Tuesday, 20 August 2013


AZTEC ANGEL: Fine Art by CM for i2i designs international.
Copyright 2013. All Rights Reserved.
Mixed media on box canvass 3.8 x 3.8 metres.
Original signed and available at £7,650.

ONE WAY KISS TRIP or Random Notes from A Journal Of A Space Journey

[for Dan-Paul Flores]

blue eye to eye to your two eyes of hazel brown-green
I ease slow into flying us we
soar heavenly- above the down time-
earth diminishing a distant dot got insignificant
never before rendered so-
a past disaster object presently swift forgot
despite my sweet repeat remembering
night and day in neat perpetual motion
a poisonous snake giving head to its own tail
self masturbating

night as night as night nightly gets
set fair to part the witless from their wits
[the heartless from their tired hearts]
to have a white owl howl at vixens
on the prowl for moist passage to fecundity-
the droning moon a muddle of blue cheese and lies.
In darkness bless
the dim oblivion of moles, hills made, soil processed;
no mountains ever again to climb
or dealing with Mohammed as an unwelcome guest
his pit freshness suspect and the man's crimes made holy fish

day da dit come gaylord as a daisy bonny
air and grace alive with flitting pictures
showing femmehims just how life should be planned
to the 33rd absurd degree of club insanity-
the constant aping of a cracked construct- 'being free'-
the bounded sound of manwom all fuss and poorly rehearsed players
waving brass bassoons and carving tunes from earthly delights
and sin insinuating in like anything in the swim of self-interest
the din insufferable.
No rest. All of the arrested preparing to be lost hung out to dry
by day
at night in plain sight

truth in revolution thrust into the fires of felonious absolution

passing the unnatural passage of irritating ticks
we've not left sexual pleasure behind-
to arse away the time I suckle on the 'God' nipple
tumescent in my aching cake-hole

a meteor shower or was it jettisoned shit

a way-sign indicating years yet to Arcturus

this ship is small our minds both seriously tall wide as wide
touching every eye-lash fluttering on the rim of elsewhere

we fuck
laughid and lamentoid in messy congress
juice unloosed

[we wave clock-bots 'goodbye'
but its just a lazy and habitual semantic lie because
you cannot be with us if you don't exist-
canned canny Canute, our brute bastard offspring of vanity
who gave rise to high-rise religion, schisms and voodoo rhythms]

and the sun shrinks. Blink blink blink.
In our synapse gaps florescent frogs leaping landing
on lily pads. On thick green lily pads they write
of Monet's genius for near blindness-
his hatched eggs made far more desirable than gold.

Hell. We will both be old when we arrive home.

No natter there of battered families of trees
divided by tar ribbons driven through and through
to be hard ridden by mancunts in bland vans-
stuffed with the silence of transporting acquisitions
all switched off waiting to be incandescent in appalling malls
a faux attraction magnetic and luminous
but still not a patch on breathing glow-bugs
gorgeous and gorging on leaves in the fields of tobacco
grown to smoke, to spit, to sniff, to cock a snoot at pain.

Approaching the Pleiades we
recall vacation landing on the Maldives-
oil paint droplets let from nature's dropper
dropped into a vast salt puddle south of India
the land barely afloat ut vivid with
killer flotillas of allsort boats each one after
that same fat dollar swathed in coke dust
and the intimate spoils from a billion greasy palms-
manunkind as ever
damning paradise with perverse versions of events
relentlessly destructive and as populous as rats.
We loved those away days
with the beach crustaceans electric at dusk where we trod.
We loved and lost our love of Mykonos.

The stars the stars the stars- we have come this far
to be in absentia, to be in absentia is bliss a thing both above and beneath
the increasingly sophisticated radar of the masses
as they tune into unstoppable urban sprawl, feet in concrete,
the nauseous orgy of themselves crawling mewling need on need-

its why we left.
We left to seed uncluttered and non-structured Wicca
in the yacht ponds of a distant planet where we were once king
with no evidence of practicing hatred or feckless posturing. We left to leave.

Chris Madoch. August 20 2013. Copyright 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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‎'Put your hands up any heteros in the house. Ah bless. Now put your fists up any gays in the house! Wow! That's more like it- marvellous. I've got this day job, a nice little earner- sales rep for KY Jelly. Look- I know it's a stretch madam but this is supposed to be a laugh. Don't tell me your self-lubricating you're in the OAP seats.' CM

'The fossil stand-up with a walking frame, John Rivers- who thinks jewellery should yell CHEAP louder than fucking canaries on acid said of Yoko Ono- if she found her floating in her pool then she'd punish her dog. I knew that heartless bitch could be cruel to dogs.' CM


Soon to be in an HMV store near you- we wish. NO CHANCE this version with Lee Plonker was disbanded. It has risen like a phoenix from the fires of disappointment though. YAY!


It works. Course I have. Fab.


MORTAL INSTRUMENTS Such are the demands of Hollywood that Lily Collins has to continue to pretend that her former relationship with JCB is in fact alive. A little bird tells me it as a dead as a DODO which was a very big bird indeed. Ha. Just like the writer of Mortal Instruments. Believe me the best thing about this movie franchise will be LILY COLLINS who has just delivered the performance of her life in the soon to be released LOVE ROSIE. An Oscar nomination beckons I reckon. And yes, I am in a position to know. THE NEXT LAME DEVELOPMENT IN SELF-PUBLISHING Saddo outfits such as the much fanned ONEIROS BOOKS actually self-publish authors who are too cowardly, lazy, lousy or inept to self-publish themselves. HILARIOUS. Of course you have to get through the onerous filtering processes. Licking arse helps. Judging by this house's nauseatingly variable standard of output the filters in place are utterly worthless. The poetry editor has no understanding of POETRY per se and is a piss-poor poet by any standard. They openly applaud themselves for being revolutionary. Pathetic. They are but a further evolution of the self-affirmation model and the modernly sociopathic ego. Steer clear. Do not indulge their risible waste of tree.


until you're absolutely perfect at it.


with the total freedom to be and love who you are without complaint or restraint.





This is where the first tracks for the new band will shortly appear but meanwhile I will be showcasing songs from prior collaborations- this first one CALIFORNIAN QUEEN is from the album CERULEAN BLUE that I wrote with the genius Dominic Shaw. I do the spoken word and he does the lead vocals and instruments. He is not a gay man and is now heavily into ambient music. The album was loved by Phil Collins, Hit and Run Music and EMI- but eight years ago no-one had any idea how to market it.