22 December 2013

Speed Bomb


awkward high <> like a speed bomb that went down the wrong way <> all new oblique angles <> strange dimensions and hollows <> each crevice a new expression in feeling <> strange there should be new situations to chart <> this late in the game <> a familiar sickly taste <> with a different flavour <> impossible to quantify <> pleasure and pain <> this knife cuts both ways <> unease has become an art form <> the pool is still <> but under lurks <> a drowning <> a car crash <> a train wreck <> a fucking catastrophe <> if it’s true <> it’s not true <> but what if it is true? <> get a grip <> your morbid imagination will be the death of you <> that which you fear <> you draw to you <> you have to reach for the man within <> or be the man without <> keep a sceptical eye on the bad news <> favour the good thing <> catch that positive curve <> slide in under the barriers <> when the bogey man looks away


18 December 2013



He once failed a micro flocculation test. It came back positive for syphilis. He said it was the last time he ever paid for sex – the whores on Cockburn Street were riddled with the pox. I was feeling decidedly antsy – crank bugs from the blue flake – Peruvian magic dust, the finest money could buy, ninety percent pure, or so he said.

A creeping numbness spread through my limbs, my heart beat like a hammer and my mouth was dry as dust. He fuzzed in and out of focus for a moment and I listened as he traced the contours of depravity like a veteran whore master. “We are all whores,” he pronounced, “Everyone has their price. The only question is how much?”

We snorted some more charlie and he scratched his crotch with obscenely dirty fingernails. He said he’d just as soon fuck a hairy arsed boy as a beautiful woman and he eyed me salaciously. He seemed brutal and repugnant to my young eyes. He spoke with all the eloquence of a rabid baboon; “In this business you have to be like a shark. You have to be cold and ruthless. I understand these people ‘cause I’m a shark too.” It was then I realised for the first time that I was a dolphin.




poor boy has a gimmick
he contacts the deceased
with glass beads
and cardboard figurines
his memory resurrects
the dear departed
through necromancy
and bad poetry
he disarms them
with his european smile
and easy charm
but his smooth patois
conceals a deep distrust
of the living
and morbid fascination
with the dead

17 December 2013


Treatment is symptomatic
There is no cure
No wonder drug
No universal panacea
Just elemental narcotics
To ease the pain
Of twisted nerves
In a deviant body
A sickened soul
In a broken man

Who conjured up this
Slouching abomination?
His furled brow
And unnatural posture
Speak of untold burdens
In a hungry heart
Feed him, free him
Turn him loose
Put a bullet in his brain pan
And bid him farewell

15 December 2013




Poor Boy looked into the sky and said:

“Oh God, please get me outta here...”

But God did not hear him

The distance


        Heaven and Earth

Being what it is

He was all awkward angles

And nauseous instance

A blunted blade

Drawn through rancid entrails

Expanding ever outward

Into unanswerable questions

Driven into the corner allocated

Silenced at birth by unseen hands

It was more than just the money

(or lack of it)

There was a poverty of spirit

And a quiet sense of shame

That couldn’t be erased

He was a sounding brass

A hollowed out man

One of billions of souls

Stuffed down the crapper

The justice in that

For the moment escaped him


14 December 2013




Gasp clearance of the reflux

That’s a choking sign

Many are the good men

Who drowned in their own vomit

Cancellations will occur

Due to unforeseen circumstances

The final slumber, the open gate

There’s an easy route

To accidental escape

Don’t swim too far

There’s a shallow shelf

Then it gets real deep

The undertow will drag you down

Beware the undertow –

Drag you down


13 December 2013




I own my shadow

(Thank you Dr Jung)

