Spike

this place is beyond bleak

it’s fucking grotesque    

I have the faint edge on

gloomy clouds signal inclement weather

and tired baleful concrete tenements

glower down on deserted streets

during the daytime

and the place seems deserted

and long ago abandoned by man

but at night the place comes to life

when troops of cocaine fuelled primates

fill the air with tribal war cries

and furtive indigent lepers

go about their business on the sly

what am I doing here?

I hate this fucking place    

everything went wrong here

I fucked up big time  

and paid the price

you expect to be kicked

when you’re down

but not by your friends 

that really hurts      and I got mad   

I thought about vengeance   

I’d be good at that     

but I’ve seen their lives

and that’s enough

it still smells of urine and cancer here

and has a soul crushing ambiance

the shithole that used to be home

but not by choice

never by choice

I got out

but came back

to find that there’s fuck all here

but the undead junkie hoards

and their feral klepto offspring

this is my hometown   anus mundi

I returned to lick my wounds

and escape from my failures

I’m decades away from anything here

this place was designated pointless in 1962

and filed under forgotten do not resuscitate

some part of me has died here

and shall forever remain

stashed in an unmarked grave

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 membrane

now plunge     for  instant gratification

in vitro fertilization for the brain

less haste more speed

I stand enthralled    

I’m still drawn to the scene     

I do not say I’m compelled

but the inca in me

holds a morbid fascination

for the patterns of disgrace

so many faces to remember

so many to forget

I was young

I was arrogant

I was doped up

I was right

I was always right

everything that could be done

was eventually done

but the consequences were brutal

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

his papers read DOA

they called it death by misadventure

but I killed him with kindness

and an extra generous hit

I’d already forged my connection

along with my papers

and was on the next bus to anywhere

don’t tell me how bad it is

I already know

it’s a suicide sport

and I’m all out of bullets

nevertheless

I’m geared up for excess

bicarbonate of coca

the ancient inca curse

so smother me with candy kisses

and take this poor boy home

it’s the last big deal

coughing up rocks

and surfing on air

but it’s all good

at twice the price

they’re shanking junkies

down in the park

bloody lubricant

for a vicious mechanism

those black market forces

can be so exacting

but that’s the economy

in my hometown

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Gouge

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
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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

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Bones

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.

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* Graphic ‘Cyclops’ by Stanley Mouse

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