The Poetic Beauty of Urban Decay

 Matter is plastic in the face of Mind.

— Philip K. Dick




& dark and dank inside the dream/

of big shivas/ & gleaming icons/

of memories crossing the frontier/

looking for flickering landmarks/

hands above the shadows/ dry

beyond the light/ I summon bright

monsters against the cruel family!/

I summon bright monsters against

some devil’s sinister leer/ & we stroke

mammoth signs on the flowers – – –

Family of Babylon – nature guts
your love of the copious dollar bill
as the fool’s going past in a different light.


so dazzling in the grave the demon

has died/ scared/ unseeing/ turning

away/ all his wounds/ in front/ you

excrete a trace of sadness/ as coffins

splinter under the weight of the

curious earth – – –








Peter Bies © 2010



The Splintering Sky #2

 So everything lingers but a moment, and hastens on to death. — Arthur Schopenhauer




clouded silent

crossing the frontierbreathless nameless on the edge of the worldlost in broad moonlight& a backward glance a backward glancedown what streets the Mad Poet came singing& talking to himself:




“In Thy most shallow eyes are things which soothe me –as when the grip of change reveal Thy body holy& ever compromising! –    I hit green keys across the sky!”




looking for lovein a different light such a manseek shelter backlit shifting & bright beside the grave #########






Peter Bies © 2010



The Splintering Sky

 “I am an immortal soul tied to the body of a dying animal.”

— William Butler Yeats









out of control


the mad poet/


drifts aimlessly


all through his life/


quiet violet within the fire


wanting evil big above the land:


“I am dark on the splintering sky!”/


where the light comes from
all his wounds

in front











Peter Bies © 2010



This Side Of The Grave

“The logic of these cut-ups, he supposed, was that by making one, you could somehow push back at the medium.” — William Gibson, Idoru





flash cut


to this side


of the grave:



old sky




misty spooks


a glimpse of defeat


flashing past in time-lapse


speeding up in a blur


fading out of focus


the frame froze


on your smile


grey mirror


black bridge














Peter Bies © 2010




Past The Clouds

I hate women because they always know where things are.

— Voltaire




past the clouds
the night will come
cold near the water 

like a quiet dream in the grave

I taste of bitter leeches
all gold beneath their hide

I keep going
scared hungry

trying to read the roads

on my old map








 Peter Bies © 2010


How Can You Be Sure?


“Why, this is hell; nor am I out of it.”

— Christopher Marlowe




I travel my own way

in between gelid nostalgia

& provincial romanticism:

Watching the LEDs

of my time machine

I heard it start to rain.

The gates closed

& the stage was set.

There was no sound

except that of the distant traffic.

But how can you be sure yet?

You must come and see!

The western wastelands!


Too much to take in

all at once.








Peter Bies © 2010


On A Broken Plain

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. — T.S. Eliot




Way cool! my vision

will go

shadowed awake

turning away

a broken promise

& painful regrets

the lovers

come singing

wondering why

our neighbours

take comfort

in strife –

languid neon halo

on a broken plain –
blot out the
silent shadows!









Peter Bies © 2010