20 December 2014

Jesus Is Waiting


3 am again

my mechanism

is stretched to breaking

tore a line from scripture

blessed are the poor in spirit

for they are on their tod

they haunt the early hours

indulging their solitude

but you know what they say

you’re never alone with a good book

solace comes in many forms

so increase the peace

lay it on my brow

so I remember

that Jesus is waiting

and he loves a good natter


17 December 2014



The shrapnel in my sky rocket won’t fetch another drink and it looks like I’m walking home tonight, but I won’t be alone. A life on the lam has proved less than profitable, but what does it benefit a man to gain the world and lose his mojo? You know what they say about life – that it’s not your destination but who you travel with that counts. I have known people; some were good – some were not. You know that you can rent friends, but you won’t keep those. A wise guy once said that a real friend should be prized beyond riches because they cannot be bought – while fair weather friends and faint hearted lovers are ten a penny. Your real friends will lend a shoulder when the cuckoos in your nest turn out to be vipers in your bosom. They won’t fold and run when the going gets tough, broadcast your secrets, or otherwise stab you in the back. A friend will lift you up and go the extra mile. A friend won’t try to change you to suit their own needs – they love you for who you are.


10 December 2014



Of course I stoke the pot from time to time – only to make things stretch a little further. Times is tough and out on the perimeter it’s often hand to mouth, but only a fool would starve if there is gravy to be had.

Oh Mother, shell a little corn our way and forgive our misdemeanours – taking countless previous offences into consideration. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from the fat cats who would drive us into penury. No one works to be poor and we abide in the hope that there ain’t no paupers in the kingdom to come...

9 December 2014



Damn the stupid – for they are greedy fuckers lacking grace or art. There are holes in my mind where I tried to burn them out with poisoned liquor. One day it all got out of hand; I set the whole place on fire. I lit the inferno but others supplied the fuel. I saw them later, sifting through the ashes for trophies. Their laughter crackled in the air as they picked over my memories with hands as black as murder. The fireman told me that alcohol and drugs were common contributing factors in most fires. I am incendiary it seems – high as a kite – ready to light up and burn down the sky.


7 December 2014



I fashioned these instruments in the dark, they are conceited and blind; blunt and bloody murder. They are animate beyond my control. Some chronic neuro spasm drew them to the surface, they will not submerge now. Gone are the days of liquefaction – these times have hard edges and sharp corners. There is no comfort here in the vivisection lounge. I take my ticket and wait my turn. I’m the last. I’m always last. They save the worst for last.

I donate my gory remains to a science irrational in the hope that someone else takes the rap for my indiscretions. That’s an unlikely scenario since my fingerprints colour the crime scene like cherry blossoms. I usually plead not guilty by means of insanity; it never works, but it’s all I have. Of course, it’s not a question of guilt. Guilt is arbitrary in the machinations of the great mechanism. The guilty and the innocent alike are brought to the dock; sometimes innocence is regarded as a crime.

Your honour, it’s late or early yet and I’m a thousand miles past midnight and way too high to be dragged down by the machinery of jurisprudence. I am all tempus fugit and I’m travelling too fast to be precise or discerning. My testimony is therefore suspect; I could be perjuring myself and I wouldn’t know. All I know is my tables turned and the judgements that I once meted out are now meted out against me. Have I been framed again? Will this be another great miscarriage of justice? Could it be that I’m as guilty as anybody ever was?


5 December 2014




the story for the most part

is lodged in my throat

I could choke on my words

if I ever let them loose

some people make me sick

green fingered monkeys

who plant worms in my mind

draw lumps from my throat

tie knots in my guts

and bring tears to my eyes

they dissect my body

to divine terrible truths

and even more terrible lies

from my stinking entrails


2 December 2014



I tried to polish the connection again, but there was grit in my unction and it got into the mechanism. Now it won’t run with the smooth action that I was used to. Still, I rubbed and rubbed until I’d scoured its surfaces with tiny little scratches and its once smooth finish was dull and coarse to the touch. I don’t know what I was thinking. That was no way to treat something so precious. Perhaps I was trying to pare it back – to reach beneath the skin to a previous state of being. Whatever the reason the device is now scarred forever and it grinds where once it glided. It still works, I’m sure of that, but it will never be the thing of beauty that it once was. With a little effort I believe can still make the connection work – if I can ever forgive my little act of sabotage.