It’s there

  It’s in there

    It’s always been in there

Some nameless arseholes

Have suggested that I’m morbid

In my preoccupations

But I don’t need the remedy

Just the culture

I exercise my demons

With brisk forays into verse

Life will kill you

It’ll make or break you

I was forged in adversity

That’s true of everyone

That I’ve ever known

Each had burdens to bear

And every burden borne

Had a story of its own


12 December 2013



Lend me your implosion

Spin me some indica

Light me a sensitizer

Pass it on quick

I’m not long for this dimension

Give me metabolic connections

To the man within

Direct me through the proper channels

To the district coordinator

For the living dead/undead

The lean mean concrete machine

Is grinding me down

Dehumanised and processed

Into human pate

I got the F-E-A-R



3 December 2013



Chaos bless them – prisoners of the winter skies who await the settling of the sun when night sings songs of damage and pain. Silence seeps from the cracks of less well ordered lives to soak the heart and stain the soul. There are those who would not trade their sadness for joy, but would hold it dear for it denotes the passing of something precious. There are some who would hold the empty night close to their hearts as the only remnants of loves lost, or dreams that died. They would eschew the dawn preferring the company of ghosts.

12 November 2013



the smell of stale perfume -the acrid taste of cum mingled with sweat - the compensations of the flesh - all that folding and enfolding – pressing and heaving - the menstrual stains on tangled sheets - we went eyeball to eyeball – but eyes sometimes lie - just as tongues can deceive - I grant them all a sleepy benediction - we are all free of sin - just for the night

I planned my stratagem - I’m seldom wrong - an act of love - without the context - no strings attached to my marionettes - the viper in the bosom - that would come later - no repeat viewings of my dirty treasure - I know where you been - I’ve been there too - too often to mention – but you’ll want to know

I’ll tell you some tales - for your delectation – depravity lurks in the purest of hearts – libido is damned – by too eager beavers - you ought to unwind - just let it flow - the tentative half impression I weave from the bed clothes - promises gaudy revelations that flee from the light

the road to Damascus is crowded with blind men - I seek no salvation - just a temporary reprieve - I’ll crack on then – before the daybreak - arrives like a policeman knocking your door


27 August 2013



The other was inspired by the devil, the devil was inspired by Oscar Wilde. He spiked him with the promise of eternal youth – he would never be old and he’d never face death. He became the other by chance while bathing in his own splendour at the age of nineteen. That’s when he discovered he had this thing for the girls and they reciprocated quite regularly.

Soon he was way too big for his own boots and boy did he love it all. He hung with the outsiders, because birds of a feather hang together. He learned that rules were written – only to be broken. That’s a delicious thrill – the taboo in you being torn from its nest. He did it all and, for good measure, more than once. He was slick as Casanova and as bad as Jesse James. Off he went lickety split, the other knew the dance, but the devil called the tune.



12 August 2013

Never… Perhaps…


I was never...

but yes

I was once

when it was forbidden

a stranger’s embrace

that forgotten name

did we ever

more than once

to test the flesh

and taste the sweat

there was one

penetrated the illusion

with subtle grace

asked the question

are you for real?

the answer confusion

cat had my tongue

I lit for the shadow

I was once yes

but now am undone

I was always real

I just did not know

the futility of play

sampling the real

I lost my way




but yesterday

think that I must

I was never...

But yes,

I think I once was


30 July 2013



It was good gear; less speedy than a Mitsubishi, but with a cerebral buzz on the top and a heavy body hit like the ecstasy of old. It delivered its silky messages through the loving membrane to the centre of my brain with a herald of triumphant feathered horns. Liquid ease poured through my veins as smoothly as warm treacle. My head was as open and clear as a Sunday morning hush; my bells were ringing in celebration. It was good gear alright, with little angel’s bells on it that tinkled with expectation.

  The phone trilled musically – so I answered it. I recognised the voice immediately, it was my ex, and she was out to break my balls.

“I’ve seen you with that girl and you disgust me”

She needn’t have looked. No-one forced her to look, she was just nosey. She cranked it up a level – strictly for my benefit. I held the receiver away from my bloody ear. She had to vent her spleen;

“There is a word for men like you – you’re a pervert!”

Seventeen in leather boots; I must’ve been out of my mind. She was my Lolita moment, forbidden fruit fresh on the vine; I couldn’t help but take a bite. I was old enough to be her father, maybe that was the point, I didn’t ask. We asked no questions and we told no lies. I mounted her like a billy goat. I had the situation well in hand – a few sharp thrusts – a few long strokes... I was slippery to the hilt, she made cooing noises.

