The Well Of Despair

The pursuit of pleasure led you here. You wanted the cool solution to your inner pain. You sought the ultimate high to fry your beans in; closer to death than you are meant to be.

Touch the cloth and kiss the ring. Do you love your man? Show me your money. Are you ready for that act of faith? Are you abased before your personal messiah?

This stuff is poison. They cut it with strychnine and weevil husks. The trick is to cook it well in lemon juice. Neutralise it so it don’t burn your brain. The last thing you want is a dirty hit sickening your veins. You just seek a little ease and a glimpse of immortality.

Just a spoonful of medicine helps ease the shit going down. A little inner fire will stifle the gag reflex before it chokes your mind. You’ve been self administering for so long now that you’ve forgotten what ails you. This cure will kill you, but there are worse ways to go. You say you feel no pain – I hope that’s true. I mean no harm to lepers like you. So come back soon. I know you will. The path of least resistance leads to the well of despair.

Insomniac

 

There are voices black with laughter harsh as crows barking. They call me by name while I cringe in an unholy place to await their passing. I will not face them in the dark of night, nor confront them in the light of day. I fear their taunts and rebukes. Their arrows are unerring and practiced. I will not struggle against them, for they are my children. They are the offspring of my failings.

When the evening tide wanes in vile bilious waves; I settle behind curtains drawn to pray to my hollow god that something/anything will happen to relieve the isolation of my republic of pain. All I seek is some other channel where my ghosts can rest in peace and I can get some sleep.

Cinnamon

she took a piece     delicious little tart     I spun her some yarn     on the off chance      she still harboured     any romantic illusions     I dished out      some tired old boiler plate     straight from the top shelf     an awkward confection     of fractured truths      and outright posture      

she said somebody stole her cinnamon     but that someone wasn’t me     by the time I got to her      she was shelling it gratis     to every punk drifter    who cast her a glad eye

I was aware of her derelict status      and her approximate  cliché      she’d cut a raw deal from life      she dreamed of adulation      but settled for acceptance      it was always quid pro quo with her     she always returned affection     because she felt obliged      I told her she was easy      she did not reply

Buddha’s Clothes

you caught me

picking Buddha’s pockets

wearing Buddha’s clothing

and eating Buddha’s lunch

 

you heard me

speaking Buddha’s words

in the Buddha’s voice

and claiming Buddha’s mind

 

but you know

you needn’t look around

or ask who Buddha is

I’m stashing Buddha’s loot

and pleading innocence again

 

Temporarily Buddha

 

man

I was stitched up

like a fucking kipper

they were in cahoots

my erstwhile friends

spiked me with a ton

of LSD in my fucking tea

a malicious prank perhaps

or an assassination attempt

on my fucking psyche

what could I do?

you can’t fight these things

so I went all Alan Watts

totally transcendental

 

I was mousetrapped

and locked within my closet

my eyes were sewn wide shut

by myriad instructors

I fell from the gravy train

and lost all my luggage

my scribbled entries

were smudged by tears

and washed away in traffic

I was tippexed out

I had mislaid my name

and had to start again 

temporarily Buddha 

left out in the rain

Zombie King

 it calls for an extra dose

on those pale mornings

when my remnant dreams

still cling as shrouds

to another me

in some other world

and the cold grey sun

s – e – e – p – s

little shards of heaven

to prick my sleepless eyes

 

I’m as tired as an old joke

told in a funeral parlour

I feel like a dirty burlap sack

full of ossuary bones

I’m the prolapsed organ

they dare not resuscitate

and quite symptomatic

of a broader demographic

of disenchanted and careless

mercenary vagabonds

 

I could be zombie king

if I so desired

complete with

chocolate toolbox

the amnesia haze

and four flat tires

so give me the reds

give me the blues

give me the yellows

and the white ones too

patch me to that big linear zero

and fill my cranium with soup

we’ll have no thought here

no cognitive assemblage

is necessary

I sense the world

through my arsehole

and its diarrhoea burn

Dark Altars

 

 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 believed 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    you have to be taught how to hate    each blow that landed was an education    they taught me and I learned it well    I wanted my pound of flesh on the bone    I’d dig my grave right next to yours    to serve the dictates of my primitive heart

the road to hell is paved    with the tenderest intentions    and even monsters  strike loving bargains    which servile souls    guard most jealously     because there are slaves      who kneel at dark altars    they revere their tyrants    and venerate their oppressors    they are only too eager    to wear their master’s collar    because the gods that we ourselves create    are ours to serve forever

 back in the bygone    I got my jollies    pursuing cheap thrills    with drink, drugs and sex    I feasted with the beast    in the house of inequities    I never ever figured    I’d get a gut full of the beast     or that I’d turn punk    and tear loose like a mad dog    

monsters in uniform    are hot on my trail    they can smell me    it’s the rotten blood     that’s stained me deep    I shall get no rest now     the night belongs to killers     and killers never sleep   

we fear the minions     of the bloody beast    as we fear the beast himself    and so we learned     to live as beasts     and follow beastly rules     for we were meant to serve    and are fit for purpose     because we adore the beast    while we despise ourselves

Monster (Reanimated)

 

unscheduled hallucinations     and psychotic interludes plagued my formative years      and shaped my final destination      my beat bastard subscription has lapsed and just I wish I could lie down        take a fucking telling     I’m so tired right now       I could drag the world with me through dark corridors to the great panopticon           where elastic promises and suicidal compacts are made by strange bedfellows       there are no casual acquaintances in solitary confinement

the girl on the bed had a question       an unkind and supercilious question      but her query resonated in the psychotic regions of a bleached mind      and sounded an echo in memory       something about my missing soul

“What kind of monster are you?”

