Adam Kane


ADAM KANE was born,1972 in Sydney, Australia to Northern Irish Immigrants. 
In the mid nineties Kane
moved to Los Angeles, California and worked in numerous bars and on building
sites and lived in cheap rooms in both Venice and Hollywood. Restless and
dissatisfied Kane travelled the U.S and then Europe, Britain and Ireland
writing and recording his experiences with a disposable Camera.
He published his first stories at the age of 23. His poetry has been
published widely in the small presses in the U.S and Europe and his
Photographs have been seen in Galleries across Britain and Australia.
He currently lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

ubiquity like the quiet functions

how much I long
for the simple cast of mind
where days will pass
within the confines
of equal even thoughts

nothing that rides
the razor's edge
of considered felo-de-se

where evil children

call viciously
beyond the boundaries
of their white picket fences

how much I long,

for the easy taste
of the Opiate
spoon licked filth
of parents
and friends,
to succumb
from silent gazing,
shaken heads,
the monstrosity
of their deliberations
determined to evade
any real occasion
of respect or salvation,

the hypocrisy

of their twisted charm
honest with
involuntary deceptive waves

and their fucking
Blonde Labradors,
the footpaths empty
while the horrible
July sun
shrouds it all
in a veil
of ridiculousness.

through a glass darkly

everything seems simple and deliberate
and life's deficiencies are displayed
with melancholy
on the faces
of men I passed in the street today.

minor things
have happened in this room

that I sit in now to write.
things that could be condensed into
a vague recollection of a dream.

arguments, falsified reproaches
unjustified manias and ranting.
things of no measure, when compared
to the feelings that I post
for this fantastic darkness.

earlier, I arrived home
and instead
of going straight into the apartment
I climbed the fire escape, high
and looked out over the city.
the rooftops, violated over the years
all holes and broken tiles,
shadowed with pollution,
looked impermanent
and untried
by the sun,
a distant memory.

surely it must remember better days
when it's arm lent tenderly upon the streets
and warmed the back of birds
as they passed
and all the hopelessness that denigrates
the lives of the men and women here
was lost in the warmth and dryness.

finding a romantic teenage boy within me

The Man With The Golden Arm
is a classic!
morning sun cresting with juvenile purpose
splaying blue light ambitiously
across the window pains of Sunday morning erections.

mother nature lies constently
dangling the promise of easiness
towards the quiet aspirations of sanity.

I have not learnt my lessons
from the buzz of the naked light bulb
and I have not pretended to.

my life falls about this tired Apartment
rasping with cracked radio notions
as I am held up
and forced to the ground
by bloody tracks of deformed delusions

and spent quickenings of solitary torment.

as tonight leaves me again
vacuous and allied
no more hospitals will find me awake at 4am

rain will fall first,
as it does daily
and I will become a clean swab
and a dirty affection.
The Man With The Golden Arm
ia a classic
and I am nothing forceful
but quietly I have found
the romantic teenage boy within me.

Wednesday 4:44PM

nothing matters,
like dry roses
by bewildered
hanging from a nail
in the corridor
of a cheap Apartment
where dust collects
in the corners of
empty rooms,
no sounds of love,
the dripping
the hollow hours
where wretchedness
means too much

where quiet
makes the sound
of drawn curtain

nothing matters,
like terminal cancer
when you're a junky
with no money
to cop
your face
on the street
a beating
for not showing up

10 bucks
Sunday mornings
that sing
with the promises
of dirty fingernails
and burnt spoons.

nothing matters,
like chopped liver
in the fridge
$1 a pound
if it's a day old,
next to
half a lemon.

nothing matters,
like the face of death
from life's
plundered libraries.

who's to say?

"this could go very bad,
who's to say"? you said.
that this will always go's like this,
a pirouette of need and appeasement
is the birth of death, one needs just to except
the damned fate of the fool.

I have no strength now for conversation,
the thing is
I don't want
to be said
to have been
someones friend,

you see,
"i'm ok cause that's what i've always said"!

a ray of sunlight knows nothing but to shine.
my eyes are sore
with the expectations of immortality .

it has been quiet mornings,
and Wednesday bleeds with the torment
of mediocrity.

"this could go very bad,
who's to say"?

for the man that would be king

what will we do
when all things make sense
in a time
when making sense is frowned upon?

the process of occupation
sickens me
with it purposeful notions,
and there's nothing left
but cigarette butts
and day old news papers.

all the flowers die because
that's what's expected of them

and yesterday
is the past
because that's all it can be.

for the man that would be king
I have this to say.

Zion Excruciated(junk dream)

the promise of quiet hallways
and the calling of
a solitary smile
are corrupted by
the mocking of indulgence.

lonely without aflictions
that find me
forsaken in the light
of tommorrow-
that grows distant
like the discarded silver
chambers of April's
pink moon.

it is a short summer
in Gehenna
and memories
like forgotten soldiers
secure internal borders
from the irrationality
that enthusiasm presents.

the diminishing monuments
of burnt spoons
are disregarded
when warm blood forms
in Sunday morning sinks-

and nights are dark because
they can not continue to be bright
with conversation and smokes.