22 November 2014

Wasted Time


the spastic membrane

in my gelatinous mind

plays havoc with

my recollections

and I have turned

from fire to ice

I’ve embraced the cold

and the numerous devices

of frosty indifference

they came readily to hand

that thin line crossed

I barricade my borders

with bitter recrimination

and self serving lies

the heart is fickle

and memory selective

there is a history here

I care not to remember

I banished such reflection

from heart and mind

and labelled the past

wasted time


4 November 2014

Dirty Boots


I’m nothing but a stranger in this land

of awkward gaits and twisted tongues

lost for a time, but now in season

this is the story of my return


these are the suicidal days of autumn

when heavy winds scourge the earth

and persistent rain bleaches the life

from sallow skinned natives


I’m a flightless bird, a drowning fish

a crock of broken promises

at the grey end of the rainbow


I’m a cesspit full of stinking lies

buried beneath the garden weeds

the distillation of crocodile tears

bittersweet and poisonous


I’m the product of excreta

spewed from angry mouths

a child birthed in anguish

and raised on baneful legends


incongruous momentum

sows havoc at my heels

the accumulation of oxidised dreams

red ochre are caked to my feet

heavy shit to scrape from my boots


28 October 2014



the sky is dark and heavy

dismal as an infant’s funeral

tones of grey and black

divide the days

and we are hostage

to perpetual winter

the sun is dying

heaven is weeping

darkness reigns

in the hinterland


21 October 2014


1146139 - CARRIE

There she goes, crushed and confused, off to the shop to buy more booze. A faded rose with a wan smile on cracked lips; she’ll never meet your eye preferring instead to gaze at her feet. No time to speak - she has to hustle – her man wants a drink and he wants it post haste. His tongue is razor like and barbed with cruelty and anger. He’s a brow beater and a bully. She loves him, she says, because he cares for her – though seldom shows it. His love is the proprietorial kind, as subtle as a punch in the face. She bends to suit his needs, but in a history of futile gestures no kindness goes unpunished.

Migratory flocks bring news as sad as death; another year has passed – lost to the clouds that hang heavy on the horizon. She’s marking time with her heavy feet; her trudging gait and slumped shoulders convey the defeat that hangs like funeral shrouds around her head. The dust of so many lonely years has settled on her brow – the grit gets in her eyes and blinds her with tears that fall as autumn rain. Ashes and sackcloth - tinfoil and cheap wine; the powder put a hex on her and she aged before her time. The needle and the pipe robbed her of her looks – the man who waits impatiently has stolen her dreams.


2 October 2014





or hardly ever

not now and then

but now, forever


they are out to get me

I know they are

their whispered fragments coalesce

to form steel traps

for my clumsy feet

and a crown of thorns

for my weary head

tectonic plates shift

beneath the gut

beyond the entrails

into the deep

the heart of things

the end of light


my fingers are stained

with nicotine and blood

I’m high now – too high for comfort

each horrifying impulse

passes through my colon

with a nauseous thrashing motion

tearing like baby sharks

devouring their birthing sacks

I cannibalised my ego

to construct a prison

with no walls

and no means of escape

this crimson shelter

affords no respite

from the luxury

of self reflection

or the aching desire

for sleep


1 October 2014

No Refunds


The dead weight of your affections nearly broke my back, but I’ve spent my last day on tour with your psycho mafia. A thousand days was my sentence and each fell like a blow to the heart. Strange the thoughts and deeds that lead a man to despair – bitter the taste of recrimination that sticks to the gullet with barbed edges. Honed to the personal – only familiarity can breed such accuracy. You score a hollow bull’s eye with every reproach, but your anonymity does not hide the blade in your guilty hand. I’ll be your hostage no more. Your name sat heavily in my little black book so I tore  you out and burned the evidence. I never knew you – you were never here. Go back to your lonely simulation of a life; you’ll find no refunds and no apologies here.


