The Homonym – Theo Banks


While left falutin’ in tents of fluming, the holy beast came large a-looming; then suppliant he sat colluding – with gasoline and bible.



Surrounded by the rift unending the vision weak and want for rending as in its gaze his heart was spending the boy collapsed in prostrate fear

But his was not the heaving ruin, the ghastly drown of marsh and plume, it bore its name from great balloon which lifted overhead.

Not nightly but displayed in wonder, what could be that piteous thunder which clapped the home and tore asunder morrow which and where?

Thus reclined with floorboards under, he was buried by its splendour called casting down on him to plunder all of him that was yet to come.



Alexi’s drought was the first fought drought that caught in the wind line clean

He it she was not but they in the chattels they held keen

Mix and Murphy felt the turkey

Breast like woman’s heart-felt beat

And touched by man the bird of burden

Descended to just meat.



Replaced by hometorch flow and happy the shadows end their play, the night-time spirits and dark-borne fears washed out by heavenish day. Reposing to such a push to sideline the scampering beasts fell to work and play, until most devilish thought took beacon amongst their plans to sway:

Said thus the Mancer of Liquid Black to the Bloodfiend Ghoul of Grey – withhold your mystic magik of night that you flaunt from lake to moat, for another who lies outside our gates and you shall surely rock their boat! We shall bring vengeful mist on happy day and such fools as dwell within, and you and I shall take their places on the peak of the mount again!


Spit lock brin the bootle spray such noterialious mirth
The free mutt chew of look and play be sleep by hearty hearth
Drop-pins of gold flow on that stage where once the whole flock would meet
The dithering of rancid flies who yet – impatient – stomp their feet
Tap tap tap tap their booted hooves on fecant orchard drummed
Until with momentary haste their prize to them succumbed


Rubies glinting red and brown and wholly lost to mind,
Be flattered by the prince’s gown which elevates their kind.
And similarly flowers that grow alone in forest glade,
Without the knives of hungry men would have little for them paid.
The chaff of mere existence is yet chaff when brought to light,
But the grain that was contained within now fuels the soldier’s might.
What hid’ous monsters are we then who reap and rape and burn?

But we still are uniquely gratified by an ability to learn.


“Maraud Maraud” the monkey’s cry – like ants and wasps and flames
We tear our holy pieces out competing in our games
And through such sport acquire slowly the self that makes us whole
The bustle and hustle and muscle of life is by degrees exchanged for soul


Glinting on the river’s edge the droplet lays awake,

Aware that it is over now, the soil to it take
By torrent there deposited it feels that fade begin
It loses its integrity, and gently soaks right in


Flotsam and jot some then get on with life
That’s all we subsist on to get through the night


Lovely lumpy turpentine grills of Teeth
All arrayed in sunlit terraces piece by brushed steel piece
The chrome of home was not just where the heart lay anymore
The whole body had curled up there some time ago, and was now withering away to nothing,
Leaving Bones, Mind and Teeth.
Immortal molars of a past age, a day of sun and swagger and superstition
There was only one way to be now
And so they were
In perpetual repose


Milk froth broth spit and cough in the trough


Ad-lib your future
It’s not the first time you’ve done it but soon it’ll be the last
And it’s not apparent on paper
But if you hold up your verses to the wind then you’ll have a mast

It’s the golden soda
The only floating indomitable holder
It’s that lord of the underworld,
Who kicks and screams when he’s spoken to
Until he gets the last word,
And reality shakes before him.


Holy brown and burrowing
The stinking bread and frothing brook collapse inward
Where the sea grows and the sky flatly looms
Nothing is safe here, there is no homeward journey
Every step is sacrilege in the open wastes
The stones are turned upwards to the sun:
Their agony is more total than ours, because it is wholly internal
Nothing of their plight can be emitted
But the sure selfhood of rocky being


Moon in circles and flowing dripping formless mass
Days are criminals, each steals its portion from you
At the dawn of the new beginning a profanity is writ large across the red sky:
“I will wither the heart from you”
Before long, dusk creeps up from the bowels of the end
Lays itself like sodden wool over the horizon’s fire
And embalms the past in night’s cool




The harbour quay pulsed like a swarming hive
Dregs of salted rot from the sea were hauled in boats like baskets