Those budding breasts, emerging fleshy pears, all smooth and jiggling, were a feast for my hungry eyes. There was the sloppy slap of sodden groins; the strain of muscle and sinew, my senses where alive to her scent, her essence. All concentration went to the pulse at the centre of my being – my throbbing cock. The moment stretched and arrested. My cock, my monument to virility, exploded disgorging a million incendiaries into the temple of Isis. Cool shards of ecstasy foamed through our bodies with orgasmic delight. We collapsed back onto the bed – all spent and tingling like electric eels. We expanded into the night to become all the lovers of all the world.

I salute you Madame. Here’s to your brace of porcine offspring and their ashtray faced urchins. Take a drag sweet lady there is nothing like this at sea, just sweaty hands and a quick rubdown with a wet sponge. I am a pervert. I’m a cradle snatcher – indecent and rapacious.

“That’s good gear”

“Where did you get it?”

“From Santa Clause”

“Enough said”

She liked to dance and I liked to watch her dance. Her moves were purely sexual, not everybody can dance that way. She was going through a pupation; the final emergence of her sex. She was pretty basic in that she didn’t play games. I liked it like that. I had enough complication in my life. When she’d come over we’d talk a little and then we’d cop some E’s and fuck all night. She’d dance for me and we’d dance together; then we’d fuck some more.

Dancing naked is a freeing experience, you feel quite exposed. You feel you are doing something primal, magical, but it’s no good on your own - you need a partner, one at least. That is the beauty of ecstasy – it frees you up to the possibility of self expression without inhibition.

“Ever smoked an E?”

“Smoked it?”

“Yeah, crush it into pipe and smoke it”

“No – never”

“Wanna try?”

“Yeah – go for it”

I’ll try anything once and twice for good measure. I took a blast, I took some more. It felt good; a thousand doves fanned my lungs and spread their soft wings across my heart. My blood surged with electrical potential into my fevered brain and pulsed in easy beats to the rhythm of my heart. Something magical seeped into my eager flesh and I felt as buoyant as a cloud. I shed warm rain from my opened pores and unfolded out into the universe like a hungry flower.

“This is good”

“Told you”

“This is fabulous”

“It’s great, but it doesn’t last as long”

“Let’s do another”

In the end, things just kind of petered out. It ran its course naturally. We never had a cross word – we were friends, but she was much younger than me and I was much older than her. We both knew it couldn’t last, but it was fun while it did. I think she got a boyfriend because she stopped coming around. I missed her. I saw her once on a bus and we talked for a while. I wanted to ask her if she still liked to dance naked, but it didn’t seem appropriate at the time. I hope she does, she was so beautiful when she danced.


27 July 2013




I made a cunt of myself

For no real reason

That spike through my heart

The faulty adrenal gland

Sending acidic transmissions

Through my mind and body

I could tear my skin off, Fuck!

I spiralled on terrible trajectories

Like that moth in the bathroom

On its fatal last flight

An elongated spasm racked

And viciously surged

The reckless head load of poison

Acrid in my mouth

My words have cancer

Cutting words, killing words

No balance attenuated

Or room for reason

All passive strategy

Lies in wait for the unwary

Then pounces ferocious

Into the maelstrom, Fuck you!

And Fuck you too

I’ll smash your face in

Eat your entrails for breakfast

Tear the stars from their sockets

And grind them to dust

Don’t come in

I did something nasty

I damaged my being

With psychotic clubs


23 July 2013



Seven diverse fools

Rustic and decaying

Roll off slippery

With sweat and cum

Telegraphed images

Pornographic in nature

Casual fuck ancestors

And anal slime buddies

You and me be friends

You suck real good

Now put your teeth in

The queen of Sheba

Is in the next room

Saturday night quest

For that acid high

The one that’s waiting

In the lemon tea room

We’ll go at it bare back

Said the callow youth

Shed ‘em and spread ‘em

And I’ll take the hindmost

The last rubber left

On the six o clock train


18 July 2013



a long time ago

the great god Yahweh

unleashed on the Earth

war, plague, famine, and death

in generalised semantics

parasitic beings

homo sapiens

bearing fatal messages

of peace, love and harmony

while they butchered

with glorious indifference

and espoused primal laws

the survival of the fittest

to justify their ignorance

pleased to meet you

you and me shoot good

we be friends

eat my gun


17 July 2013



Whose grave did you rob

To bring me flowers

How much did you steal

To buy my love

Where did you go to

When I needed your shoulder

Who will you turn to

When I show you the door


13 July 2013

Doomsday Device


His name was Robert and he had a twin brother Richard who, he explained, was on another ward because they could read each other’s minds.