I suspected it was more a rhetorical device than a question     so I ignored it     but later I got to thinking        what kind of monster am I?       I’m a blind monster or I would have seen her coming        I’m a deaf monster         or I would have heard her lies         I’m a mute monster      because I said nothing       I’m a numb monster because I felt even less      she was one gift horse      I should have given the full dental     those sceptic teeth made ribbons of ambition      I have little time for those awkward manoeuvres        imposed by some milquetoast Mussolini       I have an agenda sublime to accommodate      we each must follow the mandate of our own hearts       I take solace in the fact that I may be a monster       but I’m closer to heaven than hell

Fungaloid (Green Mind Edit)

travel me

unravel me

baffle me

turn me out

fix me with a fungal crown

pump it in

pour it out

rub it on

inhale – exhale

spark it up

snuff it out

skin it back

tear it down

anoint my head

with manna from heaven

spike me upward

drag me down

ball my lightning

take me under

turn me on

turn me around

innovate

with my confusion

make me whole

if not holy

bake me outside

in the sun

now and then

I’m a supernova

I’m a lightning strike

an atomic bomb

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

Odysseus

I copped me the full dose     and licked the wrapper too     I ramped up the mandy     and downed it with cheap wine     that shit gets complicated     but I don’t seem to mind     it fit me real snug    just like my birthday suit    it was christmas in july    did everything it should     it may be forbidden      but every now and then    it does a little good

got the crank bugs     something chronic     my skin was crawling    with electrical potential    I was jammin’ in a hard place     but that was alright    I’m a lean machine     and I got the numbers     stashed beneath the hood

I was unfolding     into something linear     straight ahead clean    wrapped in a bundle     tighter than my ball sack     and delivered at light speed     I was all jelly bone     and knee tremble    slick with anticipation    surfing in the air      on the cusp of complete delusion    tomorrow  was another  creosote sundae     but the night belonged to me

Dagger (Surgical Edit)

There is no gelt
In this writing lark
No final reward
Just a hunger
An insatiable need
To press the keys
And play the notes
That fill the page

Typing done

I am alone

I work best alone

But I sleep best

With company

And it’s meant

To be that way

No virtual life for me

I love flesh and blood

For I was born

Of flesh and blood

To go the way

That all flesh does

Not prematurely

But after a long while

When I’ve perfected

My papers

And catalogued

My women

In alphabetical order

Or numerical significance

According to rank

And ability

All writing is futile

I can’t express how I feel

Not in so many words

I’d like to take my pain

Roll it into a ball

And stuff it in your mouth

So you’d be mute like me

Your seams leaking

Blotting your copy book

With a silent crimson scream

My credentials are impeccable

At least on paper, if not in the flesh

Your papers were forged

But I don’t mind

You brought me more pleasure

Than a thousand dead poets

“The only good poet is a dead poet.”

Isn’t that what you said?

Imposters pout and posture

Across the page

With borrowed icons

And stolen voices

Genius lays face down in the gutter

Death is the final measure

Of its dedication to the craft

But not for me darlin’

I want to be adored, at least once

However briefly

And in this life, not the next

Long ago

I abandoned rhyme

As I abandoned reason

I like my words jagged

As crocodile teeth

Dirty as a whore’s tongue

And rabid as the breath

Of infected dogs

I don’t require prettifying

Or disinfecting

Keep those nice words

For old ladies

To sprinkle on their cakes

I want you to feel me

In you

I have no time

For ambiguity

Or tickling ears

I want to ram my words

Right down your throat

One day I’ll find the beat

That forces the rhythm

Of my concoction

Into your heart

Like a fucking dagger

Bindlestiffs 2020

dummy up and listen good     while I pour moonshine in your ear     we got no homes to go to     and no-one waiting there     the world is big     but not big enough     for us to fit in     we’re the bad apples     who spoiled the whole barrel    fitted up on charges of vagrancy     for wearing out our shoes     we were kings of the highways      with no roof to tie us down      no man could boss us around

now we live with doors unhinged     and when the smoke has cleared     all we have is empty pockets     but once we’re back on the road      we’ll be livin’ high on the hog      low down on the greasy pole

 yeah - I’ll take you down     where skid row junkies     shuffle dance like broken bears     they smile spoiled milk      and stink of stale sweat      and rotted flesh     the zombie nation has risen     semi stiff cardboard men     flaccid humanity    face down in the gutter    

hostile corners teem     with cockroach people     knives half shut     displaying  disgraceful wings     in cardboard colours     blood     brown clotted     on the lips of scarecrow men      three overcoats     wrapped around breathless bodies     dull drunk and frenzied sober faces     searching for significance      thirsty souls on a death mission     every bum who can lift his lids     eyes you up for the short prize

“Buddy can you spare some change… “

 we are all forced out     to harvest bones in the wilderness     it’s a world away from titties and beer     but it puts meat on the table      and that’s what sifts the men from the boys      bindlestiffs deal in certainties      as sure as sorrow    down behind the beyond      we know the lost spaces     like the backs of our hands     

so dummy up again     while I tell you the best places    a man can write his name       large in the firmament     be it the name your mother gave you        or the name the world gave you       or the name you stole and made your own

you never know with these things     just where you come from     or just where you go        but you know where you are      and that’s enough to swallow in a single sitting      so all things being equal under a sorry sky      if you have the art     and the reach to gather stars      you just might leave a mark      which is more than you have a right to