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1 August 2020

Spartacus

I judiciously carved the bad news    into reasonable chunks that were easy to swallow   if hard to digest   there was the momentum of some terrible gravity   behind my every word   each was weighed   and then dispensed    on tablets of stone    saying    if you strike the first blow   I shall surely strike the last

 

it was a diabolical pact    but I just couldn’t see   for the blood in my eyes had so blinded me    I was manky   I had been less than diligent with my applications    you might call me lazy    but I was tired of the front   and so I dropped my guard     the signature of a chump

 

I took the blows due me   and maybe more besides    but there’s always a final straw    an injury that cannot be borne    often it’s a concealed blade    nestled in the hand of a friend    I’d be a hypocrite to complain   my dabs were all over that instrument     and the blood on my hands was not my own

 

the secrets stashed in my head   the occult pleasures of my heart   the treasures I have plundered    then passed off as my own   mark me out as a singular failure    the simulation of a man    in the solitude of my cell   I pray to my pig god   that no-one sees my true face   or the bloody hands that betray my guilty secrets   and my empty aspirations

 

in my lonely hours and minutes I fashioned myself a nifty club     from the jaw bone of some arsehole   it’s useful for beating my head with    I hear the talk   I know an ambush when I smell it    special preparations   whispers   glances   knives are being sharpened   plots are hatching and slithering home    the devil’s arithmetic comes up snake eyes for Johnny

 

if they knew what fragile cargo I was carrying     they might have cut me some slack     I won’t go into the inventory of misdemeanours   I’ll cut to the capital crimes   I murdered the days that led to the now  I squandered my time on cheap thrills and pricey highs    the flickering images sear the brain   those were the days of sexual mystique  and bold enterprise   the object of adoration wields a powerful magic over the obsessed   the grass was always greener over the next horizon   never satisfied with what I had    I’d trade all I possessed for a pocket full of mumbled promises

 

my biological imperative was strong    I couldn’t keep it in my pants   my road was paved with dodgy intentions and fleshy desires    you have to stay ahead in that game   the greedy always bite the hand that feeds    it’s expected of them   it’s dog eat cat in those kennels

 

my heart has been bleached    I’m slightly out of phase and still have blood in my eyes   but I’ll survive    I’m no tourist     I’ve been here before    this place is like any other    the good or bad in it is no concern of mine     it’s not like I curry influence     I’m a foreigner here   some would say I was an exile    but you need a home before you can be exiled    I just drift within my cranial roof

 

I have no time for crime   for contradictions and contractions   for passions spent and passions lent    smothering every innocent pretence    with fearsome glamorous intentions    each new lover helped themselves to my pieces   handling them like hot rocks    and chewing them in their charnel mouths   so to speak with the tongues of angels  

 

my suicide warden  garnished my chains   with a single red rose   inspected my arsehole    where morning had fled   and kissed me once for luck    my pothole eyes peered through a lysergic purge    and witnessed only the contents    of my dingy abode   which was crowded with the wearying trinkets of monstrous dalliances    licentious attacks    and falsified intentions    these are the things I’ll remember    during those lonely repasts   of xanax and hard liquor    green tea and ground glass   

 

I learned to sleep in shallow latrines   on egyptian cotton and busted bed springs    gazing up at cracked ceiling mirrors     where decades of hope dissolved like baby aspirin   I’m an aged gigolo    a smudged entry in last year’s diary   my sleazy charm and phony smile    always seemed like my last best defence    but my life has grown cold     from hustling for change    and god knows I need change    there’s one more hit left in my locker    I’m going to nail that number    and then lay back     to dream as gods do

 




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