk 
such was the day for our regiment,
these hard and shiny things 
200 hours a week in rooms above you
below you is fun, in the cabman shelter 
fobbing off the scab scene, 
those cretics with city plod ethics 
confiscated work in bin rooms 
talk of dour hours long run into 
eyelids and bums, dossier dossier
there is nothing to love here, 
in this hamstrung heart
this room of sodium so easily cut fine
to take my biting cingulum body 
where thy is angels? dry-haired
the cuspids are raised out by mothers
early in wet beds a cottony of shame
worsened in weave cutting 

Monday 10 August 2020


I put all my enemies in my top pocket
to fill a glass beneath them 
so they can look through me, 
most of them now under water refuse 
my drunk petition to sing 
to fill a glass for them to see, 
protesting today is finished 
on yesterdays broken remit 
O’ this glass of water 
would need to be of Sweet Chestnut! 
instead Rowelond and Olyver,
in good curtsy of tit for tat
breaks off in peacock feather
don't arise at the daffodils sick with 
fever until I change it to be so, 
to fill a glass to! fill one more persistent!
in temperance or anonymity I sit here 
the wood through trees in morning 
and eve, I sit here in hysteric 
masoch peasant tradition
the laggard smithed sleep with outliers
with this glass of water to be Sweet Chestnut! 

I loe to haste in brine 
my rage is kept in 
DIE HARD broken indices 
the people of England drink for me
the tin Tower of Babel 
but there is no whole body when its 
dark and lively!
phouka inebriate in fern trees 
see all the glistening bottles 
see all the mothers past Christmas
see it all in a millennial spasm!
spit it out always dark 
the distended veins on the carpet 
sobered seva not for more
but uphill the exalted court gold with piss
the eternal mark to church to sophists 
you can carry on
trust me the bracken south runs
into my mouth the noble hop
back to place like sticks and stones
kept on Aperol the dark emerald
spitting before the cuts with Keats & Shelley 
I rolled on Gramsci, he doth not sleep here 
tho but in the reef of knives
there is no sea no matin 
compulsory mirth flogging me a garden,
flogging me the sea

Saturday 8 August 2020

Reviver Otto, 2018

A 2018 Calendar of drawings based on Kim Kwang-Il's experiences.

'We are supposed to think there’s an imaginary motorcycle 
and we are supposed to be in this position 
as if we are riding the motorcycle. 
And for this, we pose as if we are airplanes ourselves. 
We are flying.'

Thursday 6 August 2020

M'17-J'19 (DRAFT)

Anywhere the dolomite head
lays smitten of rest 
with dank jambs in cove
the sky dirt joke puts up 
with floorboards of these 
hissing canisters a sheet of 
chrome smiles to ruck, 
a hard knock on the hip
in Vienna I watched Dresden 
people turn into shadows easily, 
the 100 meter ukase the order speaks 
of an uninjured party
into this our new man,
ostrich head a face I love
you said that would not stop now 
Our Client if you require 
amendments please contact
the sender of which this is not, 
Our Client the 100 meter ukase the order speaks 
at home, is death in you yet
forms a carapace of contempt 
airtight perimeters of this 
wintered slip transmission
rattles out in empty hotels 
unhurt from the habit of boring outriders
with all love and kindness of
this bashed division of solitary 
spectres harnessed in old chestnuts 
now carbon, all this love and 
bromide seen around my village 
the most mettled heart 
is mine and mine alone 
and I keep it in an outdoor 
storage box with 10 year 
anti-rot warrants on my head