27 September 2014



crematoria tears fell freely on the Monday

lapsed into silence on the Tuesday morn

we were all here, but you were gone

I heard you breathing shallow now

but far away someone wept

that someone was me

we fear the loss of heaven

and the pain of hell

for we have heard the mother of voices

she calls us by name

and counts the number of our days


8 August 2014



She was doorstep primo: heavier than the bus load, but with a little more hip and thigh. I was up for it in the bacon slicer vanguard. It was my Van Gogh moment – with dust in its arse. It cut me loose and vibrant. I liked what I was seeing.

“I read what you wrote and you’re a very sick man”

She didn’t have to read it, she was just nosey. I could tell she wanted more. Cast the junk muppet from the friction generator. We have an interglacial disintegration going on here.I mounted her like a billy goat. I had the situation under control – a few sharp thrusts – a few long strokes... I was slippery to the hilt, she made cooing noises – my turtle dove.

She groaned – that was rich – this was ecstatic pneumatic. Orbs of flesh – all smooth edges and jiggling; the slap of groin on sodden groin – the strain of muscle and sinew – all concentration to the pulsing centre of my being. The moment stretched and arrested. My cock – a monument to virility – exploded with a million myths into the temple of Isis. Cool shards of ecstasy moaned, foamed and fumed through the spasm pike. That was rich and I was warm inside – for a while.


28 July 2014

Green Disciple


Here smoke this - it’ll do you some good. That Chinese dope is compressed and loaded full of stalk and leaf. This skunk is all bud. It’s the filth - real heavy shit. It has a narcoleptic hit – a real heavy stone - full of easy drifting and sudden realisation. You’ll see around corners you never thought existed. It’s loaded with contemplation and shiny pipe dreams, but it’s all momentai - we’ll do that shit tomorrow.

Some ask me why I smoke the herb. It’s for the colour of rain, I say, for the music of the sun. It’s arriving by different routes to familiar destinations – for soothing the agitated mind and discovering new faults in my improbable machine. It’s for the correction of the heart – erasing the mystique of the subconscious mind and shining a light within. I step a little lighter with that heavenly mantle spread across my shoulders. I smile a little deeper for less provocation.


26 July 2014



It no longer hurts. I plucked out the offending instrument with bloody fingers and drew me a new one of purple with eight crimson limbs – each possessing a caring hand for a fevered brow – each tentacle a golden pathway to enlightenment – according to my sponsors who have been mysteriously absent of late.

I believe there is no saving anyone, even ourselves – especially ourselves. We are each bound to a fatal trajectory; we all reach the same destination over time. We come from nothing and it’s to nothing we return. We spend our days with the masses chewing the cud and shitting it out; we are all members of the one great herd - all bound for the abattoir.

But enough of this bovine philosophy – I have a boat to catch and my memoirs to forge. This shit does not cook itself. It takes days of careful preparation and intense deliberation to float these little dinghies. There’s a cheap and cheerful cliché – a clumsy metaphor requiring little imagination; little boats adrift on the glittering ocean; the flotsam and jetsam of tiny shipwrecks; no survivors to tell the tale.

I plucked out the offending instrument with bloody fingers and set sail for new lands where they’d never heard of me – or my sorry tale. I ate my ragged sails and burned my little boat on the volcanic shores of some forgotten land where they remembered nothing, but they remembered me. It was raining, I recall, they laid on a hero’s welcome – complete with friendly lynch mob and an accommodating tree...


24 July 2014


Funny disguise mask. Vector.
I can’t write. I have no talent, no finesse, no nuanced phrasing or beautiful prose. I recognise my key attributes now. I’m the devil’s bagman. I’ll poison your chakras and I’ll piss in your well. Just so long as I’m felt – just so you know that I’m there.

This woman – random bitch – in the hospital called me an imposter, because I smiled when offered a cigarette. I smiled and said ‘thank you’ – a crazy move in the locked ward. No one smiles in a locked ward, unless they are staff. For them it’s a job, for the patients it’s a grim vocation.

I have me a new vocation – king of the night, burner of the midnight oil. I’ll sit and drum on this machine until I’ve squeezed the venom from my brain pan into some form of magic - something that leaps from the page and makes for the jugular. I don’t care who likes it – I’m not handing out sweeties – I’m signing death warrants.

