Denying The Rhymes

Hi, I'm David. I'm from London. This is a collection of borrowed images and original poems in an attempt to loosen up and free my words from their hiding.
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy fog.

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy fog.

I had a dream the other night where my best friend, who’s been away in the States for a few months, and I were out in the desert just talking and bickering and laughing and hanging out as we always do. In the dream we were pelicans, or possibly some other large feathered fiend… Hell, I don’t know. I’m no bird expert mannn. Well I scrambled for the pen and here’s the strange and sweet poem born from the strange and sweet dream.

Burning Dandy


Burning dandy.
Feathers soaked in tar
Laying down, eyes shut
In a bathing hole in San Jose.
But the spread those boys reach,
Tallons born from stone and ink.
He’s dry in no time.
Mischief on his lips.
“What shall we do next?”
I don’t know. 
How about over there?

We’re in the groove again. 
A groove of pink noise and grey jazz and liquid youth.
We skip lazy stones in sinister waters.
We take a half dozen on the chin.
We howl with the pride of bleached blank doormen.
We nip at the heels of those who know no better.
Do it all with a grin. 
Slipping pebbles in the boots of mum and dad.
I’ve got this whole thing figured out you’d say. 
I’d nod and we’d bump fists.

Midnight on the dunes.
We kick the golden dirt, kick it real good, 
Kick it so good it no longer shines and we talk.
Talk so long our shadows grow twelve feet. 

Our souls lay calm in a shallow basin.
We touch on profound things.
We touch on things that no man says.
Not in the mirror. 
Not in the public house at blind dawn.
I stretch and yawn and arch my back like a plastic ruler bent down on a plastic desk.
Wings flat and sleeping in the sand.
Beak clicking and restless and chewing humid rye.
You make things and a racket and emerge with a wicker bench.

We sit and shoot shit at one twenty five miles an hour.
We squark.
We lock horns.
We resist.

A bus pulls up and we board.
Slouched snug at the back. 
Feet deep in the upholstery.
Backs to the wind. 
No oil on the seats.
Not a trace.

I had a dream the other night where my best friend, who’s been away in the States for a few months, and I were out in the desert just talking and bickering and laughing and hanging out as we always do. In the dream we were pelicans, or possibly some other large feathered fiend… Hell, I don’t know. I’m no bird expert mannn. Well I scrambled for the pen and here’s the strange and sweet poem born from the strange and sweet dream.


Burning Dandy

Burning dandy.
Feathers soaked in tar
Laying down, eyes shut
In a bathing hole in San Jose.
But the spread those boys reach,
Tallons born from stone and ink.
He’s dry in no time.
Mischief on his lips.
“What shall we do next?”
I don’t know.
How about over there?

We’re in the groove again.
A groove of pink noise and grey jazz and liquid youth.
We skip lazy stones in sinister waters.
We take a half dozen on the chin.
We howl with the pride of bleached blank doormen.
We nip at the heels of those who know no better.
Do it all with a grin.
Slipping pebbles in the boots of mum and dad.
I’ve got this whole thing figured out you’d say.
I’d nod and we’d bump fists.

Midnight on the dunes.
We kick the golden dirt, kick it real good,
Kick it so good it no longer shines and we talk.
Talk so long our shadows grow twelve feet.

Our souls lay calm in a shallow basin.
We touch on profound things.
We touch on things that no man says.
Not in the mirror.
Not in the public house at blind dawn.
I stretch and yawn and arch my back like a plastic ruler bent down on a plastic desk.
Wings flat and sleeping in the sand.
Beak clicking and restless and chewing humid rye.
You make things and a racket and emerge with a wicker bench.

We sit and shoot shit at one twenty five miles an hour.
We squark.
We lock horns.
We resist.

A bus pulls up and we board.
Slouched snug at the back.
Feet deep in the upholstery.
Backs to the wind.
No oil on the seats.
Not a trace.

Don’t plant your bad days. They grow into weeks. The weeks grow into months. Before you know it, you got yourself a bad year. Take it from me - choke those little bad days. Choke ‘em down to nothing.

—Tom Waits (via themilkywhiteway)

(Source: victoriouscorvid, via thegirlyouthinkabout)

Virginia Woolf & Vanessa Bell

Virginia Woolf & Vanessa Bell

Ryan McGinley

Ryan McGinley

TEN. (text)

Hot tarmac bleeds
New symphonies
In the space from A > C
And you’re with me.
In previous
Shimmering
Dancing incarnations.
A silhouette; indigo
Great and all-consuming
And the burning man?
He conjures lust
For there is plenty in the soul!
An epiphany unraveling
Oh my! Great summit!
Those that glow
Are those
Who dreamt it.

New Poem: TEN. Image: Ryan McGinley - Night Sky (Green), 2009.

New Poem: TEN. Image: Ryan McGinley - Night Sky (Green), 2009.