New Tricks...

 

these bones have lost their savour

my teeth are worn to stumps

but this dog has owned his days

he won’t lick your fucking hand

and he won’t do tricks for treats

you can’t butter him up with praise

or appeal to his conceit

this dog is long past caring

his concerns are obsolete

news for dummies

 

we’ve been waiting for the world to change      most of our dread fuelled lives      but that’s not gonna happen     not in the world we live in      they say violence is instrumental       and violence can auger change        coz the good guys always win      they said so on the terrorvision     they tell us there’s freedom here at home      but that’s just another lie      freedom at large is just a dream     the name of the game is power      p-o-w-e-r     don’t put yourself on      all paths lead to the inescapable conclusion    that every victory is pyrrhic     when the war can never be won    

slightly misanthropic

all relationships are based on power       I know this for a fact      you must adjust your expectations      and deal with that reality        I don’t make the rules      it isn’t up to me       the vagaries of intent     bind every living creature     into the symbiotic rituals      most commonly affected      by parasitic beings      equipped with human hearts

 I’m accused of spreading bad news       because one man’s truth     is another man’s poison     but I no longer care     if I’m misunderstood      I’m an honest man     given the opportunity      you won’t hear me speak evil      does that mean I’m good?       my friends don’t seem to care       they can light their own fires       they don’t need the likes of me        to slay their petty tyrants       or set their captives free

instrumental violence

 you can’t control me now     you’re no longer in my scheme     I’m not afraid of you       you won’t hurt me again      there’s nothing you can do      nothing you can say       I’ve had enough of you    and your brutal ways     you call your aggression justice      and my resistance crime      I’ll no longer play your victim     just as I’ll never play your thug    but if you think I’ll be a bystander     then you can think again     there are forms of subtle violence      that breed conformity      I will not acquiesce to them    you won’t get that from me

cities on fire

cities on fire 

in the republic of sorrows      

cities on fire   

in the land of the free

cities on fire  

where the dark horse rises      

cities on fire

far as the eye can see

we’re talking London and Chicago

we’re talking Memphis Tennessee

I got gasoline in the car

take a ride with me

cities on fire

across the planet

cities on fire

it’s our destiny

 

Bethlehem

 there’s a poem lodged in my throat     I don’t remember the words       or where it all began     they say  god speaks through signs       that only prophets understand      where  the sky blankets the earth      in misty  morning dew       a child in golden chains      the sacrificial lamb      lost in winter storms      hostage to conflict       and there’s no star now over Bethlehem       just a testament to unending war

 

Spiders

manky bastards     plied clever words     and ugly rumours     they were rather nifty     with the dishing of dirt     and spreading of filth     they told me things     that made me choke    

I had to cultivate      a little distance     from the unclean     they had worms     for tongues     and they traded     chinese whispers     for dubious reward    

there’s a kernel of truth     at the heart of every lie     but there’s no sense     hidden in confusion     and those who love      to spread bad news     one day reap the chaos       they themselves have sown

Egg N Chips

we had egg and chips

and we were grateful

the children in Africa

had nothing at all

we dragged the low end

because we were brassic

when your stomach is empty

it’s hard to stand tall

the times sure were tough

but the people were tougher

when troubles are shared

they can suddenly seem small

Blood Rite

I’m all jelly bone

and knee tremble

my brothel creepers

and crepe soul

slick with anticipation

tomorrow

is another

creosote sundae

but tonight

is a total eclipse

of reason

I bide my time

spilling my oats

on barren ground

to be washed away

in the menstrual cycle

my instruments

calculate trouble

word gets around

there are no secrets

in monkey town

Loner

she had those absinthe eyes

set in a fragile waifish dial

she possessed a laddish wit

that always made me smile

we were never really lovers

but we fucked once in a while

.

no, we were drinking buddies

and were seldom sober

but we were never truly close

because at heart she was a loner

and I wonder what became of her

when our escapades were over

.

Menagerie

there was no miscalculating

it was the season of ill will

those fractious lovebirds

were broadcasting citywide

they were at the ding dong

with the usual diatribe

concerning love and validation

guerrilla tactics were involved

I had to shield my mind

from their carnal dredgings

and squirmed with embarrassment

when they mentioned my name

.

