Parade

I’m no knocker

no tattle tale

but I was at the front

of her big parade

remember me?

I was the arsehole

with the big bass drum

counting steps

and keeping time

with regimental

precision

.

everything was cushty

everything was sweet

until the rain

put the mockers

on her big day

there were tantrums

there were tears

she put on quite

a performance

and in all honesty

she preferred it that way

.

Pistol Whipped

Writing without drugs is like squeezing spunk from stones. I promised myself I’d write for an hour every day, but I can’t find the head room for that. That unbearable straightness precludes the flash of inspiration. I cannot shoot no-one with an empty gun. You can try beating sense into the words, but you end up with a fistful of bloody words.

I underwent analysis to make myself more likeable. All I got was a navel load of introspection and an even greater craving for drugs to wipe away the memory of self. Who can I shoot with an empty gun? I can only beat myself around the head with it and hope that concussion brings me some measure of euphoria and I am pistol whipped into some kind of order.

.