Muck was scraped from stones and rusting iron rungs by boot-scratches
Soon to be replaced by fresh spilled slop
Or the growth that followed the rise of the surf.
Gelatine economic frenzy shied barrels and buckets,

Tearing netted fruit from the homely cold expanse
To deposit it by the shoal-load into the acid-pits.
Ropes and rotting wood embraced in blemished matrimony:
These were the town’s most valued branches, overhanging the sea
And lynched from them were the weighty, wealthy bodies of shore-men
Murdered not in malice, revenge or justice,
But in the intersubjective spirit of the hunt
Carried forward on the back of the morphing colossus
Unrecognisable now, but still the fire in the belly and the gleam in the tooth
It had been, and ceaselessly fought to be.
And in the polluted stench of the harbour,
Among the sinewy toil and fermented release,
The flopping, gasping torment and gullish screams,
The death and renewal of hands and wagons –
Circles inscribed in arcing circles –
The rhythm of breath, for a time, held chaos at bay.


Drifting gently down from heaven,
Buoyed from too swift a descent by a colourful silk balloon,
A crystalline palace, no more than an inch tall
All towers and moats and richly adorned great halls
And below it, far down where atmosphere met substance,
The ground opened itself in a mighty chasm to receive this treasure
And the earthly bodies – the faces of flowers and men,

The bellies of lizards and rocks, the horns of mountains and beasts –
Turned skyward, ready to finally touch the divine.


Apathy sets deep in rooted puzzles
The mellow number flashing on a screen
Displays of a twisted heath
Floods splash brittle in the wild, but wrack the bones of our nation’s wooden floors.


Day after day I find myself under the bridge eating rocks
The keys in my pocket no longer open the door back home
Alone in a darkening forest, I hunt for my meaning
My sickness consumes me from my feet
A burning sensation I know to be illusion engulfs my head
And I am a sickly lump of grease
Bubbling on the linoleum wrapped around the hospital walls


Standing to attention in strict formation these shaved and deformed oaks guard like sentries
The meadow-green, its spirit so garbled and remodelled that it barely resembles itself
And more appears to be the gleaming jade encrusted girdle of an austere dwelling
Whose cousins, plaguelike, mottle and throttle what once was land and is now manned.


An incandescent bulb, buried deep over the cosied quarters

Cast greying shadows over its ward.
Here it was doomed to bloom,
Cursed by purpose not only to never see the sun
But to replace it


Lying supine on the hotbed
The little firebold spiritman professed its lurching need
To see; to sing; to spin; all in the irreality on which it bore those feelings
But neither nuptial fingers nor characters of dream worlds
Could bring back the times
Which hosted those visions in the first
Elements of motion twisted there like ropes once
Flowers blossomed from cleanmade beds
Sweet grapes of innocent experience ripened
And the morning unfolded in milky blue.
Those were spaces filled by a flowing past,
Now whole, they possessed an entirely different quality
Like aged seed furrows, new gold sprouted forth
The grain of labours gone
Once harvested, they ushered in a new time,
Fed a rebirth: the beginning recovered was all the greater.


You are on a journey
Once you knew, but now you can’t remember
The beginning, or why you began.

Where are you going?
It is like you cannot remember this either
But you are sure that you still know it inside.
You may be unworried: soon you will see.
You must simply take the next stride
And then the one after
Nothing else is of consequence


Though you walk on hot coals
And insects beset you
Your torments extend from you
Into the dark fog by which you are surrounded
There is no way to return

What was, is lost
And what will come
Is to be visited upon you
By the merciful wrath of the Father
So now, accept what must be:
The trial, then the judgement
On the one you hold to be yourself.
The great beyond from which the will comes
Grasps the destination you seek.


Trapped in looping meanders welting their pocks like ripples in a ring
Like a half blind old man, scrutinising the hieroglyphic scrawlings of his youth
Like a coin, moving from pocket to sordid pocket to finally return home

Banked and quartered, recorded and renewed.


We look down, deep down, and see ourselves as giants
Like towers, or blazing stars
But when we look up
We are only like worms.
Outside on a clear day,
Look up high on the buildings that surround you in familiar areas
Their roofs are new to you, you have never really seen them before.
And this is why.