“Together we are too formidable for the nurses to tackle.”

He was a tall, slender, carrot top of about twenty eight years. When he spoke his hands fluttered in his lap like birds trapped in a cage.

“My father was a minister in The Church Of Scotland. He resented our gift. There was a massive power struggle and he locked us in a time capsule for the sake of science.”

He looked around furtively.

“We don’t belong here, but they had the idea we were building a doomsday device, so they locked us in here. No vision you see. No vision.”

He stalked off with a loping gait when he saw one of the nurses coming into the ward. He had some complaint or other; he had many quite fanciful complaints.

The wards were named after Scottish islands; we were on Islay and Robert’s brother Richard was on the neighbouring island of Jura. It seemed appropriate to me that the wards were named for islands, because each of them seemed just like a little island separated from the mainland of everyday life. The building that housed these islands was a vast rambling Gothic Victorian asylum, a bedlam as they were once called. Locally its name, Bellsdyke, was synonymous with lunacy.

I was placed there as a voluntary patient under the understanding that if I had not volunteered I would have been ‘sectioned’ under the mental health act as a danger to myself or others. It was a Hobson’s choice - volunteer or we will make you. I would be detained there under observation for thirty days until it was determined what would be done with me. I had come to hospital a fractured personality with certain delusions and suicidal tendencies. I was a manic depressive, but did not know this at the time.

During the first few days I kept myself to myself. I felt I did not belong there anymore than Robert felt that he belonged there. I was deeply depressed and withdrawn. The nurses tried to coax me into interaction with my fellow inmates, but I would not be drawn. Gradually though I began to acclimatise to my surrounding, at least during the daylight hours. At night I found the hospital a weird and frightening place. All night I could hear people sobbing or crying out in distress. I could hear doors slam and footfalls echoing down long empty corridors. The boy in the bed next to me would not stop crying, I didn’t blame him I wanted to cry myself.

It was several days before I encountered Richard. He was identical to Robert in every way, except that he wore a three piece tweed suit. He was standing in the recreation room of Islay ward watching a joiner replace the sashes in one of the old wooden windows. He turned and walked to the rec room table, which was festooned with books and pamphlets and picked up a notepad. He approached the joiner and flicking through the pad informed him that he had the wrong window.

“It’s this window that needs fixed.”

The joiner nodded and dutifully undid his work and proceeded to the next window. He was nearly finished when the sister arrived and informed him that he had replaced the sashes in the wrong window.

“But the doctor”, he said, indicating Richard, “told me it was this window.”

The sister smiled forbearingly,

“He is a patient.”

Richard quickly about faced and skulked off like a guilty schoolboy.

That night, after his parents had left, the boy in the bed next to me was distraught and he sobbed for hours. I despaired of ever getting to sleep, but the nurses gave him a shot and he was soon out cold. I woke up in the early hours with the lights flashing on and off. Robert was at the light switch.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked groggily.

“Morse code,” replied Robert.

“Why?” I asked.

He just gave me an indulgent smile, stupid question.

“Who are you signalling?”

“That’s a secret.”

“Please stop it,” I implored, “I’m trying to sleep.”

Just then we heard footsteps approach the door and Robert jumped into his bed. “What’s going on?” enquired the nurse.

“He won’t stop talking,” said Robert pointing an accusing finger in my direction, but averting his gaze.

“Get to sleep Robert,” said the nurse and closed the door.

Robert had an aversion to television. Most of the other patients were avid viewers during the hours of seven till ten when we were allowed to watch. He believed television would steal your thoughts. However, he did not leave the television room while it was on. He paced about behind our chairs making cryptic comments while averting his eyes. One evening he became particularly animated while we were watching Top of the Pops.

