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.