Happy lacking lonely walks in swamps of themic slurry
Spilling forth from broiling pits of the tarbound plane
Just as the dark clouds which swallow the sea at night,
Its oozing harmonies eat you
Like fungus swallows a log in the forest.
Your bed is or will be a cold place,
Home will greatly grow and be vast around you
And it will be of no comfort
You will yearn for that place in the sun
Grand and heartfilled, nowhere though it seems to be.
That is repugnant.
Make yourself hard against that will,
Your good will yet be drawn from you,
And to separate yourself from the hardship
Is to heave fruitlessly against the turning tide

Your glory is stilted and grotesque, but it is yours
And this glory comes only in the forbidden freedom:
Dilapidation of the structure which grasps you
And architecture for a place in the brutal world


Where do thrills end and hurts beg to end
Switched inner linings: baby mothered and kind with reaper
Kingdoms and the raising of the world

Brought from dust and sand by muddled muddy meddling
The forgetful, confused and hopeless beasts
Who wrought dominance out of the ignorance of others


Jelly germ spawn
Bubble in bloom
Downness loses you as you spin
You wander sailor, through current and swirl
Pass wash and whirl
The great is ablaze with your sisters,
You are uttered in this vastness
Like a whisper in a storm,
Nothing is your guide yet you find the way

To the trunk of your renewal
Polyp pressed gently into the bliss,
Where titans have stepped,
Of the green garden path


Lippy lambs laughing in the laps of lords,
Make merry morsels for the masses.
Eclipsing such eatery, epicentres explode
Pockets of proud power palpitate the proles
Strong servants suicidally seize surrenders
Rising in revolution, to restore renewed reign
But bound to bring back the beast
Holding hope, yet helplessly hegemonising hell.


Nifty innit shacks-a-lorem
Though dusty like a schoolhouse forum
Rutter floating hellish mile
Softly domicile
Though leery weary, never dreary
Only feeling fragrant teary
Never lose that femmy charm
To shadows from below
Not in this life but another
“She” unnamed – the endless mother
Whirling on that roundabout of

Flower to and fro


I make peace with all my pieces
They’re not the books or plots or theses
But meat and thoughts and endless creases
In my crinkled folds of mind


Rivers like aching swelling rafters
Fit to burst but holding themselves
For the good of the townsfolk
Are healthy heros
The only breed that does not need
It’s as rare and good as day,
And as hard to force to come


Lipless toothless mouths gum fur from the pasture,
Chew and chew and chew and chew the cud,
With not a lick of change


I pulse with the bringing of the morning,
The blood rising skyward and gathering itself for a battle
An aching tearing howling strife, or a subdued palpitating boredom



Thick mint drizzles of air streamed by his nose and through his hair

It played at rustling on his jacket, until the cloth came loose from below his elbow and arched up and back as a desperately flapping wing

It blew little angry tornados into his eyes, so that they danced the tears out and across his face, into his ears

Beneath him the bicycle chattered and churned, spluttering up pebbles from the pathway like hail to bombard his gears and shins

His head felt enormous, it seemed to catch the wind like a parachute and threatened not just to slow him but to lift off of his shoulders. He hunched his shoulders and tucked it down as far as he could while still looking ahead to end its bid for freedom. He might need it where he was going.



Brutish he lurched on ham hocks like legs, all hairy and bound in dark oilcloth. What from a distance might be taken for a swagger was the oakish motion of a body wracked into near submission by years, but yet heaved onwards in service to a ravenous will.

His eyes wandered languidly from place to place, stopping each time to get their breath back. Piggy in their sockets, they appeared to sniff, not see the world. Age had wearied them, and their lids drooped with his brows into an aimless resentful scowl.

His arms arched out and around in front of him, lupine as if he were carrying an invisible sack. They bounced and swung a little with each step, dragging the sleeves of his overcoat after them so that the whole garment shifted back and forth with the soft rough swish of cloth on cloth.


