He Said, She Said

My name is Chris

I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;

‘We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee’
poet.

So to you I said ‘I’m ill’
‘Care to spill?’ she hisses.
‘Yes’ I said

My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
‘Prince and King Godber’
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded  dwarf on a throne.

She responds;
simple, penile, surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain’t slept…
Small cock? Na cock, but let’s not go into it tonight,
naked.

In her dreams he’s laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn’t know till it was too late.

The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire

Pain. Passion, Nighttime.

‘Do what thou Wilt’ says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.

I did, I do, I do – boom boom. no one laughs.

She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don’t you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair

so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to kill myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.

Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.

Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming fuck this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half pissed,
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that’s saying something.

Come and bathe yourself in my immortal quim, she bleats
‘look it up in your encyclopedia of shames’
you’ll just find a picture of a woman.

It’s intoned meaning
It’s poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.

screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, vomit on the doormat.

Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna kill us.

Already has.

Fuck it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don’t go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.

Pyramids processing

Way past 12

yet still I am awake
the world sin,
in a pen
conforming lights,
this is the world now?
digitized in bytes
digitized in bites and bytes.
we are ever distant, we don’t
gaze at each other on these nights
we just digitize , digitize bytes
process instead of feel
and distract ourselves
forever encased in the mud of the machine.
Lets jump on the lifeboat
and find ourselves homes
to root in, not another boot that breaks the skin
Emote, and feel
don’t process
with a zeal that begs

Hello, my eyes are portals

When I was 17 I saw God:

Not the usual kind of God, the kind you see on TV commercials.
I saw the grand picture opening in the skies, I saw a window opening me up into a world beyond intellect,beyond me. Egoloss, an absolute Donnie Darko vision of infinity.

Man I love that film, it meant more to me than words can say, and should.

I think I was Frank in another life, I mean I saw myself as Donnie and that’s what I’ve became, A schizophrenic man in a movie theatre, captured forever on screen.

It’s metaphor. Frank is a metaphor. Frank is for drug addicts. I am…

One year earlier:

Gay just means happy

Gay means Happy!

“hmm”, I thought “interesting”, Americanisation of the word for a gay person, “not.”

‘I’m English mate, fags are what we smoke”, “watch your language on the server” I thought, and shortly after this the word “Motherducker” moved across my lips. I was MrCrispy on Xbox Live and I was excited by Halo. Excited by the idea that maybe technology could bring us together to… kill one another (In a safe manner of course and with the minimum of actual killing involved, the less said about previous N64 007 Goldeneye rivalries from the years before, the better frankly!)

Fag! the boy screeched again down his headphone, squealing like a pig when he laughed.

‘Dude shut the fuck up’ his friend spoke loudly in the background.
“Nigger, Nigger Nigger”
“Fags! Fags! Fags!”
“Nigga Nigga Nigga”
“Faggots, Faggots, Goddamn Faggots”
“What the fuck are you people on about?” I thought

“A Fag is a cigarette” I said.

Motherduckers! Motherduckers! Motherduckers! The word I invented! Time to drop it like it was hot.

“You are all Motherduckers!”

They put down their headsets and laughed even more, I can’t recall for how long. Shocked at the seemingly foreign language I had uttered to them, which is so often garbled. Motherducker also known as ‘Northern Slang’ for a boy who wants to have sex with his mates mums, I didn’t by the way, in case you were worried, which you’re not, I invented that word, I think?

“Yeah, yeah yeah” I thought you fucking stupid kids, you don’t know shit. Americans! Sigh , goodnight world, Hello El Gooseio! How’s it hanging bra! And yeah I did mean bra, bra!

Bra as in her bra? Yeah bra! Brah you did what brah? Brahhhhhh , oh really her bra? Yeah brah haha.

I was 16 then, now I’m 29.

I’m a man now I guess, 30 coming far too soon, I feel old, washed out and am certainly not bold on Halo servers anymore. I sometimes look down and sift through copies of old videogames and videos on a computer searching for something resembling truth. Which is sad and could be time spent better getting lost in the eyes of a good woman or something, I dunno, I mean I

I am thirty soon, damn, thirty. An actual three and an actual zero, am I where I thought I would be? Duck no…

Motherfuckers the word I use now, and the sacred powerword of motherducker rarely sees the light of day, reality is a bitch and that bitches name is Congleton, the hell where I now live. A Hell ridden with charity shops and Tories, on every corner a blue.

And my own blood runs red.

Sartre said hell is other people;
Given he was French his attitude is surprising, and also wrong. Hell is giving a shit, Hell is giving too much of a shit, hell is giving twenty quid of the money your Dad gave you to a homeless person who then uses it for nefarious purposes, hell is seeing your friends get paranoid out of their face on speed, hell is being ‘a bit’ of a drug addict. And yeah I used the words ‘a bit of’. Because I am sarcastic and middle class, though I’ve always thought of myself as Working Middle Class.

