Poems

Poems by James Swartz

(1) Guru’s Lament
(2) Our love a rocket ship
(3) The Endless Sky

James Reciting his poem Guru's Lament

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These are poems of my friend Billy Childish

a paper lampshade

the beuty of the wasp

in its nest of buti

crawling

the gate post

munching wood

making paste

to build its nest of butie

with

his jasper face

and sting of buti

he is just a wasp

in his nest of beuti

the serpent is biting its own tail

im not older nor more experienced

than i once was

im younger and have learned nothing

the serpent is biting its own tail

looking into the face of an ant

stairing up into

the open face of god

the inner is the outer

the serpent is biting its own tail

spied from the bows of a woodland oak

a deer man stalking with antlered head

hes cock and balls painted ochre red

none usually stray this deep into his forests dream

listen you can here his owl beak cry

he swivvels his head

and a brook sounds near by

walking on humen legs

he enters gods shed

he brings healing moss in his cats mouth

to nibble like bread

its not so much that i know who he is

but i know who i am not

his outstretched toes hold herbs like gold

that he drops into a boiling pot

and his antlers spout like trees

the butiful hatchlings see god

being a new hatch’t crow

nested in the arms of tree tops

and seeing the big yellow sun rolling up the sky

for the 1^st and 1000^th time

hark

to the great chirping

a new born multitude

a storm of praise as we see

and know

god

the mud-flappers lament

being a mud flapper

jerking in the mud

head down knowing only fucking

and guts

and pain

so we know everything

and become cyleocamphs

then man then god again

the desolving budha

an animated corps

in a chernnal ground

the flesh flopping from the yellow bones

an eyeballs rolls out - plop!

and

then a smile thru the magots

as im

suck’t up thru a thigh bone trumpit

and into the very hart of the budha

who must desolve

becose

ive

named him

the damp wet world is both real and unreal

why shouldnt i become

robert walser

or kurt schwitters

who says that my hart

isnt next to theirs

or indeed

my ears and eyes

or christs

or van goghs for that matter

in a sence

its a fellows duty

to love his heros

and become them

just to feel how ordinary genius truly is

just as a child plays at war

or knows that animels talk

that the damp wet world is both real

and unreal

it will always

just be now

it will always

just be now

skool

peeing

dieing

and after

it will always

just be now

appology

the artist sometimes known

as billy chydish

would like to hereby appologise

for nurturing cunts smart-arsed eloquence

and contradiction

for

encouraging spurious tossers

artist

and poets

and

for

brandishing his cock and balls

like a spring daffodil

get this rite:

for

percived indiscreations

passed and futcher

your rong and

im inocesnt

look on me wth love

as if your feeding the garden birds

hold me

with a

lack of malice

and caliousnes

if your seeing ghosts and daemons

if your seeing ghosts and daemons

when you look at me

own them

and

sighting christ the devil and buddha

for

the

pain been done

for

poems been rit

is missing the point

and bitter poets

my favorite thing

about humans

is their pent up venom

nestling benieth the sugary crust

of reasonablness

sat behind the grining teeth of politness

hidden benieth the toung

un-owned

and

attributed to others:

the world

of devils

and bitter poets

rush to the woods and kiss the acorns

they were defiantly

from another country

you could tell by their uniforms

and fancy footwerk

we’d

never seen

camoflauge so exqisit before

it made you want to rush

to the woods kiss the acorns

everything more

my hair less

my teeth less

i wear a butiful hat

my green eyes smiling butifully

in my hart my beautiful son

in my hart my butiful daughter

i eat a beutiful pea

sat oppersit my beutiful wife

the snow outside is beutiful

a beutifull bird sits

in the butifull rown tree

eating yellow berry from between rust coloured leaves

i paint with butiful colours

i rite with butifull ink

my hair less

my teeth less

everything more

if only life could be

grasped in your fist

nailed like a photograph

to kiss and taste a breast for all eternity

to be in love with lumps

of decaying flesh

and

lips and eyebrows

another humans shit-hole

and

shoes and houses

to belive salvation

can be found in a ticking shirt

or a pair of nailed boots

or a bank account

or another humans tits

and arse-hole

all the fragmented parts of god

riding the tube train

with all the fragmented

parts of god

kissing earth

flying thru the air

dangling from the limbs of trees

like carrion in the beaks of crows

how are we fragmented?