At the nexus of the web, epochs rose and fell in pandemonium
Heathens spilled themselves into the wastes
Ripples in their cosmic selfhood and all the deep caverns of their profundity
Were as the falling of sweet clean rain into the salt of the ocean


What do my dreams do to me
Quicksilver immemorials brought on unburdened wings

Substance of self in simultaneous flurry and calm
Sprouts grow from these waters, this field
Lakes of intensity, dew filled glowing and among mountains
Upon their surface and deep below on their floors
And all through them percolating
Guano and sanguine milk
Bubbles of nuptial cloud rise and burst out
Tendril streams of current hair-twist within
Life is brought to focus in the stylings of those little deaths
Moments roost for eons, nested in the space behind the eyes
Or take flight and soar over the shadows of night
Searching out of the blackness morsels of gold
Images, symbols and harmonies
To feed to their lean young
The stomachs of the heart


Campfire brawlers drift upward in rain
Fleefree companions of notionless strain
Towards moon they up flutter in pinhead red mirth
Until captured by droplet-flow back down to earth


Rumple then crumple then wither away
Silence no hindrance to the motion of day
Calliope whispers of destiny sealed
For gravity mistress is an unyielding field


Old Papers:


Drink neat
Eyes meet
Slow greet
Heart beat
Long night
Smile bright
Home flight
Low light
Touch hair
Warm air
Cloth tear
Couple bare
Lip smack
Whip crack
Slick back
Body whack
Leg bent
Voice vent
Quick jet
Spent gent


The brown tincture of iron rivulets wormed through healthy old granite
Which had weathered so many seasons here where it stacked
And had quivered softly so many times in the sonic glow of the church bell it guarded

That it had begun to forget that deep stoney tomb
Wherein it had languished in unspeaking silence and unspeakable dark
Until the overworld, now more a-flurry than ever, had exhumed it
And it could hardly recall at all that fury
That burning eruption of Vulcan’s gastric roar
From which it had plumed and tumbled forth into itself
Sink wash your baby, Chinaman
His smooth porcelain skin is sadly
Not dishwasher safe.


There is a long tunnel floored with a silvered path
And a drum is banging
And every age old fibre cries “fly!”
Step after step falls heavily below you before you realise you are moving
Each thumps softly thus it is some time until suddenly you are aware
That a larger sound is filling the air
You are taken and swept forth by the uplifting cacophony
Of cheers, applause and raucous mirth
It pilots you.
Now in lift flood torrent flowing
You spy a dusky entrance growing
Begin to hear piano moaning
And catch that first spark-hint of knowing
That your end is in your nature
But so wildly thrusts on your steed
Of titanic lusts and helpless need

That nothing could his charge impede

From among your fruits of labour

And thus into the void you ride
Accursed of the driftwood tide
To far away be multiplied
But here be lost and gone.

Yet still may hope reside inside us
To prove our being to that dread silence

The seeker’s climb; up alpine science

wordless, mindful
impious, blindfold’d
hideous, incredible

Is a Journey through caverns, deep below.


You speak of yourself as though words change what you are
That is not true
You are manflesh hung grotesquely on the bones of beast
And you must try to be quiet
Progress is the only affinity you have
Otherwise you are alone
Thus you have;

not duty
not desire
not drive
merely necessity.

If you do not act, that will be the end of you
And the universe does not care

Now put away your cards
Put down your knife and fork
Pick up your implements and tools
And direct your becoming
I am not saying that you should
‘Should’ does not exist except in the minds of fools
I merely say that you may exercise control
And it will be unpleasant, painful and hard
But it is the only path you may hope to take
Out of the abyss of entropy
And if you do not
Then soon you will rot


Digging this plastic peripheral its necro
And all the black stinking blood is on the floor
It’s sticky – kind of a syrupy paste
Like those inscrutable heathen philosophies
Which had little men who didn’t know what germs are
Cutting off pieces of their flesh for the
Angry god who wouldn’t let it rain
We’re phenomena
Which can’t even catch a break
Or get a word in edgeways
Put your money where your mouth is, and get chewing.
Over the roaring of the storm
And we take our frustration out on our bellies
When the cows come back to the domicile

We skin them and shovel them down blue
Then smack our fat lips in sasfaction – we’re idolaters
But grandpappy’s golden calf is a swanky pair of brogues
And you’d better snap them up while the sale’s on
Because they’re made in China, and to China they will soon return
Once you’ve lost the edge on them
They will surpass you and everyone around you
Walking is mostly artful falling
Or rather the art of catching yourself
Gaming and knowing how to play the odds
And walking and talking – has it made us gods?