Welcome to hell. Welcome to Congleton. Welcome to my life, there should be a theme song. This would be; Still thinking the bastardisation of our culture won’t abate, Trump will win the election, the pundits will cheer on FOX news, the scaremongering Owls will laugh and the pigs will squeal, power tripping will continue, but you know what, I’m free!

Just need to put that in rap form, and I’m made!

Here’s some poop for you, and by poop I mean truth aimed squarely at American Kids on Halo Servers who are probably much older and wiser dudes now, Do not, I repeat , Do not vote Trump, he appeals to the very worst in the American People. fearmongering and scaremongering, quick to judge and even quicker to impose a heavy fist on those people who are now most at need.

And here’s some more personal perspective: I want to live in a world where gay men aren’t called fags by people who should know better and where we don’t casually toss around the word ‘nigga’ as white people, without an implicit understanding of the power of those words to wound. A world where black people are being needlessly killed by corrupt cops on a regular basis.
Just think how you use language – I’m learning to.

To put this in perspective. My own personal shame however was my stupid attitude to a certain day in 2001 day on the school bus, where I was a dick, and blamed all Muslims for 9/11 in a fashion not dissimilar from a knee jerking up and down quickly. I’ve undone that particular sin, or have in part by having a conversation with a brilliant Muslim during my time being a bit poor and losing myself in South London.Tehmoor helped shed some particular illusions I had about how reason and Faith can live side by side, to how logic and spirit can hold hands, and how we can avoid more conflict by recognising how similar we are. That is the way forward, don’t divide the word further, bring it closer together, be the “world child, form the circle” as my musical hero Thom Yorke once sang on a dark day. And we must remember that on dark days we must form yet more circles.

Muslims have integrated into British culture, and I myself as a self confessed Pantheist can attest to this from personal experience. Of course ISIS is a creeping and present threat to the stability,but in the words of the great Charlie Chaplin should we now  ‘hate instead of love?’

You could say, how terrible to utter these words – curious, as if love is some kind of game to be understood, Wittgenstein understood that communication and is kind of game, and I guess it drove him a bit doolally in the end.

Not the love part though I’m sure, that’s the good stuff I don’t understand yet,  I mean the ways human beings play games with language, which seems to me the cheapest game. I’m a white liar, the kind of liar who finds it hard to admit to himself when he’s wrong, like all men at times, but you know what, I’m learning, I’m evolving and I’m learning to grow as a human now, not as a kid on Xbox, shouting strange insults at 13 year old American Kids because I’m tired of living. I am finding reasons to live.

My life as a 17 year old Stoner, it ended finally in disaster, in a sentence that quite literally causes me pain: Macclesfield Adeplhi Ward, 2 weeks – voluntary patient, cannabis Induced Psychosis, Final Dx : Schizo- affective (Bipolar type)

In and out of wards till the end of time then?

Na just till I’m 30. I still never judge those who like to “toke” though

“in fact I am known as the most high
JA RASTAFARI Lord of Creation”

My name is Chris Godber and
my current addictions are coffee, smoking and the Internet
because I actually want to live past 30
I’m trying to cut out the last one.

South Park IS mint

The Siren

Fuck just the poetry

This is my blog for the tunnel art collective, a London based art blog working for strong and daring art! Searching for new forms of art in the 21st century…

My poems will remain-

But now is the time for mixing all the forms and working on art, poems music and video art mixed in one!!

The SIREN

Manifestos upons manifestos to come

Hit me Artists

Two freestyle poems – Human God Bridge and Maze lead to Self (Manic Miner)

Two freestyle poems from tonight

The first and shorter of the two is Human God Bridge – which is a snappy poem, jumping from a bunch of random images to a general point. – mixed but some good bits in there

Maze lead to Self (Manic Miner) seems to me to be about building up an ego for my poetical self and features many of my usual subjects (Space, mind, third eyes, mental health etc)

Daydream on the DLR

Daydream on the DLR

I so often get lost on the train
my mind wonders – to strange and thoughtful places,
I seep through the carriages and people like a gliding ghost
half existent in transient memory,
a translucent thin veil membrane separating me
from this reality,
and the shifting worlds of imagination.

My imagination overwhelms me often, it is powerful and I feel lost
in my internal worlds and can’t connect to anything external from my own process,
my own neurosis – I want to get beyond my neurosis,
my fears, my stupid little set backs.