Here is the new credo – love is for suckers – hopeless sentiment for rascals and liars. I’ll be fooled no more by pretty words and winning smiles. I’m the singular and heartless beast that lurks beneath the breast of every man and woman who was ever burned. I’m the an imposter; feigning interest in truth and beauty when all I care about is getting my rocks off and cataloguing my experience for the prurient thrill I derive from playing the game with style.

13 July 2014

Mother Sun


I switch off the word machine

and turn my face toward the sun

the bone silence prevails

saturating the senses

with harmless static

that feels good

the warmth of the sun

fusing my lids to eyeballs

searing red my retina

revealing a blood conduit

to the heart of the mother sun


6 July 2014




in the laboratory

of my mind

I concoct solutions

to ubiquitous problems

the silken intrusion

and delicate rub

of afflictive memories

the cocks and cunts

of youthful infatuation

the fascination

of the flesh

meshed into pornographic


forced into grotesque

and novel shapes

made to adopt

censored smiles

and null identity

but these subtle devices

imperfect in design

only breed new monsters

bittersweet and unkind


5 July 2014



always got the soggy end




‘til saturation point

lacking that golden touch

tongue tied

born to rust

this takes the biscuit

really pisses me off


I’m on a bender

have been for years

what choice do I have?

I’ve nowhere left to run

I could be rehabilitated

did you ever think of that?

I could pass for normal

in the proper attire


- that’s a faulty account

and a totally false picture -







it’s a flash exposure

that imprints illusion

on the pliant mind

can’t let that touch me

only drags me down

after all

they’re only snapshots

frozen memories

and memories change

through time.


3 July 2014

Tea Time


I smell trouble

you fill the room with it

that’s a derangement

of the senses

an olfactory overload


something tastes thin

thin and unwholesome

there’s a pit within

a pit in the stomach

of a starving man


I’ve peeled my eyes

they’re a sorry sight

I’m loaded up

on bathtub gin

and pixie dust

stoned to my teeth

under a heroin sky



to the sound of nausea

deaf to my objections

you pick the nits

that make me itch


making sandwiches


brewing tea

you sucked the life

from science


mastered the art

of banality


30 June 2014



I’m not unloading

so don’t think I am

but I saved you then

I saved you, so no-one

could ever hurt you again

there was blood on my hands

but I wasn’t alone

when I stood at the altar

you were right by my side

what we did

we did together

with no sense of shame

I taught you then

what you’re teaching now

there’s more to the game

than just holding hands

and trading kisses

I taught you how to steal

you never asked why

but you learned your lesson

well enough to clean me out

before you said goodbye

I wonder where you are

and who you’re kissing now

I wonder if you remember

who it was that showed you how


29 June 2014



“ma name is Spunk”

he’d announce

in a voice full of

ground down

Buckfast bottles

“an ah’m the fuckin’ man”

he had a face

made of minced beef

which framed a broad reptilian smile

his head belonged on Easter Island

one great neckless slab of stone

balanced on mountainous shoulders

his hands were great steam shovels

used for the early dig

the knockout blow

Spunk dealt in hard times

for hard cash

with broken bones

and lost teeth

he’d taken many second prizes

but that was long ago

he’d since become selective

in who he fought

and what he fought them for

he did his best to live up

to the role his face had carved for him

he was coarse and aggressive

he was mean and repulsive

he was that big bad fish

in a little pond

the local nightmare

the hard man

who thought himself a king

but I saw him cry

when she left and broke his heart

he’d tried to make her stay

the only way he knew how

he used too much force

and killed her love that night

something in him died too

he shrank as a man

to a shadow of the beast

he once was

no-one fears him now

he’s just another wino

hanging around the off licence

an old punch drunk fighter

taking a standing count

one more blow landed

will knock him down and out


26 June 2014

Strangers Once More


we were completely

into each other

or so it seemed

we were solid

and sang from the same sheet

sweet – the way angels ought to sing

we consummated our thing

in the conventional way

as approved by the state

at the local registry office

witnessed by strangers

we made promises

we could not keep


we had the paper now

a sign of our commitment

but you can’t build a home

from paper

we gave it our best shot

but our efforts fell

well short of the mark

we parted as friends

one dark October morning

but even that did not last

and we ended as we began

strangers once more.