“It’s propaganda!” he exclaimed. “Turn it off,”

he made a grab for the switch, but was intercepted.

“It’ll melt your brain!” he insisted.

Then after many attempts to distract us he said in a sly voice, “I’ll detonate the device.”

We ignored him. He began a countdown “10, 9, 8...” When he reached zero he slammed his hand into the fire alarm and all hell broke loose. There were bells ringing everywhere. The nurses arrived from their station to see what was going on and to evacuate us from the building.

“It was just Robert,” we protested, but regulations are regulations.

The whole hospital was evacuated and we all, many of us in pyjamas, stood outside in the snow while we were counted and the fire brigade did a search of the building. I was standing next to Robert and he turned to me and said, “BOOM”.

The next time I saw him he was being dragged away by two orderlies screaming for help.

“John! John! Help me!”

It was two days before he arrived back on the ward. He was a shambling shadow of his former self. The ‘chemical cosh’ the other patients called it; a drug called largactil, a common treatment for schizophrenia. I seemed like a punishment to me, punishment for unleashing the doomsday device.


11 July 2013

Vicious Monkeys


vicious monkeys

getting frisky

all elbows and tongues

shaven heads

and swastika smiles

wrong man

wrong place

the power of the knife

twists in the stomach

men must fight

cowards must flee

with the pulse

beating in my throat

blood pool coiling in my gut

I fled

never looked back

whoops of laughter

still ringing in my ears


10 July 2013

The Last Message



The heart is huge and soft

And melts like butter

You don’t have to ask me why

I still carry on with the Freudian Fraud

With winding sheets in Van Gogh’s diner

Peace descends with God’s own medicine

The Japanese sandman commits hara kiri

Bleeds on the sandals of Jesus’s son

The last ever message on the front cover

Oh father – what have they done?


7 July 2013

Allow For Shrinkage

If I was a real man I’d have a gun. I’d powder my nostrils with kif and royal jelly and bed every whore who gave me the glad eye. Don’t ever let me outta here – I’m a serial disaster waiting to happen. I’m cooking up some of that good shit and I’m gonna lay it on thick and fearless. I’ll puke on your lap if you feed me enough. Always bite the hand that feeds – it’s expected of you.

I got a cut rate education gleaned from the pages of stolen books. I was an autodidactic musical hall visionary, but the charm of show business has since worn thin. The antidote to glamour is working for a living. Mind numbing boredom scoops your insides out and fills the spaces left behind with dust. I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong. I get high – I get low – repeat (ad infinitum). The crest of the wave, the laxative slump, that tremor deep in the gut has me distended and extended beyond human limitations. I’m a regular chameleon, a hybrid human, a spaced out chimera.

Is my face on straight? Do I look faulty? The phoney me – the painted smile – the plastic teeth of synthetic man. The weight of me, the shape of me, everything is fragmented and broken. Here in the marginal regions of sensory deprivation words don’t come easy – if they come at all. Words are relayed by proxy here – laid out in some secret cipher known to no-one, but understood by all: “There is no asylum here, no sanctuary, and no sanctity”. There is room for one and one alone – it’s never an easy fit – you have to allow for shrinkage of the soul.

3 July 2013



I know that they have me under surveillance; some shady fucker with a telescopic lens hiding behind a neighbour’s blinds, undercover operatives tailing me in unmarked cars. You might think me paranoid, but these fucks are seriously nosy. Plod has an insatiable appetite for ‘intel’. I have a scrupulous fascination with privacy – there are conflicting interests at work here.

Tongues are wagging. Lies are being smeared. There are quislings in my camp – ready to turn me over. There are piggies with their snouts in my trough. They’ll know my schedule by now – they’ll have been monitoring my movements. Well, I can change my schedule, alter my movements. I’ll adopt a disguise and go incognito. They’ll have to get up early in the morning to catch this worm.

While they are watching me – I’ll be watching them. My eyes are peeled for signs of their presence and I have eyes in the back of my head. They lack the energy to keep up with me, I’m a veteran insomniac. While they doze I’ll be making my moves. I might be a target, but I’ll be a moving target. Crazy? I’ll show them who’s crazy!