by looking for union

we throw up of stuffing god in our mouths

like rags

like rotten meat

and cawing

this is us

by looking we are not seeing

there is only one thing

which is everything

of course there was no big bang

as if time could start like a fucking time bomb

awearness is time

but time isnt awerness

of course

im too lonely to sleep

of course

im to messed up on sex

to mesmerized by fear and cocks

and cunts

and arse

and self

and death

to haunted

to timid

to fresh and brave

to excited

to bored

to cut from self

(which is nonsence)

there is only one thing

which is everything

heading out down unmade roads

grandad lewis

sold paraffin out of here in the 40s and 50s

great tanks of the stuff

swilling in drums

in a purpose built shed

on the land in front of his shack

hand pumps

and gauges

with swinging hoses

and a van for doing the rounds

lewis paraffin delivery

of course its all gone now

and

my grandparents too

something is something

till it simply isnt

i remember the van as a kid

parked up in the front garden with brambles

growing thru the floor boards

and sat in the cobwebbed cab

using both hands to drag down the driving wheel

heading out down unmade roads

you should never ask

for poems

ile give you a pimple

or a toothache

an ache in the balls

wank ache

or how about a hangover

or gut ache

i mean real gut ache

like food poisoning with green bile

love ache

god ache

like hunger

and minute thorts of death

and non being

it your own fault

you

should never

ask for poems

or pray for anything

but truth and god

of where perfection always is

the whole things a lite show

a porn show

a glittering for magpies

for glistening corpses

dismember a body to see what buti is

hold a nose in your hand

a kidney in your palm

a finger nail between your teeth

intergration is the illusion of buti

a whoosh of star dust

a worthless canvas by van gogh

that lifts the soul

that speaks of god

but is only an echo

where perfection always is

that im mono

people complain that i record music in mono

that i paint figuratively

that my anti-art is too tricky

that my poetry is only swear words

that my novels are mearly autobiographical

that my collages are too abstract

that i practice yoga

that i belive in god

that im a budhist

that im a christian

that im to self pemoting

that im to self depriciating

that i wear nailed boots

that im only interested in the great war

that im obessed with order

that im too scattered

that im unorginal

that i dont stand up for myself

that im too agressive

that im too hard

that im overly romantic

that im contradictory

that im uncompremising

that i paint too my pictures

that i indulge the mad

that im only interested in american indians

that im a soft touch

that i dont say no

that im awkward on purpose

that i only pretend to speak with an accent

that im uninteligent

that im self taught

that I think too much

that ive ritten to many poems

that im mono

love

inside and out

for ever sharp knife

for ever butiful robin

for ever dead worm

for ever snow flake

for ever sun

for ever moon

forever

love

inside and out

impeccable

even in madness

god asked me too look after these cats

to feed them

and to love them

thats what i do

even if im feeding them tins of

the last of the seas butiful fish

god asked me to paint these pictures

to draw them

in the world

thats what i do

spooning on toxic chemicals

cadmium

and

vermilion

god asks that we be impeccable

even in madness

2 hands

2 biscits

vic called my 3 year old son a brat

for wanting another biscit

whilest he stood there

necking his 5th bottle

there no point explaing

to the cunt

that

children have 2 hands

and its not greed

its one biscit for

each hand

hears one for my father

who is jelloiuse of me

my father

who is jellouse of me

how can that be?

my father

who is jelloise of me

no one can belive it

my father

who is jelloise of me

he dosnt wish me well

my sperm are unwelcome compertion

thats why he dosnt speak to me

my father

who is jelloise of me

that why love has deserted me

my father

who is jelloise of me

so like jesus

i have had to learn to love

myself

my father

who is jelloise of me

no one can belive the actions that have

been taken against me

my father

who is jelloise of me

no one can belive the abuses

my father

who is jelloise of me

they presume its all lies

that i can not be blameless

my father

who is jelloise of me

my desire to win has been visious flame

my father

who is jelloise of me

ive torchted others whove strayed too near

bothers sisters haters and liers

my father

who is jelloise of me

tearing down others has caused

grace to flee from me

my father

who is jelloise of me

it seams that defending myself is somehow

an affront to god

and my father

who is jelloiuse of me

as if my ink hates the paper

they say i have

haunted eyes

that im bitter

that i eat snakes

and vomit cookt eggs

they say there is a list of those who hate me

and

that i add to it daily

the riters say i cant rite

go paint

the painters say i cant paint

go rite

my huge interlect is mistaken for

a brasil nut

or salty ignorance

my humourious calves are mistaken for anger

YES ANGER!

the fact that i breath

wild irisesis is out weighed

by the nessity

that I am taunted by the serpents

that lurk benieth their stems

they say i am grim mouthed

that i grew a mustash to hide my desitfull teeth

that kittens that dare come near me

by course are doomed to weave like eels

they speak of me as if they know me

and are expert on my motives

that my poems are a tangled net

as if my ink hates the paper

the names of things

how i love the names

of things

and

colours of things

after bath time

my mother

telcompodered my feet

and pulled

on clean socks

‘these are fawn socks’

she told me

‘you musnt get chapped

between your toes’

thats how she proved that she loved me

and how i loved that word fawn

fawn was a magical colour

or why else would she say it?

