The Argotist Online

Home       Articles       Interviews       Features       Poetry       Ebooks       Submissions       Links

 

 

Bill Drennan

 

Bill Drennan was born in Glasgow, Scotland, 1962. His work has appeared in small press publications since the mid-90s and has been proliferating online since 2006. Links to his work can be found at Hypoetics, where a fresh hybrid of satiric, journalistic, conspiracistic and cartoonist prose sketches appear on a regular basis. He is author of the book of poetry, Flightpath Resistor (2007), and has had poetic prose, sketches and short stories published in outstanding international zines (most notably Otoliths). He is a failed academic with three very good degrees (including a PhD on Blake) and has worked in more jobs than Charles Bukowski.

 

From sunlust

2.
will you dance &
have you brought
toys & maybe a
treat for
an ageing
serotonin count

your mother has just
slipped away &
taken the sun which
was stitched by the rays
to her slink dress

&
what is that adorable perfume your
breath wears with such a smile i
plant a kiss

yes i
understand that
you require
oxygen

flower

let me press myself to you

3.
her skin shone
a night
denim eyes hair
bleached diamond white
sun

i lift open a nipple in
sert amphetamines

a wild balance resolves
the mischief she
falls to my groin i fix
you good later honey the
fog will lift as a clearing
pint rising to swallow the thirst

i find a bro
ken star in her navel
indicating her fall through
veil in sky

petallic gasp


in the Empire of solid escape

1.
there was a restrictive formula crisis around that time:
baseness among the liberators;
the same dull round of
self-investment
negotiated in the changing winds
which some accorded divine

i remember the germs as they
fell to my face with
elaborate appetite –
an ornery gloating which
called for some emotion –
how the bastards dug in
search of some selfish
self &
stuck to the ribs to every thing

2.
the brow
see how it trembles

for the sacred spices
the lonely smoke they

melt at the touch

you see i
simply don’t
have the squandering power
of the shifty thrift-monger
in the province of the bored tokenist
the grace of

the ephemeral things
they

waft in a
brail-biting blindness
a fit of wilderness
rage

the musak of Empire it
bends the winds
in memory of our forefathers who
carried the sales through in
the smoke of a jealous fiction

3.
yukio say: “Western man would
immediately discover the acceptable
way of getting from the ground
floor to the first:
he would build a
staircase” – & this he
demonstrates with
a cup & sugar bowl;
the belly of Japan rich
ly dressed in entrails
back turned on the
paunch of pollution
hangs a great thunder
insular in fact

the windings are false in
Empire’s shrivelled nucleus; the
genomic delight of the gut-
less felcher sketches a
straight line

the village of our ancestors it
runs below the horizontal horde of
warriors where

Men of God applaud
the Rule of the Iron Rod

expansion to escape a
dull little island of
God i presume

no
body told me that
God is vertical

4.
out they come the
entrails
straight &
untortured
accepting no blame yet
hung
with a kind of guilt that
refuses to split the un
earth
ed riches

at the lower end rumours of:
crash! bang! the lot down dis
gorged by the
markets awaste there the
pass age the pass
ing of an age!

what with all that pissing & moaning
i accept the apocalypse prize
set up a charity for mooncraters
fix them up with some blue light
buy shares in disaster therapy
open a space junk shop
steal rocket dust from myself
test a virtual psychosis game handed in by
a man with a ruthless orbit

then the hugless patriarchy assemble
in the tempus fuggit (the fuck of time)
with parasite instability for
i twist their genes
with the poverty of begetting thus
it is written:

fasciola hepatica 
a fleshy fluke 
brown leaf-like shape 
highly branched vitellaria 
hermaphrodite of course 


the pricks can
no longer
contaminate
since i fit them out in
fine suits for
consolation
who salivate openly
& hold back mercenary orgasms who
mineralise in self-defence the bone
cutting through the tissue

i pay angelic creatures overtime for
they neither copulate nor drink nor
have a need for the coke while on duty
decontaminating the soil without as much as a
whiff of shit &

the winter passes vulnerable
as wrinkled snow bleached with
bare
ly a naked
age to go

 


a pathogen’s report

#1
with powdery wings to
torch muffle preserve
ancient stocks
of scrutable locals

#2
the stained business of
preprogenation
microspasmic things
slumped out to play the contaminant’s part
for the blood of the distant
in glimm’d scandler’s fires
flinkled in the glow with
considerable & exceptional smalm

#3
to disinvent defences
to peel the weary corpuscle
& drain the body of residence

#4
the malection of the disease
carried in dollars
in signs & scrimbles
effected over a warm flow
saturates the system

#5
be with you all we
hulmbled to the very feet
the astral soles even
the downside up tippled towards inflation

#6
this eye for detail it
tires & slackens in the ritual of padagogium in meltdown

#7
though the fact lingers
for a season or so
it is thought
among the leagues of smickled unfortunates

 


on pavement

i.
of the collusion i say nothing
must prove myself a good citizen
allow the fabulous to decay;
the protest was justified
against the moss on my driver’s stuffed windows
doors locked strapped in temperate mornings

i say no way to talk to a man i
think you understand the crepuscular stretch of my stare
which you should interpret as an omen
against disaster just so &
with a mean edge in the event that
you cough up more prickles than the rain
of nails with which i stuff you to the soul

ii.
have faith inself flighty bird for if
not then you are dunkled & drowned till
the land twotters with mingy mankers
blanking all accounts of albion’s fine tinkers
blasted across a skittersoil
of dead leaves in an unkissed sleep or
the ambulating chaotix of stocktaking days & this it is
that you must prove by spraking & extracting from
the wet chewinggum pavement with a good kick

thus

iii.
you see my driver’s report was
fixed with no imagination & with rules
the witch computes my downfall
with long ambiguous twist of mouth
with schizophrenic dialectics contempt for any order
of thought besides own self self’s sminky judgement

deep ungodly cough brought about by
the inhalation of something small & dangerous
perhaps a fact or
maybe some software ...

tell you what i’ll hover over here
flap farts like hairspray on yr god
forsaken tearglass eyes yr
alimentary geography yr freeze-dried pudenda

can avoid violent coughs
can strike the air with rolled-up news can
strip headlines for lead & sell to nuclear scrap
merchants can buy up shares in protogenomix can
sell them too can sell the fucking lot for

abandoned perfume

iv.
now hell looks pretty much like this you can
not return it to the vendor if
it doesn’t fit doen’t work don’t
be honest whatever the deal

multi-larcenous corporations
light candles
to preserve the evil spirits
from dampness

& beyond the lines of cul
ture lie unopened thoughts
which in hell are corrosive

v.
erudite chalkdust crowds the
shoulders
of the grandest mountain i
would rather climb in
the sewer

vi.
& after there followed a sentimental letter
from the cynical ruffian a humdinger
of a professional departure

yes a very good job well
done getting out & vanishing the mould

the boss’s decision is final la
gramercy for guts &
a damned fine job well

vii.
again i woke up
late for sleep

shit i
woke up bald

Death i
slap you in the chops to
wish it on no man womb
a curse a struldbug’s dream

(a blind one

Death i

give you hair
if you lend me yr
rusty old scythe or
some immac


 

 

 


copyright © Bill Drennan