2 July 2013

Rat Boy


A night stand with an empty cup and full ashtray – a book of placebo poetry – pretty words strung together for abstract effect. He garners images like the crumbs of toast itchily deposited on his mattress. He necks his medication after carefully chewing each pill with care.

(ONE to be taken at night. If sleepy do not drive or operate machinery. Avoid alcohol. Swallow this medicine whole. Do not chew or crush.)

He goes for the heavy stone – the obliterative rush. He reaches out for a taste of oblivion and oblivion reaches out to him. He has no fear of falling, gravity is his best friend. That heavy hand on his shoulder – that warm envelope of darkness, it’s the closest thing to the womb – outside of death.

He likes to write. He likes the exercise of assembling the words – negotiating meaning – no obfuscation – there can be no doubt, no room for mistakes. His is a struggle for meaning, it’s more than a mere obsession – it’s a life or death contest. The notebook on the night stand is full of scribbled impressions – most are undecipherable to all but him.

The bedroom window is open just enough to let the night seep in. He feels the hum of the city streets, hears the howls of monkey bands making their way home in the wee small hours. Just before he succumbs to sleep he thinks he hears a scratching sound somewhere in the room.

He dreams of a long corridor with locked doors on either side. He is running from something, or looking for someone. He dreams about a girl, someone strange yet familiar. She is his woman and he has to protect her from something unseen.

He dreams that the girl is pregnant. She gives birth to a rat. However he tries to care for the child he feels revulsion and he cannot help thinking that his is his replacement. It makes perfect sense; Rat Boy is the ultimate survivor. It’s only when the infant calls him ‘Dad’ that he wakes up with a jolt.

The sky is grey, the light is thin. It could be anytime, but his body tells him that it’s six am. He always awakens at six am. He tells himself that it’s a lifetime of routine, but it’s junk and he knows it. His body awakens him every morning screaming for junk. He is less well equipped for survival than Rat Boy, he shudders as he remembers the dream, Rat Boy has no such weakness as junk.


30 June 2013

The Man With No Soul


She said she liked the cut of my cliché; suburban dilettante with a splash of druggy mystique. “But”, she said, and here comes the wrecking ball, “You have no soul” The girl with the raven eyes said I have no soul, but of course I have a soul – that’s where the pain lies. She laid the boot in where it hurts – right in the ego – started the downward cycle – spiralling beyond my control.

Any fool can draw blood with the carefully chosen word. Most use the scatter gun approach and just chuck them about till something sticks.This was different – I felt she knew me – that she had seen inside of me and found me wanting. An embarrassed silence was the precursor to deep despair.

I have to report that I got very drunk! I tried to drown my sorrows, but my sorrows float.The flotsam of my life crowded my head with unhealthy vibrations.My clockwork messaging service told of rude change in the either region – either get it straight or go home to sulk. I have no home, just a domicile – somewhere to lie down when lying down is called for. Somewhere I keep my junk – in case I need my junk.

How banal – how very banal - the common place misery, the self indulgent woe. Why should I care what some stranger says? Why did her words burn pathways of shame into my mind? It was a lucky guess that’s all – she couldn’t possibly know that I had no soul.


26 June 2013

Number Seven


I set number seven ablaze. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it sooner. I was stoned at the time – when the impulse took me. I put the chip pan on and went out. It’s the most common cause of household fire, the chip pan. I was standing across the road watching when the fire brigade arrived. It was only then that the enormity of what I’d done hit me. I was shaking. I was in shock. I stood there among my neighbours and watched the smoke fuming from the roof. I could see the flames through the windows. All my possessions were burning. Everything I owned was being turned to cinders.

I was a bit embarrassed when the fireman guessed correctly that I was off my face, “the most common cause of household fires” he said. Fire cleanses, fire destroys and fire renews. Friends gathered around to console me, “At least no-one was hurt – are you insured?” At that moment I just did not give a shit. I would rise from the ashes. I was looking forward to it.

A few days later I was allowed to enter the building to retrieve any belongings that I could. To my surprise my bedroom – though covered in a thick layer of soot – was basically intact. I found a shoe box crammed full of old letters and postcards, a lifetime’s worth of correspondence. They were miraculously undamaged by the fire. I scanned through them – old lovers, friends, relatives – bitter sweet memories. They burned very nicely. One by one they joined with the ash on the floor.