Ghosts In The Blood

you got ghosts in your blood   you best get you some stony   I got the fear on  roll me one too    I’m bound to get lucky   I’m prepared to die trying   you can fetch me solace   from another man’s gutter   because I’m headed home   where there will be a welcome   or a maybe just a lynching   they might have forgotten   I hope they’ve forgiven   what’s done is done   and I paid my dues 

I don’t believe in resurrections    or in tearful reconciliations    the past is gone forever    ghosts take shape in its shade    and my head is haunted    with that fearful geometry    and the friends undone    by time and tide   you take your best shot   and maybe another   you might win some    but you’ll likely lose more   no-one passes this way     unless they pay the toll

Your Favourite Lover

Three’s crowd darlin’
Did no one tell you that?
Three caused more murders
Than greed ever done
And baby that’s a fact
There’s a man odour in here
Like the smell of dying dogs
You better burn those sheets
Cause they’ve been spoiled for me
There’s only room for one man here
So who’s it going to be?
.
When I first met you baby
Five or six years ago
You didn’t have a clue
But my how you have grown
Have you gone all femme fatale?
Is this a game you’ve been playing?
Well the fun and games end now
Don’t waste your time explaining
You better make your mind up
Or I’ll have to set you free
Who’s your favourite lover
Is it him or is it me?
.

Before The Lights Went Out

was that real enough for you?
I can still taste the blood
is there anything better than that?
I should fuckin’ well hope so
so you think you’ve had enough?
who was that cat on the cross?
I make a point of never knowing
that cunt had some moves
he was immaculate, so he was
I’m glad I got to see him
before the lights went out
.

Attrition

we cling to the great curve     with our suicide pants     bunched around our ankles    
and our arses hanging in the wind     we long ago abandoned     any pretence of modesty     and our protestations of innocence     sound ironic given our circumstances     the generation of conspicuous consumption      have full bellies and empty aspirations     all we seek in the theatre of distraction     is the instant gratification of minor vices     and the reassurance that we are good people    despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary

Painless

I never do house calls, but this radge was overdue and I was losing patience. He was all meek and mild till the talk turned to readies owing – then he turned bubblegum warrior. Scumbag tore me down, wrapped a rag around my face and blitzed me with a dirty one. Man I was sick. He then proceeded to dip my pockets; relieving me of my stash and less credible credentials. That was a boot to the nads – and me with no bullets in my gun.

Here was the neighbourhood leech rattling my cage and I felt the filth rising, but there was no point taking unkindly to him – he was doing all he could to alleviate the surplus in my pockets and bring comfort to my bleary head. The gear was no good, and the sentiments attached were bogus, but they nearly did for me. I was a cathedral full of blind mice tuned to panic stations – they sang the siren song of closet tweakers; quietly, tunelessly.

My knackers were withered, but my thinking was still deep enough to cover my space. So I fixed laughing boy with my good eye and asked, “Why do they call you Painless?” He just laughed and flourished his kit before commencing with the washing up; there was trouble brewing in his pipe, but I had my school craft down – this old dog knew a few tricks. It was well past noon before I peeled myself from his rock star wife to emerge victorious by the narrowest of margins – where I often do my best work.

.

Yahweh

a long time ago
the great god Yahweh
unleashed on the Earth
war, plague, famine, and death
in generalised semantics
those parasitic beings
called homo sapiens
bearing fatal messages
of peace, love and harmony
while they butchered
with glorious indifference
and espoused primal laws
the survival of the fittest
to justify their ignorance
pleased to meet you
you and me shoot good
we be friends
eat my gun

the end

.

Doomsday Device

His name was Robert and he had a twin brother Richard who, he explained, was on another ward because they could read each other’s minds.

“Together we are too formidable for the nurses to tackle.”

He was a tall, slender, carrot top of about twenty eight years. When he spoke his hands fluttered in his lap like birds trapped in a cage.

“My father was a minister in The Church Of Scotland. He resented our gift. There was a massive power struggle and he locked us in a time capsule for the sake of science.”

He looked around furtively.

“We don’t belong here, but they had the idea we were building a doomsday device, so they locked us in here. No vision you see. No vision.”

He stalked off with a loping gait when he saw one of the nurses coming into the ward. He had some complaint or other; he had many quite fanciful complaints.

The wards were named after Scottish islands; we were on Islay and Robert’s brother Richard was on the neighbouring island of Jura. It seemed appropriate to me that the wards were named for islands, because each of them seemed just like a little island separated from the mainland of everyday life. The building that housed these islands was a vast rambling Gothic Victorian asylum, a bedlam as they were once called. Locally its name, Bellsdyke, was synonymous with lunacy.