22 June 2014



I’d gone too far

everybody said so

it was only when

I found myself alone

that I began to believe them


diagnosed as faulty

back in ‘91

they took me in

on an observational basis

I soon learned the score

softly, softly

catchy monkey

little steps to health

don’t tell ‘em you’re done

they won’t believe you


I had to carry my gear with me

to protect my identity

from nurses

head shrinkers

and psychos


homeless for a time

I wept in silence

in that cold asylum

‘til I found the route

that would lead me home


I was nameless then

when all those stone faces

shunned me at the doorstep

I had to reinvent myself

to overcome the stigma

of public crucifixion


others would pad the story

and sell the bad news

as glad tidings

to their jealous troupe

of sycophantic stooges

but that was long ago now

and only fools

hold on

to an injurious past


19 June 2014

Punch and Judy


she sought theatre

or something like it

she wanted


and matadors

what she got was me

a major disappointment


a sheltered childhood

left her with a naive

thirst for life

a thirst I could not quench

in the end my shoulders

were too narrow

to carry her dreams


She was Punch to her Judy

the villian in her drama

I held her back she said

from her moment

in the spotlight

from the curtain call

in her pantomime


she held me down

I nearly drowned

in her self importance

18 June 2014



there is no dumb

eternal essence

no spiritual spark

that electrifies

the synaptic gap

we speak ourselves

into being

and our language

articulates ideology

we are the vassals

of whatever ideology

we call common sense

they have prohibitions

that control your body

and procedures

to improve

your ideology


17 June 2014

Dead Men


I write like a dead man

with knotted fingers

and a feeble grasp

I cast no reflection

into the pool of life

here on the outside

the far outside

there are no windows


no welcome in the hearth

and there are no songs

for dead men

to wrap their tongues around


15 June 2014



“no-one fucks like that”

she said

“unless they mean it”

I had given it full expression

and I had meant it

in the heat of the moment

with the fire in my loins


hers was not my circus


those were not my monkeys


“what’s wrong?”

“don’t you fancy me?”

her eyes searched mine

I averted – shame faced

silence was evidence

of my betrayal

I did not know what to say

the feeling just wasn’t there

well, that was my story

and I stuck to it


that was the story I told

and told over again

until I forgot it was a lie

it was a story of innocence

it was far from the truth

I have two glass eyes

and a silver tongue

I can lie with the best

and often do

but most of the time

I only deceive myself

with my harmless

acts of treason


23 May 2014



for my head

Shug said

he gave me a wrap

for the pain

all fingers and foil

trembling slightly

I inhaled

the acrid smoke

burning lettuce

slipped easy

into grateful lungs

I was waiting

waiting on a wave

a cool dark one

to sweep me up

and lay me to rest

in pastures green

by the still water

son of sky god

mother nature’s

favourite boy

I smoked myself sick

but even that felt good

in fact everything

felt good

too good

and I saw that

a man could lose himself

chasing dragons


Only Dreaming



years later

long after

you died

I dreamed

of you

in the dream

you were sixteen


and altogether


death had yet

to touch

your brow

your life force

shone out


and proud

and I woke up


if I was only dreaming

or was it really you


21 May 2014

Whores Of Babylon

my psyche
and pushes
my heart
to pause
for a second
the sacred
of Babylon
in ecstatic
to forge
a link
and earth
they meet
my sheets
and cradle
my heat
to melt
me into
my lover’s