fawn

ment baby deer

and dappeled fern

and dappled oak

of gentleness and love

and

i love the names of things

and the colours of things

for there-in lies their special meaning

she askt

why i wore gray

didnt i like colour?

gray is the

the colour of bark and moths

i answered

yes she was lecturing me on colour

for she was spiritual

and loved blank white and garishness

and

in her expert estermation

i was dull

like gray

the sweet name of gray

so many colours in gray

pink

yellow

and

violet

gray of slate

and blue

and horizon and fog

gray loves all other colours

with such gay abandon

gray

the colour of bark and moths

how can i become valid

each poet

will

con you

shame faced

tell you

that

their love is more

intuative

their passion more

scarlet

their pain more

keenly sliced

their wound more

winsome and ousing

their suffering

sharper

deeper

and

jagged

or at least more eloquently spoken of

illustrated

communicated

and

valid

yes

how can i become valid

asks the poet

a friend askt

what it feet like being pregnant?

my wife replyed:

like ive swallowed a bloon full

of water with a fish in it

jesus said

the kingdom of god is already here

breath heaven

into your harts

open your palms

draw down gods kingdom

like putting on your vest

or throwing away a chest of draws

it surrounds you

like the good air

it tweets like a blue tit

it has a nose drawn with chalk

dancing pattens on the pavement

the puppet of a badger

dont scorn it with ignorance and greed

nor

hold it at bay with fear

but

behead it like a bottle top

my fathers hand

white like my own

but holding a gin bottle

2 others already empty in his gob

his damp whiskers

and some drunken bird on the sofa next to him

mum was in hospital with tb

and

his eyes

watery blue

bulging

i'd of stuck em with a fork

just to whatch em bleed

and

his hair - blond

he liked his hair

and his face swelled and peeling

on acount of the paroxide

not much love in him to detect

but inamered with his own missery and drama

his hands

ripping out the electrisity

chucking the tv across the floor christmas eve

or punching the old girl

a suited man

a supirior man

a white handed man

a gin-handed man

to be a prospective tory mp

but nickt for drug smugling

and they slung him in reading jail

and

treated him ‘like he was a bludy criminal!’

his white hand

blue vained like mine

passing me the green bottle

to sip it

and drink the lies

forget the romance of the bottle

i have no desire to be a riter

only

to be

happy lovesome and whole

theres no value to become

somone

only to be no one

and

its no great shakes

to be spark out in barcolona on 10 fat trebels

of spanish brandy

using the curbstone as a pillow

legs jutting out into the road

waiting for some passing maniac

to do a weel spin in your guts

because your sad and

alone

and have fuckt too many

and lost too many

and been burnt

by every girl

who has laid her sex ridden eyes on you

and waking

you realise your idiocey

stand

and walkuprite into the bar

to order another double of their

butiful sugary brandy

the stupid mans dunce

and someone labeld me

‘the stupid mans dunce’

and it stung

and it hurt

and i likt it

a good insult

after all

invigourates the soul

like a cold shower

a stinging slap

the stupid mans dunce?

