29 June 2011

Phallus Impirator


Since the beginning, through all the generations,  men and women have worshipped at the shrine. The root of all our being, the source of nature’s seed, the totem of our dreaming, the font of our desire. The stiffened spurting harvest king draws maidens to the maypole to dance in orbit around his ridged member, the rod and staff of Abraham, our cocks a covenant of flesh.

Take my cock and wrap yourself around it, lick and suck as an offering to your gods take me in as sacrifice to the centaurs that spawn electric sensate awareness through your moist puckered cunt. Let us rut and fuck, thrust and grunt in beautiful copulations; take me, fuck me, penetrate. Tonight you and I are all the men and women that ever were; they crowd our room like the sweaty cum stained ghosts of infinite couplings and nameless lovers.






Mr Natural


Fuck you, fuck you and fuck you too! I write in the working class idiom – with fists of fury blunt as a broken nose – plain as the blood on your flat fucking face. Eat my words suckers – I can deliver ‘em at light speed – hard enough to penetrate that thick skull of yours and jangle your cerebellum in the resonant frequency of your unconscious mind. It’s easier for me that way – ‘cause lets face it – your conscious mind is a shanty built on a landfill site. That psyche of yours wasn’t just constructed from second hand ideas, but from the shit that other people threw away. One decent rain will wash you away to the sewer where your dreams reside in the fecund detritus of a billion assholes. Man if I were to tap you in your waking gonads your tears would wash you way into the forevermore.

If I could draw a picture for you, so that you could see the difference between you and me, I’d draw it with edible crayons so I could ram it down your idiot throat just to shut your ugly maw. I swear by all that’s natural that we’re a different species you and I. You’re learning how to steal, I’m learning how to give. You’re learning how to die, I’m busy learning how to live. Rhythm! I’ve taken every fraction and reduced the whole question to rhetoric and then into science. Testing every imaginable hypothesis and adhering religiously to the strictures of the rhythm method. I have established that my space cadet is from Venus and your monkey man is from Mars. You walk like a honky mother fucker and dance like a cissy bitch – you got no rhythm – you’re all angles and corners - ‘cause baby you are square. That’s why you’ll never roll with Mr Natural.

28 June 2011



I stash a little sunshine in my pocket

For the days when she brings the rain

No need to share it with my guest

She’ll only obscure it with clouds again


She can always be trusted

To bring a little rain


She has her own grey clouds

Of inclement precipitation

She carries everywhere

In a little grey bag of pain


I don’t mind the rain

It’s her face I can’t stand


This is not a love song

This is an affidavit

At the end of her rainbow

I found a crock of shit


She makes promises

She will never keep

That bitch tells lies

Even in her sleep


Stash a little sunshine in your pocket

For the days when she brings the rain

No need to share it with your guest

She’ll only drown it with a migraine


She can always be trusted

To bring a little rain


Her clouds are dusted

With something toxic

That strangles light

And stifles laughter


She’s a major drag

She’s poison ivy


The life and soul

At any funeral party

She’s the chief mourner

She’s a ray of despair


Her words are crooked

Her truths are as fluid

As a shyster whore’s

But so much more lurid


Stash a little sunshine in your pocket

For the days when she brings the rain

No need to share it with your guest

She’ll only hide it in her bag of pain




27 June 2011

Monkey See

Monkey See

Never fall for the myth of the civilized man, those bastards who make snidey comments and draw you dirty looks wish they could fight, they just don’t have the guts. Well it’s sticks and stones for me baby, I don’t send solicitors letters – I apply a bit of pressure. I know that you’re gonna say – that there has to be a better way and I agree, but I tell you there are some sorry suckers who understand nothing else. It’s a sad story of monkeys see and monkeys do. Yesterday they sneered, today the called you names, they are gathering their courage, tomorrow god only knows what they’ll do to you. I believe in preemptive strikes – if they sneer laugh at them, when they you call names crack a joke, make sure they understand that if there’s gonna be a tomorrow – you’ll be the one with blood on their hands. It's a sad truth that you have to be able to defend your self from the weak in this world. Walk tall and kowtow to no-one, never avert your eyes and keep your face in the sunlight, but keep a little dark inside. Monkeys fear the dark.