Dirty heels licked clean by flames
Hanging idly from each corpse near the marketplace
Man made to roast now the neighbour of similar pigs
Dangling from pillared structure into
The verdant air of transaction and motion
Their toasted water bodies dressed in char-black canonicals
Lacerated by their ordeal but finally guiltless
Contracts of mutual annihilation fulfilled
The tragedies of their births brought to hideous close
They were at last released to their putrid rest.
Unravel the tendrils of your soul in words, they told me,
And taught me what to say
But I have no foothold in their empty worlds,
So my writing is hungry and grey

All truths can bend and twist when you spin them
All loves are games and end when you win them.


***Back to scheduled programming*_**



Every atom in your ruin spins.
Spins, whirls, it twists like a ripple knotted in on itself
Dread locks on these moving keyless pieces of turning eternity,
Spacetime voids in a single and vastly multiple unthinkable throb.
All self and reason emerge from energy –
A space so close to itself that it spirals inward.
As blood pours down a drain
amidst a wash of emergent phenomena, like the homicide team bashing down the door.
Here in these brick funnels rest filaments, all portions of their own math,
They are the hugeness and fracture of structure;
Upon them is predicated higher permanence
Of them pours forth unceasing bliss of relative chaos.


Filled by chainlink thoughts we advance.
Havenfroth that weighted tide. Smothering to fibre every crystal in the dance –
Like grasping entropy dribbling in from the warm horizon. She tears holes with every glance:
hurtling forth is pandemonium’s solely offered chance.



I fade to absentia in silent holes, afraid even to bear witness. Arcing legers cry letters into the gaps between my heavy shoulders. I drink like a slow rotting mummy until my bones fall out through my ears. I eat until only the bleach-stretching stalks of famine remain, and these I chew. I suck miasma deep into my lungs, heaving. They call us cannibals; those who were our fathers, and who now have been picked to bones. Whose turn is it to weep? In the night I hear the calls of lost fibres. The hands trapped below the carpet we walk on reach up through cracks in my daytime. Whirling legs of mine, carry me home – I cannot follow your steps. I am helpless to stop my onward rush. My mind is burning and flattening as I fall forever into the sun.



Slowly, surely, I watch myself being ground to dust by pretension. Even now the sick applause of an unwelcome audience in my head rattles my bones and my hold.


Ssooo bleak and hurtfilled the cup of dreams which overfloweth all over the cold tile floor
Snaffle at your sucking hole
nothing you think matters matters because you don’t matter, because you are matter.
Just a pig who dreams because they sleep too much
Just a sniveling snorting creature who stumbles about from trough to trough until they are totally consumed by the endless gobbling of their own future.




Azpar relinquish;your house is a hovel; your street is a hole. your aspirations vanish down a meandering tunnel.




I learned something tonight- it is possible for man to ape, truly, unruly, voicedly ape, unguass the blood splotched eyeholes, open the vast chasm of the mouth and allow to pour forth vicious sensual self. A storm of human chaos and catastrophe.

To call this mind at large implies something other than what is, for mind is in reality, grotesquely little, a stunted pygmy of a soul. And always on the hunt for perceptible self enlargement, opportunities for projection onto some far screen. Why did the ancients strive for glory in death, but for this purpose?



I learned something tonight- it is possible for man to ape, truly, unruly, voicedly ape, unguass the blood splotched eyeholes, open the vast chasm of the mouth and allow to pour forth vicious sensual self. A storm of human chaos and catastrophe.



Blow up, let your lithium flame rage in that dark water, return home and begin to burn all that waiting fuel you stored away for your soul’s winter,

Night sleeps, silence creeps, and as the dawn peeks in under the curtains, your precepts arise from the ashes of dream, and, Phoenix-like, arise from the ashes of your dreams to soar up to the unbroken line of beauty which hails the breaking dawn


Culture has become a vulgar homunculus. Deformed and depraved, sticky with its own semen. The brain is an awful vessel. A mighty, hid’ous web of connected interminglings (- Mark Twain)



Death: an eternal isn’t, won’t be; and hardly ever was



Death and resurrection, four times a day, what hobbled phoenix can rise from such spent ashes?