Fear itself becomes a huge beast in my mind,
a multi-limbed Kali staring at me with half crazed eyes,
meeting me with the intention of true chaos – a challenge.
I wish to climb the ladder that suddenly appears and become myself;
Infinite in direction and potential
I want to love myself and be loved.
I want to love,
I want to love.

I stare out of the window again, streets, signs and derelict buildings
zoom and melt into one huge encompassing space,
one straight up urban landscape.
And as I am enveloped in this concrete world
via the mechanistic medium of train

I wonder:
Will I ever feel better?
will I ever feel peace?
Will I ever know love?
will I ever understand?
and do I really want to?

Truth is such a hard pill to swallow in the end.
I imagine anyway, I imagine.

Do you?

The Siren – a Manifesto for All and None

The Siren:
A manifesto for all and none
By Chris Godber

A poem to set the tone;

Blast!
The siren at the core of everything

There is a blast in every mind
a boom which blows a thousand embers
in twenty one or so directions
as mind rips itself intwine searching for
an answer or clue.

The question is compulsion
obsessive drive
to mention the everything in a sentence
and bashing pen or key
correct the logic of the universe in
a heartbeat

To bottle up tragedy and beauty
scribbling equations on broken doors
in otherwise empty rooms
to desiginate
the meaning
the meaning
the meaning

Zooming through digital archives
searching for a memory which
cannot and will not resist / persist
internal contradictions will not hold
beyond the walls of this concrete cage
where we hold the frankenstein at bay
clawed at wall with tortured fingers.

Bombastic fireworks fly in mind, flaring up
memory of youth
looking at fireworks now with age worn eyes
and dreaming of space will not solve the riddle of this
loneliness or help the ache at half past 12
the ache that speaks of ‘seen it all before’
To blast open a book
to blast open a mind
to open the gates screaming in ecstasy
mad visionary rusting demons shouting
at top of lungs
for fuck sake, for love, for life!

Of lord there is nothing now
our solitude is as song
singing amongst the stars
a siren to call us to a new dawn

End Poem

It calls us to a new dawn! The future cries from some infinite crack in space / time , cries to us to dig ourselves into metaphorical bomb shelters and arm our minds cannons to set off blazing art bombs in the minds of men.

Don’t ever fear the future, if you feed that fear you dispel the mind warriors / philosophers of past who dined on thought and suffered for it…

[Blast open your mind, smash your television, embrace your mother, father and lover with hugs glowing brightly with golden light ]

Hack the syntax of reality – Hack and subvert the system which bind and control you through black humour.

Definitions of intent:
We start by defining that which we desire and that which we desire to obliterate

Desire:

Passion, Humour, Romanticism, powerful city vistas, burning suns swirling in infinite daydreams, the infinite, futuristic day dreams, metallic dream palaces… Nature and technology kissing with tongues

Obliterate:

The conformity of consumer society, the chessboard of controlling politics, advertising bill boards, do not look at them – smash your tv’s and embrace the information society of future where all is free and the grids of information smile in joy every time they see our old weathered faces, deep in the mountains of Zu!

Forms

To further clarify the intent and vision here is a list of the forms our desperate souls expression takes

Music,
Art,
Noise,
Poems,
Multimedia
dream experiences,
spontaneous improvised dancing and joy on the underground,
destroying advertising through subversion,
free art left on tube
ripping up messages from corrupt newspapers!
Anarchy of machine spirit
destruction of control matrix

Form breakdown

Music

Our music will be loud, bombastic, experimental, unafraid of breaking boundaries and ears to search for something new, a nuclear bomb of sound waves reverberating through halls! Droning techno whales in a sea of information. Remote controlled robot orchestras. Laptop’s playing symphonies, punk rock cyborgs!

Art

radical , sharp ended , violent love poems to the infinite will of man and woman to overcome himself / herself , bustling mind bombs of energy. No limitations on mediums, use materials in every conceivable way – love material, love the challenge, love the experiment.

Poetry

Blossoming love beat poems, vortex riding words in a syntax of oceanic chaos dissolving into order – a new generation raised on hopeful words – an explosion of language, form, the click click of the keyboard serves as rhythm , the beating of our hearts to a double beat informs the flow!

Noise

Take every idea and throw into the mixer – create noisetone and experimental noise tracks about your mother! Burn bright supernovas in your mind to keep away the dark black holes that drill away – make drill space poems about exploring our higher intention to travel!

Reversing the feed – subversion of newspaper
Don’t like what your newspaper tells you – rip it to shreds – draw moustaches on models and scribble over the lies of politicians – reverse the drip feed of information until information itself is free everywhere! Throw your papers in the canels of London, dance in the streets and party until your feet ache from the movement in the dark.

Dreams
Record your daydreams – every impulse – ride them to their logical conclusions
time to dream a dream again…