24 June 2013

Feel Free

We ordered locusts, honeyed, from the promised land, but they were not on the menu. All we got was some tortured beast – already half dead – who threw us out into the street saying, “This is a respectable establishment – we serve tea!” 

We decided to have a drink, but it was Sunday cathedral quiet and all the pubs were closed. We noticed that everyone, everywhere, had been fucked in the face for no good reason. So we called the author to demand an explanation, we got no reply. He was probably on a book signing somewhere on Sinai. I demanded a lawyer – I know my rights – but the lawyers were all asleep, it being early on a Sunday morning. 

We gave each other medals instead, gold ones, as befitted our winner status. We were fast – faster than any car – any parked car that is. Slumped on a park bench we pondered our next move while we had another smoke – it stunts the growth, but I was already ten feet tall and rising. I had a special lotion to prevent my errant growth cycle, but I had left it in the car and left the car somewhere where I could not find it. It’s always the last place you look – so we stopped looking, but it wasn’t there. 

Just then it hit us – where everybody was. They were in church – where we ought to be – as God fearing men. Sitting in God’s house with a thousand tabs of acid stuffed into my coat pockets I felt like every messianic hipster who’d taken the wrong turn on the road to salvation – ecstatic. When the minister said, “Let us pray” I gave my consent, “Feel free” I said, and we both fell out of our pew laughing.

19 June 2013



when it’s on me

it’s a speedball

an acid rush

the distilled rays of the sun

burn into my retinas

fuse the membrane

and flood my head

with a rainbow song

then I’m a supernova

I’m a lightning strike

an atomic bomb

I’m the Empire State

and the monster Kong

I’m a gushing torrent

a tidal wave

I’m a rattle snake

with a diamond back

I’m the seventh son

I’m a maniac


14 June 2013

Black Dog

I’m sick to the soul of this shit. My days are long and drawn out in a thin visceral stream that twists around the landmarks of my life. There is a quake in my soul - a quickening of pulse and febrile brow. I am atremble, a candle in a draft. I’m sinking into the mire, I can no longer help it and I no longer care.

It is always a step before and a breath behind me. A miasma of waking dreams played out against my pillow in the constant churning of my incessant consciousness. It’s there in the tangle of my sheets that the turning and returning of my memories break as waves across my brain pan. Every embarrassment, every humiliation, is played out in slow motion for my morbid delectation.

I feel so strange. I’ve felt it before, like something, somewhere, is all wrong. It’s coming from someplace far away and it’s coming for me. I buried something somewhere and some-one is now digging it up. Zombies from the past are trailing me. There are conspiracies whispered just beyond my hearing.
I’ve been here so many times before but I’ll never get used to it – that’s the bitch - I’ll never get used to it. It's an insidious and complex torture, always new and yet familiar. That unhappy shadow is always nearby – and the promise of inclement weather is ever on the horizon.

13 June 2013

Dead Man’s Shoes


Buy me another drink and I’ll tell you a story. It’s set out on the edge – on the hard road to hell. About a travelling man who slaved all his days for a handful of nothing; that’s where it all goes eventually - down the fucking tubes. Virtues turn to vices and vices turn to chains. It’s a hard road to travel for rich and for poor. Over time the luxury of indulgence becomes the slavery of convention; emperors and paupers both wear tin crowns.

I walked those uncertain miles in a dead man’s shoes. They pinched, they chafed, and they left little room for deviation from an idiot course. The path of least resistance led to the bottom of the bottle, more dead soldiers littering the sorry path to hell.

My cause was lost, the spirit had ebbed away, but I made my crooked way to where the grass was no greener and the people were no kinder. Always onward – never back – I kept on until they found a reason to hang me in those dead man’s shoes.

I’ve seen men hang, hang by degrees, with the life choked out of them over the course of decades. Lynched by the mob,  ostracized and exiled to the barren regions. Naked men left out in the rain, men without a friend, men without a home, men starved of love.

There are no second chances for those already dead. They say hope is the mother of all men, but I had no mother, no father, no-one else. I’d nothing much to remember and nothing much to forget. I had nothing much to celebrate, but everything to regret.