yes

i can be that for you

and more

in kind

loved and reviled

for my idocys

wearing antlers

wearing antlers

a stagman steps

thru the spiders web

into the world

of dreams

many are gathered there

antlered

stood upright

caught chomping on mouthfuls of wet grass

there eyes seamstartled

but

actually they are shy and as hollow as a barrel

these ghost of faded dreams

empty wounds

how butiful are our wounds

the poetry wound

the art wound

the sex wound

the money wound

longing for gods kiss

the kiss of ourselfs

a beggers hat with a hole in

no one meets me who dosnt fall instentainusly

in love with me

or at least loath me a little

they cant fail but be impressed my robust credentails

by the obsenity of my werk

by the bredth and magnitude

or at least they think ive been pissing in the wind

everywhere i step artist and poets

are clamering for love

for the rite to print money and demand

special privlegesover the scum

scratching out a few drawings here

or sewing their name on someones face there

shaking their paultry achivements in my face

like a beggers hat with a hole in it

kissing the arse of the godess

an american bar or diner

sat beside a wooden balistrade

a vail of gause thalfs the room

on the other side of the vail and facing in the oppersite direction

sat a poet jellouse of my success in the world

he wears a white suite and is

acompanied by his wife

and although i know that he is unhappy

with his lot - his love life and crummy carreer

i understood that we are

sat in a parralel universe

where he is content forfilled and happy

and i relise too that within that universe

all that is imperfect is perfict

co-exitisting along side our

persived reality

putting myface to the gause

i walked along its length

the gause brushing past both sides of my face

till i see

a woman with her back to me

naked

a butifull arse

and i put myface between her

soft buttocks

and breath

and tounge her arse

and the flesh eitherside my face is soft

ample and fragent

and there was nothing sorded

or sexual

just a strong reality

so i kiss the arse

of the goddess

afraid of nothing

knowing my own intelegence and significence

i embrace stupidity and insignifecence

valuing god

i bask in this dark earths shadow

stood naked upon

a trapdoor

that opens thru

vunrability

and embarisment

thru an inadiqusey

of paint

and

words

and

charchole

so i make scratchings

in broken style

and

broken

words

sure of delusion

i free myself of delusion

hiding behind

impenetriable abilty

i mock impenetriable abilty

but not love

for

to taste gods love is to be alive

unafraid

open

and raw

so i paint and draw

inviteing anihalation

they talk of love

they talk of love

but there scearsly is love

or if there is love

then it is a

maudling

sacrine kind love

more akin to fear than love

a love without love

where hatred is truer but hotly denied

a self surving and nocturnel love

creeping and repugnant

like a mans hoary hand on a childs thigh

empty

bitter love

enjoying a good row and a puch up

a love quick to the attack

a love viciously defended

a love bloated paranoid and nurotic

a love unlovingly championed

in league with lies and the devil

a love which will hate you if you ever dare

call its bluff

i am their damaged megaphone

dead artist speak to me

and thru me

youd do very smartly to listen

they speak to me

with voices filled with mud and clay

and decay

people feel violated by the stench of their breath

they are not desert prophets

or nessissary sat next to god or the devil

but i am sat smack in the midst of them

their rotting teeth wispering

black thorts in my ear

i am their damaged megaphone

barking out across the nite

calling for

art with out art

love with out love

hate without hate

lite without lite

and

youed do very smartly

to shut up and listen

she said

because i am an artist

everything i do is art

and if you dont like it

then you dont love me

and

i said

everything i do is rubbish

because im a dustman

and if you dont like dirt

then your stupid

and

everything i do is a song

because i am a black bird

that i shot with a gun

when i was young

and if you dont like my song

then you are rong

and

everything i eat is a cake

i baked when i was small

that no one liked at all

and

everthing i see is an eye

because i am looking

and

if you dont see me

you are blind

because everything

is god

see me in the allyways

kissing

contradiction

and

fucking

and

pornography

and god

who you thort you were

you are not

what you thort matters

dosnt

yes

ile not be a poet for you

yes

ile not be a muscian

yes

ile refuse to be english

or spanish

or grow eagle feathers

or stand on 1 leg

see

me in the allyway

kissing

and

fucking

and

pornography

and god

for

nothing i do is art

appology

the artist sometimes known

as billy chydish

would like to hereby appologise

for nurturing cunt smart-arsed eloquence

and contradiction

and for

encouraging spurious tossers

artist

poets

mucicians and tossers

and

for

brandishing his cock and balls

like a spring daffodil

get this rite:

for

percived indiscreations

- passed and futcher

your rong

i am inocesnt

so look on me wth love

as if your feeding a tame bird in your hand

old me

with a

lack of malice

and caliousnes

if your seeing ghosts and daemons

when you look at me

own them

and

siting christ the buddha and god

for

the

pain he has done

for

poems he has done

is missing the point

sitting drawing my homburg hat

on the chatham train

dont take art to

sacredly

the mushroom is sacred

the moth

the pea

blown blossom

and

falling acorn

and certenly

the world

slipping between your fingers

full of colour

and

vigiour is sacred

the

sacred is

unholdable

painting a picture could be sacred

but not the picture

at hart

i agree

with people who say that

im not a real poet

or real musician

that

my werk is derivative

and worthless

that i cant paint

cant draw

and that my nose is too big

invisable

i painted a demon

stood with its clawed feet

upon a babys head

and

in its deamons hands

dripped the babys hart torn from

its socket

no one commentated

on this dog faced apperition

that visted my werk

back then

grining out at them

it was so real

it became invisible

buti better

than gaudy perfection

was it really

nessissary for me

to always

fall in love with women who hated me

i would now like to choose the prettyist of them all

hold their hand

climb a snowy mountain

and gaze at a firey dawn

the snow streaked with crimson

and

purple blud-shadows

flung here and there abouts

like varricious vains or violets

all over-done

much

like a munch of turner mite daub

that some how catches buti better

than gaudy perfection

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