The gunge, the gunk, the hidden wretchery consumes, collapses like a flopping, slimic construct





I have been inhabiting this strange place which is not earth, and it is not heaven and it is likely not Hell either. I am not the keeper of keys for this strange land so I do not know its . I am grappling with tides here, each day on wings do they roll out, back and forth, anew. Strange intertwinings like leopard horse cuffs imprint their cord marks into the skin of my neck


Absoluterility under hope’s pavilion. A pair of jasper eyes under rubyblooded gauze

Hinter haunter, Hunter haunted winner flaunted, eyeline vaunted preaching prompted, passion stunted.
Noose unknotted. Station stopped at, limb unhooked and brandished wildly.



Pleasure poison pots and Lycra splinter gaunter lights to ponder. So high in the heliosphere they whizz down through the atmosphere.


Rumble roarer, rabid, rancid rubbish ruddy roses.
Twisted twinstar beacon; no speaking,
eyes on lies on tongues on teeth on glass.


Rumble roarer, rabid, rancid rubbish ruddy roses.

By where dark dwellings plummet do spires rise.
Ashen pillars reaching high above the chasms and

casting long pitch shadows over the
Edenic garden, towers of igneous rock lifted from the deep.

For we moths fluttering in the dwindling daylight do pour out blood and sweat with our tears, answering the call of heaven, our star.

Day by short day those who tend the fields are swept by the arcing shadows and glancing upwards spy the shafts through many lenses. With fascination the noble skyward springs are adored, with knowing gazes the decline and collapses to earthy rubble are pondered. The latter lasts the longer, and thus forms the judgement of the hive: that such projects are without cause, merit or prize.

Yet, though mortal flowers may shoot for the sun and only reach at but never grasp its gold, still they do shoot. There must always be those who, in spite of the fall, climb.



Fate, a pour, a wince, a layer, like squandering. Savage colony, blunt scrutability. Guns, germs and silicon, carbon fibre, silence,weighing on bolstered shoulders; Qualia, a wash, a rhyme, a rhythm. A spoken reason, cut into her upper thigh. Where tides spill like rhapsody. And dwarves, hunting in an imigliant gaggle together in clusters like vibrating bees- harbor an unquenchable thirst overturns the army, the conflagration of each and every member of the hive.


Blonatt, blippy
languering, lippy.
sanguine, hippy, strobal, nifty.


Anguish, which you, in your deliriency, mustered;

lapis, lose yourself, adrift on the open ocean. Sink, plummet, plumb those gloomy depths, deep wounds and shallow graves; the grasping hands of the harbinger of the new eternity, extending from the jaws of a long forgotten past.



Vibrant missives involve like central columns .those Beatheart jaws and furnace hearts, pounding against the jailhouse cage of the ribs



Fate, a pour, a wince, a layer, like squandering. Savage colony, blunt scrutability. Guns, germs and silicon, carbon fibre, silence,weighing on bolstered shoulders; Qualia, a wash, a rhyme, a rhythm. A spoken reason, cut into her upper thigh. Where tides spill like rhapsody. And dwarves, hunting in an imigliant gaggle together in clusters like vibrating bees- harbor an unquenchable thirst overturns the army, the conflagration of each and every member of the hive.



Absoluterility under hope’s pavilion. A pair of jasper eyes under rubyblooded gauze

Hinter haunter, Hunter haunted winner flaunted, eyeline vaunted preaching prompted, passion stunted.
Noose unknotted. Station stopped at, limb unhooked and brandished wildly.



Happy hunting lips a-kissing, lord and lady effervescing gambler-gobbler ever stressing. Prince and priest and merchant dressing. Lady loosely sitting, drawing. Porch unlit until the morning. Baby born then crying, crawling. Meat in heat and roasting, burning.



Disposable, knapsack fuckery, plastic cutlery and a hobbled, loping walk.
we three thieves stumble over the bound of the horizon.



Voxellisation at the extremities, our world rests on the mighty turtle’s back. with lazy strides he heaves us forward towards blazing sun and death-void black


Twisted twinstar beacon; no speaking,
eyes on lies on tongues on teeth on glass.

All turned to ash.
Agar aggression boils forth from me until my skin is hot molasses.