maggots

 I’m not feeling too clever today      someone shrank my knackers     and obscured my true identity     I’m out of bed    or so I think     It’s still dark outside      but it’s darker in      there’s a hole in my bucket     I’m leaking spiritual energy      but I’m rid of her    and she’s rid of me      summer died, she blamed it on me      I don’t hold that against her       we both know I have it in me      you see, it was easy to smile as I lied     easier than the taste of fear and shame     but it feeds the worm inside     and he’s a hungry maggot      the guardian of my psyche      the one who’s in control        here I am fucking, eating, grunting      I’m just rotting meat in a garbage can       maggots rule my world       my maggots have a master plan      it’s called metamorphosis       on the other side of heaven        they’ll have sprouted wings      and they’ll be planting eggs in the fertile ground       of my decomposing mind

snitch

…and where am I now?     I’m in the glasshouse again      and where are you?     you’re home and dry   open the window and breathe in that gloom       it’s that kind of night      in that kind of room    don’t touch me now     you’ll catch something cruel     I love you some      I hate you too      but you didn’t bring me down      I did that to myself       you drink like a thief      one eye on the door     I should have seen you coming      I’d have spit in your eye      coz nobody loves a snitch     or trusts a fucking liar…

 

hip priest

 he smiled     and smiled     as if he were willing to play the villain if necessary and that’s the way of it     in my neighbourhood     he was slightly fleabag       you know the type     vaguely disaffected     stinking of skunk and sweat     he spoke low and slow      didn’t give away too much     he played a private game        no one knew it’s name      all human suffering       resided in his eyes      but he didn’t seem to care      he was nearly clued in      almost wise       his were written memoirs     pen and paper      torn from life     he was veteran of some ancient revolution     but he wasn’t a victim     he was a survivor     he’d seen thousands like me        eager to impress      with my vacuous knowledge    but he was a book closed to me     “…nothing matters anymore, the war was lost long ago…       …I stopped resisting the flow and learned to let go…    …it’s not the best of all possible worlds, but it’s the only one we know…”    he was an individualist      and if he ever got lonely he didn’t let on      he’d been weathered smooth       by millennia of dust and rain    I was an acolyte - he’d send me to the shops       but nothing he said was news to me      nothing he said seemed real

looney tunes

 ever since the funny farm     my self doubt is crippling      it’s an existential funk       bipolar flavour      I’m just a mirror to a world rotten with mediocrity      I’m a television head     I’ve abolished the dark of night    and bleached my brain with photons      my thoughts are merely the regurgitation     of twenty four hour programming    I’ve lost all sense of the real      I’m a cartoon man      moulded in a cartoon world      I manage my appearance     and the illusion of individuality     but there’s no such thing as real       there are only layers of fiction      and that’s all folks      that’s all she wrote