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.