26 June 2011



I’m part billy goat and part mountain lion. I’ve got spring heeled jacks propelling these feet quicksilver style -  in sandals with little wings on so that I have the speed to deliver messages from the gods. I don’t carry replies - I deliver them in strange babelogue tongues with words and syntax I barely comprehend. Them gods are obscene in their demands  - they paw me with searching barbs and smear me with their enraged genitalia till I’m slippery with their slime and I smell like the seedy mattress in some cheap bordello. I’m a whore for those words that only the Gods know the shapes of. I’ll be a good boy, I’ll be a slippery tight – hard bitch of a boy in their Dionysian fantasies. The sainted satyrs and nymphs of heaven crave my meat and as long as they continue to fork out them crazy words I’ll be there to service the perversity of their needs. See I was built for speed and I’m streamlined for success  -  I have no time to burn, no time to burn in chattering, inane and restless discourse with monkey men -  I’m electrically charged and I want to discharge my lightning all over you. I have no time to burn, no time to burn in decorous small talk and polite niceties - I need that urgent press of flesh and the hot words on your breath. Say them to me, say those words to me…




23 June 2011

Amon Ra



I didn’t see him, not at first, I didn’t see him, or I would have turned away. Icy cold snakes coiled in embarrassing silence, they spilled from the pit within and slithered in disgust across my killing floor. If I’d seen him first, but I didn’t, I just turned around and he was there – a nauseating, heart stopping, and electric jolt in the core of me. My blood blanched like refrigerator juice and drained my sink, clockwise, tick-tock, tick-tock; a flicker of recognition and that vacant smile and impassive gaze (what is he thinking?) held me thralled in his headlights. I wasn’t afraid, really, I wasn’t afraid, just mesmerized by the symmetry of those python stripes and them cold dead eyes. Then I remembered who he was, what I’ve seen him do, and I just wanted to laugh. He ain’t so hard – he’s a mummy’s boy, he’s Amon Ra and Amon Ra don’t come round here no more. I’m thinking Amon Rah was a mean junkie bitch, with a bad case of lunar envy and a bad temper which allow him to lay on women and children. So I smite the bitch with my cosmic imagery and Rasta radiation, I fixed him in the constellations with my size 10 atomic boots and lit a big bad Bob Marley. Just chillin’ with the women and children and Amon Rah don’t come round here no more.




21 June 2011

The Middle of Nowhere



They say no news is good news

And I got lots of good news

It was good news today

It was good news yesterday

Its always good news

Around our way

Nothing ever happens

In the middle of nowhere


There was no news again today

There’ll be no news tomorrow

Every day is exactly the same

There are no tomorrows

Where nothing ever changes

I even forgot my own name

It’s easy the be a nobody

In the middle of nowhere



20 June 2011

Only With You

did you ever have an easy high
fragile as a butterfly’s wing?
feel that you could float away
on a golden ray of sunshine
into an eternity of colour?
so many things I want to do
only with you

all is right in this world
and it always was
and ever shall be
I am eighteen
and I always will be
so many things I want to do
only with you

guitars that jangle in my heart
play chords of symmetric perfect
my melodies are light and clean
my heart beats like a birds
in my open hearted love drum
so many things I want to do
only with you

I climbed Jacob’s ladder
to kiss the angels high
all my threads are joined
my days are as one streaming
they number the number fun
so many things I want to do
only with you

Lee Harvey Oswald


The chattering silence of your vacuum cranium

The pointlessness of your broken motorcade

And the black dawn of your tombstone bed

Did you ever imagine the vicious snipers

In the depositories of books you never read

Would become the shooters of your grassy knoll

The second gunman in your conspiracy theory

The magic bullets of forbidden memory

Scream the truth of that third mythic shot

You are the lone assassin of your own dreams

And you are just a patsy after all.



18 June 2011


skyline 2


You can keep the mute isolation of the coffee shops and bistros - I like the hustle of the bars and strip joints where humanity is at its most naked – stripped to the bare essentials of live and take. I like smoke with my mirrors, diggers and soldiers, hookers and marks, scorpions and hawkers gesticular with cancer screaming ‘innocence for sale – bootlegged corruption – almost the real thing’ - Cause there’s nothing like the real thing this side of heaven.

I like smoke to curl in spirals thick as stevedore’s arms and tattooed with the luxurious ladies of foreign quarters – I recline on my magic carpet with pipe by my side and Arabic pleasures ciphered in my head in ancient stolen scripts of 1001 delights. I cruise the dirty arteries in search of stiletto thrills and fleshy delectations – I’m a pussy hound with a hard on for the sleazy and the easy. This is no place for tourists – this is no place for veterans. Here, even the predators are scared of their neighbour hoods, but the fear is most of the thrill and you know what they say; you can’t buy a thrill – you must gamble for it. I’m just another sucker who likes to push his luck. I’ve been burned before and chances are I’ll get burned some more, but I’ll paint this town red – if I have to use my own blood.