Some say that Jesus awaits us at the end of this long road. That he’ll relieve us of our burdens and wipe away our tears. So put the pennies on my eyes for to pay my fare, wrap me in a pauper’s shroud and take me out of here.


16 April 2013



Does what you’re doing

Make you wonder

Where you are going?

Best not to think about it


The remedy is simple

Press the needle to the lungs



Instant gratification

In vitro fertilization for the brain

Less haste – more speed

White lines lead off into the horizon

Where my past falls off the edge of the world

I stand enthralled

I’m drawn to the scene

I do not say I’m compelled


The Inca in me holds a morbid fascination in the patterns of disgrace…


So many faces to remember

So many places I’ve been

I was young

I was arrogant

I was doped up

I was right


Put my head on a stone

Quite happy for a while

Your average stone is lighter than air

If you know where to put it


Everything that could be done – was done

The comedown was fairly sharp

I held him in my arms

as his life ebbed away

He didn’t remember my name

That’s when I knew

He was never coming back from this one

Beam me up – the Mothership is waiting

I forged my connection – along with my papers

I’m out of here – on the first reliable conveyance


I like to get out of my tree every now and then

I find it most beneficial

Helps me remember what to forget


11 April 2013



All my life they spat on me

Because I dragged the low end

I got used to fighting for what’s mine

Blood of my blood and bone of my bone

I believe in an eye for an eye

I’d gouge away with bloody thumbs

Even if it rendered the whole world blind

Everyone is born with love in them

But you have to be taught how to hate

Each blow that landed was an education

They taught me and I learned it well

I want my pound of flesh on the bone

I’ll dig my grave right next to yours

I will pluck out my offended eyes

And serve the dictates of my primitive heart


7 April 2013

The Secret World


I don’t have to live like this

I could give up the bug juice

I could get creative

Tear up my notebook

And start again

I could pluck out my eyes

Block up my ears

Tear out my tongue

And write in the air

There is no truth

And that being true

There are only lies

Stories that you tell

To make it seem alright

The object of thought

The indelible link

To predictable reason

The assassin of truth

Obscures the way

To self expression

There are no words

With which to write

The secret world

The inner life

For lies abound

Where silence prevails


3 April 2013


Man I'm fucked. Inertia has carved me a mountain to climb. I’ve got bad bones - dry and brittle. They ache in the rain and fracture into vicious shards that pierce my flesh with darts of pain. I’m sick of my body – old and flabby. I captured a few pounds along the way, or they captured me. I’ll beat this vessel into an older shape – such a handsome youth – before the spilling of blood.

(He says he will. He’ll later say he did, but he’ll hold his place – it comforts him to remain inert.)

Bongs and bombs left craters in my bronchial organs. I wouldn’t smoke one of them – that’s a needle for the lungs. The wheezing, gasping instruments of life – collapsible bags of phlegm – expelling life by the root and tubers of my chest.

No more graveyards for me – too close to home to bring comfort – full of old bones and memories – such places only bring me down into the cancerous layers of yesteryear – coughing spluttering bloody handkerchiefs. Coffin nails stain my fingers brown – the colour of creeping death – the sepia tone of ancient photographs – windows on the dead. Brown is the colour of the sod that covers my corpse - the colour of my rotting bones beneath the dirt. My tired old bones embrace the inevitable – I’ll be gone, but my bones will remain.
* Graphic ‘Cyclops’ by Stanley Mouse

7 March 2013

The day I died


When I called out

You couldn’t hear

I turned to talk

But you weren’t there

You left the works

But took the gear


How I wept

How I cried

I sent for a priest

But none arrived

Things were rough

The day I died


19 February 2013


more haste – less speed
the minutes s t r e t c h out
racked in terrible instance
tortured in the passing
the throbbing mechanism
of desire
the beatings of fleshy drums
pulse off into nowhere
on and on
the cycle persists
the dim morning
cold grey light
seeping gently in
through empty windows
framing the silence
with spine chill –
and frozen sap
another day of coffin nails
and cellophane smiles
of sleeping lovers
faraway in time