20 May 2014



the room is empty

seven months gone

pregnant manifestation

of fractured promise

it’s not the first

probably won’t

be the last

even as a boy

the feeling

of desertion





19 May 2014



Religion makes no sense

There is no comfort there

Nor in the platitudes of old friends

If you only knew the names of the things

That are eating at my heart

You would wonder that I could nurture

Such monsters as these

I know I wonder – and I’m their host

Their inventor and proprietor

I should remove myself from company

Until I have straightened my way

Before I do or say something that shames me


White Lightning


Those hard junk faces

Wrinkled dead like burst balloons

Scary in their pit bull nightmares

Full of toothless bite and spit

Weeping from excess of white lightning

Zap ‘em straight to the fucking brain pan

Rattle their medulla oblongata

The alky villains who stole my clothes

Looked just like you do

Lonesome, confused

And in search of a mother


15 May 2014

No Angels

White Angel Wings

there are no angels

there are no demons

there are only survivors

the world stones its saints

as it buries the innocent

and in the end no-one

remembers their names


4 May 2014


Sango Bay

Take a picture of this

We were holding hands

We had heavy heads

And happy hearts

We were stoned

In the regular variety

We rushed to the shore

The sea lapped at our feet

The wind tugged at our hair

We were immortal then

We were cleansed

Spotless as in infancy

The world had yet to find us

To bind us to convention

And condemn us - all three

For the illicit love we shared


2 May 2014

Working Girl

Chris said his missus
was the sweetest
little whore
in the city
that she pulled
two or three hundred
in a day
which I guessed was
mostly spent on junk
she worked in a sauna
during the day
and walked the streets
after dark
he’d wait for her return
when she’d come home
with the hard earned readies
he’d rush out to score
in a frenzy of junkie haste
but he always took his time
coming home with the gear
he was a social creature
when he was stoned
and had pockets full
of cash to spend
it was the missus
who had to wait
climbing the walls
until he returned

30 April 2014



she was on the bottom of the pile

she’d been dealt a losing hand

twenty two and HIV positive

all Angela had to trade was her sex

which she did with grim purpose

she hated the punters – she told me so

as she picked at her fingernails

eventually drawing blood

she wanted to infect them all

share and share alike she said

the hate in her ran deeper

than her worn out veins

the love in her

was the desperate kind

for her junkie boyfriend come pimp

who needed his regular fix

that money didn’t grow on trees

she had to hustle for him

she was his daily bread

his slice of a heaven


everybody paid their dues

where angels and harlots

were all the same

underneath the skin

they all needed the human touch

and everybody paid

in one coin or another

everybody needs

a bosom to lay their head on

and Angela had hers

in the man who

put her on the street


27 April 2014



she said the right things

she wore the right clothes

took the right drugs

read the right books

and listened to the right music

but she wasn’t right for me

there was something about her

that made me feel uneasy

she was too eager to please

her every action was

designed to gratify my needs

you’d think I’d enjoy that

but you’d be wrong

I felt caged by her love

I had all the power

and it proved a burden


we had a friendship

that caught fire

it was a matter of time

before we got burned

the love we shared

had a gravity of its own

it began to drag us down

it had to end somewhere

and it ended badly

one rainy night

it simply dissolved

she said she hated me

I didn’t doubt that

she wore her love

like and open wound

it was bound to leave a scar


24 April 2014

Cul de sac


hard on the hips

the reflex action

that inspires


the meaningless

almost casual

sucker punch

that drags

on the genitalia

the passions spent

with the death

of imagination

the worn out


of the creative


of lovers retreating

behind drawn blinds

in their cul de sac


22 April 2014



nothing doing

not a murmur

except for

my breathing



in the night

her big

black boots

show no mercy


they kick me

in my coffin

and trample on

my dreams


my smile died

some way off

before the wee

small hours

ran ragged

and left me



there’s something

terribly wrong

somewhere away

where near is far

and far was yesterday


Erectile Dysfunction



suddenly sick

and heavy

the room rotated

an even quarter


upon every

heart beat

I was drunk

very drunk

I didn’t feel well

I felt bleached

and nauseous

I had no idea

where I was

but there was

a woman


that I was

never going

to fuck

because I was


too drunk

she knew

how to deal

with drunk

men who had



she threw me out

to stagger home



21 April 2014

The New Pornography


this harsh


that grinds

as it blinds

is the new


the word goes


a murmur

then a shout

live exotica

just inches


feed the membrane

stroke the cock

you can look

but cannot touch

a few grains of


are eked out

in the dark

just enough

to fuel

the fantasy

just enough

to leave you

wanting more

did you come?

did you come baby?

a feast of loss

a basket of prayer

don’t leave me alone

don’t leave me out here