I was placed there as a voluntary patient under the understanding that if I had not volunteered I would have been ‘sectioned’ under the mental health act as a danger to myself or others. It was a Hobson’s choice - volunteer or we will make you. I would be detained there under observation for thirty days until it was determined what would be done with me. I had come to hospital a fractured personality with certain delusions and suicidal tendencies. I was a manic depressive, but did not know this at the time.

During the first few days I kept myself to myself. I felt I did not belong there anymore than Robert felt that he belonged there. I was deeply depressed and withdrawn. The nurses tried to coax me into interaction with my fellow inmates, but I would not be drawn. Gradually though I began to acclimatise to my surrounding, at least during the daylight hours. At night I found the hospital a weird and frightening place. All night I could hear people sobbing or crying out in distress. I could hear doors slam and footfalls echoing down long empty corridors. The boy in the bed next to me would not stop crying, I didn’t blame him I wanted to cry myself.

It was several days before I encountered Richard. He was identical to Robert in every way, except that he wore a three piece tweed suit. He was standing in the recreation room of Islay ward watching a joiner replace the sashes in one of the old wooden windows. He turned and walked to the rec room table, which was festooned with books and pamphlets and picked up a notepad. He approached the joiner and flicking through the pad informed him that he had the wrong window.

“It’s this window that needs fixed.”

The joiner nodded and dutifully undid his work and proceeded to the next window. He was nearly finished when the sister arrived and informed him that he had replaced the sashes in the wrong window.

“But the doctor”, he said, indicating Richard, “told me it was this window.”

The sister smiled forbearingly,

“He is a patient.”

Richard quickly about faced and skulked off like a guilty schoolboy.

That night, after his parents had left, the boy in the bed next to me was distraught and he sobbed for hours. I despaired of ever getting to sleep, but the nurses gave him a shot and he was soon out cold. I woke up in the early hours with the lights flashing on and off. Robert was at the light switch.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked groggily.

“Morse code,” replied Robert.

“Why?” I asked.

He just gave me an indulgent smile, stupid question.

“Who are you signalling?”

“That’s a secret.”

“Please stop it,” I implored, “I’m trying to sleep.”

Just then we heard footsteps approach the door and Robert jumped into his bed. “What’s going on?” enquired the nurse.

“He won’t stop talking,” said Robert pointing an accusing finger in my direction, but averting his gaze.

“Get to sleep Robert,” said the nurse and closed the door.

Robert had an aversion to television. Most of the other patients were avid viewers during the hours of seven till ten when we were allowed to watch. He believed television would steal your thoughts. However, he did not leave the television room while it was on. He paced about behind our chairs making cryptic comments while averting his eyes. One evening he became particularly animated while we were watching Top of the Pops.

“It’s propaganda!” he exclaimed. “Turn it off,”

he made a grab for the switch, but was intercepted.

“It’ll melt your brain!” he insisted.

Then after many attempts to distract us he said in a sly voice, “I’ll detonate the device.”

We ignored him. He began a countdown “10, 9, 8...” When he reached zero he slammed his hand into the fire alarm and all hell broke loose. There were bells ringing everywhere. The nurses arrived from their station to see what was going on and to evacuate us from the building.

“It was just Robert,” we protested, but regulations are regulations.

The whole hospital was evacuated and we all, many of us in pyjamas, stood outside in the snow while we were counted and the fire brigade did a search of the building. I was standing next to Robert and he turned to me and said, “BOOM”.

The next time I saw him he was being dragged away by two orderlies screaming for help.

“John! John! Help me!”

It was two days before he arrived back on the ward. He was a shambling shadow of his former self. The ‘chemical cosh’ the other patients called it; a drug called largactil, a common treatment for schizophrenia. I seemed like a punishment to me, punishment for unleashing the doomsday device.

.

Vicious Monkeys

vicious monkeys

getting frisky

all elbows and tongues

shaven heads

and swastika smiles

wrong man

wrong place

the power of the knife

twists in the stomach

men must fight

cowards must flee

with the pulse

beating in my throat

blood pool coiling in my gut

I fled

never looked back

whoops of laughter

still ringing in my ears

.

The day I died

when I called out
you couldn’t hear
I turned to talk
but you weren’t there
you left the works
but took the gear
.
how I wept
how I cried
I sent for a priest
but none arrived
things were rough
the day I died
.