D M H Goldsbrough

ALL THE PLEASURES IN THE WORLD

2010-06-20T12:37:00.000-07:00

http://ifile.it/0wyhl3m

Here is the link to download the pdf of my book "ALL THE PLEASURES IN THE WORLD" (copy and paste address into new window)

Poems that connect to tell the story of me, my (ex) lover and her dead love across 7 nations, 3 continents. Its about everything. It's good.

The artwork is by this kid Grim, he says.. "This cover is about fame and love and power. Money is everything"

So after all the events entailed here I was a little broken hearted, but, never broken, I spent the last of my money on this ticket to New York…why not? It IS the summer. I want to be at the centre of it all. I have some poems to give. I kinda want to fall in love, but I’m not trying. (Albino rat just walked past) First day here, my best friends wife came down from Montreal to visit, we slept in graveyards, on trains, Coney island beach, under Christmas trees in Central Park like unopened presents.
One week later I had found a “squat” That let me sleep on the floor for two days… I haven’t left. I love these guys… punks, young hobos, 43 year old graffiti writers, breakcore DJs, filmmaking anarchists, 911 truth movement leaders, alcoholics, methodone heads, skateboarding kids, artists. Doors often get kicked in here, we can fight one day and hug the next, there are no “house meetings.” A rough approximation of some form of anarchist society. “Do what you want” in the best way possible. For those that know me, this is Albion street times ten and it is black coal sun glare brilliant. I have almost all I need, except a few hundred copies of my book, but I’m working on it. Here we are humid. Here we are already in love.

Practice non-action.
Work without doing.
Taste the tasteless.
Magnify the small, increase the few.
Reward bitterness with care.
See simplicity in the complicated.

Achieve greatness in little things.

In the universe the difficult things are
done as if they are easy.
In the universe great acts are made up
of small deeds.
The sage does not attempt anything
very big,
And thus achieved greatness.

Easy promises make for little trust.
Taking things lightly results in great
difficulty.
Because the sage always confronts
difficulties,
He never experiences them.

-Tao Te Ching

I Think UR Dumb

2010-06-19T17:47:00.000-07:00

I Think UR Dumb

I was close to saving her, London,
told everyone about it, preached
her merits to Argentinean girls in secret
canals one has to jump security gates to reach.

We had a fight not in the least clean,
pulling each the others hair, sleeping on her rooves ,
she evicted me from my squats,
poisoned me with fermented apples,
spied me most moments with the ugliest
eyes ever, spiked eyelashes, black bubbles.
I knew she couldn’t watch 400 televisions at once,
even too sinister for a plague town that burns
down, labours 8 year old boys in it’s soot.

So I rode the rat tunnel tube in rush hour
children scraped out of clay in 1863,
long after the rats moved on.
Wrote on the glass in permanent ink,
messages like “I think UR dumb”, Stooges lyrics,
no one saying shit- her eyes blind.

Keep wanting to quote it-
“I thought everything would be different after me”
I throw myself on the fire.

Found a free warm room and beer
but the aging cockney hotelier keeps blubbering
about his dead mother, his cancer,
screams at his lover, wants to show me his dick.
She sent cocky cads to feel up my woman in her sleep-
I rammed down doors on Borough High St
with a young Pole and changed the locks.

Hackney
is not
Dead

Yet.

The squat party, last round.
I don knuckle dusters made of flowers- bitch,
it was all reckless beauty.
Pogo to the punk shouting “cunt”
rejoice in the samba- ten drummers
in the crowd-whistles, that anarchist girl,
feathered mask, bare midriffshe
flicks her hair.
the wall states “we are ALL Zapatistas!”
she flicks her hair.

Many of the people there WERE my lovers,
hugging a mad South African screams-
“I FUCKING LOVE YOU YOU CUNT!”
Best night of my life- purple
daisy bruises round the Queen’s eye.

Cocaine tickles the little hairs in my nose.
Cider sits in my gut.
Got a gram of MD and ate it all
with wondrous abandon.

The party ends in a fight.