A friend once said to me, “You should learn to play an instrument – do something creative” I asked him, “Don’t you think I’m creative?” He just looked at me and said; “No” He couldn’t see the beauty in the cruel deliberation of the street where Lions and Tigers jostle with Zebras and Antelope in the fantastic deathly dance of opportunity. He’d never savoured the exclusive thrill of feasting with Panthers in bloody orgies of ecstatic abandon. I never enjoyed a vicarious hit – look but don’t touch was never a rule I could obey. I’m a hands on kinda cat – I like the hot pelvic thrust of sweaty illicit copulations with bitches in heat. My woman told me once that I think with my cock, but she was wrong – I don’t think at all.

I hear the city call me from my cozy crib, her dark wet streets smell like a woman on my crumpled sheets. She breathes and sighs with metal rumble and dirty carbon fumes. She siren screams for me by name through the insane cacophony of her sidewalk symphonies under the sodium wash of her electric night. Her captivating neon glow smiles her promise of high adventure and low down dirty deeds and I salivate Pavlovian at the prospect of grievous misdemeanors perpetrated in the anonymity of passion. You see I’d rather be a sinner than a saint; I’d rather live at liberty than encumbered by restraint.



16 June 2011




May I just say, strictly in confidence you understand - just between you and I, and I would not dream of saying this to another living soul, but with circumstances being what they are I really feel I must say something. Heaven knows I don’t like to pry; I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’m not one for tittle tattle, I’m no gossip, but I’m bound to say and with a certain amount of justification, I think that you’ll agree, that something must be said. With the situation being what it is, and it’s for that reason only, I think I can confide in you – I can confide in you? Good, well as you know it’s being going on for some time now and I feel it’s time someone said something, don’t you? Far be it from me to judge, it’s hardly a question of blame, it’s just that things have reached a point where someone must say something. I think that it might be good to get things out in the open. I’m sure you agree that it just can’t go on like this indefinitely and sooner or later someone will have to speak out and while I’m reluctant to be that person, it’s hardly a task I relish, I think that time has come. I’m sure you can see that beating about the bush can only prolong the matter and there is no point in postponing the inevitable. You do agree, don’t you? I’m glad we understand each other. I can see we have reached an understanding – no need to say anymore. Mum’s the word, you can trust me. I won’t say a dicky bird; this will not leave this room. Thank you for hearing me out. I’m so glad to have gotten that off my chest.



14 June 2011

Sun God



I slinked out of my cage just before sunrise

Put on my brothel creepers – fastened ‘em tight

Ate a handful of blues and some purple hearts

I got the sweet scent of success on my breath

I can still taste her honey dew on my rubies

I set out to greet the sun with a head full of light

We know each other from many times past

When we two staged the dawn together

She’s my sister ship, we sail the cosmic chaos

Carving great orbital arcs - casting giant shadows

Defining the shapes and shades of the infinite

I’m a lucky cat - to have a friend like that

To warm my face and paint my eyeballs red

With the blood flush of my brain pulse

I’m all lit up – I’m the illuminated man

This boy’s a comet - stratospherically high

I could rip open the sky and tear down the stars

If I wasn’t so in love with it all - with - it - all.




10 June 2011




the elephants

of yesteryear

built your ivory towers

are no longer at rest

in graveyards of denial

they trample through

your fractured mind

awaken sleeping dogs

that shall no longer lie

they snap at the heels

of selective memory

tear away the tissue

of your fabricated life

the truth bleeds out

just because it’s buried

doesn’t mean it died

the elephants

of yesteryear

will not be denied


‘elephants’ illustration by gmayhew



9 June 2011

A Simple Poet

His words are archaic
Their meaning prosaic
He threads them together
In a broken mosaic

They never quite rhyme
And don’t seem to chime
With the meaningless theme
He can’t express at the time

He likes to plagiarize
But he can’t disguise
There’s a singular lack of talent
Behind his envious green eyes

His efforts may seem funny
But he uses all that honey
To entrap unwary women
So he can take their money


7 June 2011

curtain call



all the monsters

came out tonight

to perform for you


they tred the boards

in the hollow auditorium

of your empty tomb


the sight makes you sick

but you pawned your soul

for a ticket to this show


you have to see the ending

but you already know

how this story goes


your bitter triumphs

and glorious defeats

stubbornly defy revision


the past is a lonely place

shadows of your sorry self

dance across the stage


the third act is now over

there was no applause

for your curtain call



1 June 2011


The beasts that till your poisoned soil carve patterns in your furrowed brow; they signify burdens borne in the silence of tortured nights and the dead horses flogged in the futility of empty days. You overdosed on bitterness and it tainted your meat leaving in its wake litanies of spite and mantras of exclusive virtues. You freely confess your saintly vices and the terrible price you paid in love’s bloody negotiations. Your sadness falls like cold rain and  tastes like ashes supped from sacrificial cups.  You have risked so little and lost so much. You have told yourself you’ve had enough.