This is as close I will come to death without dying.
Intense sinking blunt floating
It was all ketamine, heart stop-starting.
This must be what they mean by K-hole.
Can’t move any muscles, mouth, legs,
vomit falling all about the place, drunk puppet
words drip like a jawless zombie on smack.
Walk- collapse- walk- collapse.
Pretty Irish voice, movement,
“can you see my finger love?”
but I can’t talk.
Desperate for the safety of the mud

I make it, closing anvil weighted eyelids.
“Come to the light”, but there is no light,
blackish, and I am pulled thru and thru.
London, she is beckoning me out of life.
It is nice, I think of Steven, My Grandfather,
at least after the pain there is black and floating
warm, everything hugs me all at once,
I know there’s nothing to be afraid of there.
Back in Hackney, there is,
someone is robbing me now.

This is not real, this is a sleeping pill,
this is chlorophyll nap.
I will stay with the shit with the filth.
I’m not going yet.
I have no idea how I got back to Brixton
8 hours later , busses, trains, dreams.

We had a fight not in the least clean,
pulling each the others hair, breaking and entering,
5 days of heart palpitations, spitting in faces.

I thought everything would be different after me,
still can, still here,
plenty of love to make.

In the aftermath of your party I drink ash and butts again

2009-06-11T01:37:00.000-07:00

Lipstick kisses me
from head jobbed glass rims,
sediment gleefully swallowed
salt smilingly licked.

Never mind the lemon faced bitches
that came before.
I would have shot them down
but their ego's did it for me
They left earlier
with fine featured stick boys
and forgot if they had a cunt.

As I step over coma corpses
and rifle thru handbags
in the grey light I realise...
This style can't be bit
only heaved urgent glorious,
hands and knees
over white porcelain world
screamed hot to a shithole.

Nothing else can be done.

So I take every drop
that wasn't given
and every cut lip
ash-tounge that comes,
knowing the sun is on my side.

A poem is thicker than blood

2009-06-09T22:49:00.001-07:00

(For R A K Mason)

Grandma used to like to fuck all the poets,
those who weren't too black
and large of gut
(even then I don't know, Hone?)
I mean, I like that really
because the more I write these words
the more the women DO come.

I don't know his first name-
remember a English teacher
mentioning him once.
Mum has read a biography
said-he threw his books
into the ocean,
stopped writing the shit at 25.

Still like Rimbaud now
but- more at twenty.
Sometimes, I want to slap his young face
-look into his old prune eyes
as he dies in whores.
let the barstards win.
Gave us one good vert wail,
left with no more wisdom
to depart
like my own runaway Dad.

There is a lost girl out here
with all these Father
phantoms to choose.
A young Mother makes the obvious,
Someone who was old, wise-
would give us all a man really can
- an honest heart, all the flaws.
She changed our names to Bukowski...
could be worse.

So I googled you man,
found a poem-
you talked of spitting scorn,
lost identity,
deathless fame
and inheriting immortality.
And there was a quote...
"poetry could and should be
a thing of the people
but at the same time profound"

So this DNA test
is neither here nor there.

You died mad without seeds
but, you have done enough
for me to call you Grandad
and you have more children
than you can understand.

2009-06-08T05:47:00.001-07:00

2009-06-08T05:47:00.000-07:00

Central park

2009-06-08T05:45:00.000-07:00

Someone told me
"Pain is fuel,
But you don't need that to write,
son"

A perfect day is medication
the nation of the pharmacy
groans under my featherweight
and no catacomb's claws
or gravity of concrete
can touch me
forever
or for these hours
or whichever lasts longer.

I float with the gush of subway grills
and everything belongs to me
because I am poor.

I can't give a care about a catcher on 5th ave.
there is no cancer.
I uninvent Prozac.

100 pigs on motorbikes
can slide thru our park
like salted slugs
and home to their hiding places
and I can't give a care about slugs on Park ave.

I sit on ancient lava
I walk on newly seeded lawns
I drink shots of vodka
with a beautiful woman
and I am not cold.

In the aftermath of your party I drink ash and butts

2009-06-08T05:37:00.000-07:00

Pupils pin small as empathy
tits falling out
crawling under yellow trains.
All these things she says
make me a woman
make me a man.
Two small people
just loving is rare
you struggle
against
each other
like
washing
machines.