Feast of Souls

the dogs will have their day

when the beast calls us home

we will devour the world

at the last great feast of souls

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we shall call on a saviour

but no saviour will come

we shall eat our children

at the last great feast of souls

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there will be no burial rites

no funerary procession

no-one there to mourn us

at the last great feast of souls

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Psycho Reflex

black blood     the rancid shit    comes from deep deep in the bowel    that’s a sign      a deadly sign     of cancerous infestation    some vicious invader eating at my guts     that’s slow death      death by maggots    incremental      relentless

I know from the pathology     I’m in the balance     I only have ounces     left to live     but don’t we all?      we fend off creeping rot      with lacerated hands      and shrieks of denial      not now      please not now     but if not now     when?

my gut is home      to numerous infestations       and inchoate hunches    I feel things with my gut       the way you might feel with your fingertips      or your love pump       my worms have tendrils everywhere    they think they call the shots     I can ignore      their more extreme     fear fuelled  demands       until they lay on the brain pulse      and cripple my membrane     with the hurt   

they force me into     drastic actions     which will inevitably     lead to humiliation       such is the frailty of human nature        we are often in the squishy dark       groping blindly     for comprehension      in the shit and slime      thinking with the gut    not with the mind

my skull is packed with stained sheets     and rare botanical exhibits of stolen graveside flowers       taught to help myself     but not too much      I flounder now on the shores of dementia      my public decomposition     and damaged precocity       have burgeoned to insane dimensions

I have become a spectacle      for leering jaws and wagging tongues     I’m making manic      with the sorry classicists     who bought me dinner     and stole my luggage      they share their condolences       as they rifle my drawers     I stand subordinate to my monomania       awkward in my anaemic droplets    frantically attempting regeneration       through my psycho reflex

Cabbage White

nothing corrupts a boy    like a father’s love    a few blows here ‘n’ there     some bruises     a little blood    and a thousand humiliations    cause you're a useless cunt    you're shit      you're a prick     an’ you’re  fuckin’ thick    words that once trampled my heart      like his big work boots     his filthy    ugly boots

 

I sought a place in the shade     closer to the cool earth     while fire poured from the sky       but it wasn’t as harsh as his words     there was a butterfly illuminated     in a corridor of light     it was nothing very special     an ordinary cabbage white     but it was beautiful to me     I’d have gladly flown away with him       but I was rooted to the ground       and couldn’t fly as yet

 

you know      that stony cold silence    the morning after a beating?     that fragile feeling    softly trembling    the queerness in the gut    when the ebbing throb reveals      the broken incestuous jaw     of the sacrificial lamb       in a garden untended       and filled with nettles

it’s a mouthful of blood       and a handful of hair       nothing to write home about      no need for tears       it’s not as if it matters      even then I knew too much        to take too much to heart

 

 

Popsicle

I once knew a guy, a square, who would unfold his elbows to disgorge great chunks of scripture from his ugly fissure of a mouth. He claimed to be an artist and a writer – a literally terrible Baudelaire under the influence of an evil river of semantic bullshit. I used to abhor the sound of his voice and his predictable Boy Scout denouement.

This bead twisting bastard considered himself to have been appointed God’s lawyer. His mission was to weed out and pull down the atheistic, agnostic blasphemer hounds of hell that kept bad company and cluttered up the corridors of hope. They only tripped up the unsuspecting with their weed, speed and jumping Jack Kerouac; preventing them from reaching a state of grace in God’s red white and blue heaven. It was his task to usher, forcibly if needs be, the vile unbelievers into the glowing light of HIS love. To this ends he would grind out sermons on every subject from evolution and the ‘monkey fallacy’ to homosexuality and AIDS as a judgment of the Lord.

He was a loathsome little bigot of a man who pulsed negative energy in every direction, but worse than that he was a complete drag who could banish a smile at three hundred yards. One day I spiked him with cyanic acid and stuck him in the freezer to cool off – I turned him into a Popsicle; bitter almond flavoured.

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Experience

There are no free lunches, there are no free rides. Experience is paid for with the sharpest of currency and often in blood. We gamble all and ultimately lose, for the game is rigged that way. There is no point in complaining, our only failing could be that we had simply not wagered enough. When it comes to experience it is far better to have been a spendthrift than a miser; to have been prodigal, than left wanting.

Decisions

Between thought and motion lies a lifetime of indecision. Between impulse and action lies an eternity of procrastination. We live in the angles between those split vacillations; locked in the prisons formed by our accommodations, shut out by our deferrals and postponements. We are exiled to nations of the yea or nay behind the wire of choices, judgments’, compromises and reconciliations. Isolated from our feelings by other considerations; our final adjudications are questions of reason. There are a thousand judges awaiting our every verdict. The sentence is mandatory for acts of treason.

In the distance between the thrower and the stone cast lies an ocean of experience and shared guilt. Behind every curse there is concealed a blessing; a secret prayer for atonement through condemnation. Just as in every question lurks the desired answer, so every answer is a masquerade of some unasked question. Life is an island in an ocean of questions – questions and answers separate us into archipelagos of existence.

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Love Is The Law

the electric prickle of awkward instance pierces my skin with tiny dragons teeth      and circumstance rains down on my head as bags of hammers    I stand embarrassed before the blank ignorance of my judges     I’m speechless at their presumption     I am an innocent man    the crimes I am charged with were acts of love    they say that I’m a user and a lowlife dog     but I’m just wild that’s all    so don’t take my drinking hand     that’s all I got left

 

I’m pillared salt and oxy rush   you have to look within to see where you been    spastic colon and diarrhea mouth     my jury has been selected from jelly mountains     my fate is sealed before the judges of certainty in apocalypto jackboots    I’ve been a naughty boy and ought to be locked up     with all the other glorious bindlestiffs who dared to live a little    but love is the law     the law is love     for us down below     and them up above

Fences

Let’s be entirely zoological about this – cats and dogs don’t mix. One is east and the other is west and wherever you stand the twain does not meet. That’s why I say that you should stick to your side of the fence and I’ll stick to mine – sitting on that fence will only get you splinters in the arse. You can paint your side blue and I’ll paint my side red – neither of us wants purple do we? They say a good neighbour is a fellow who smiles at you over the fence, but doesn't try to climb over it – so be a good neighbour, stick to your own yard and I’ll stick to mine. Don't get me wrong – I’m all in favour of friendly relations, but you never take a fence down until you know why it was put up. I just don’t want to wake up one morning and find my yard full of cats that’s all.

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Fool’s Gold

Everything that glitters is not gold
Things are seldom what they seem
When the sands of time run out
It don’t mean you’re out of time
It just means you’re out of sand
And although fool’s gold
Is not real gold
The fools are real fools
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Now I Know Better

I used to think that people are basically good and that conflict arose from misunderstanding. Now I know better. People are basically stupid, selfish and cruel. We spend more on weapons than we do on medicine or food – what does that tell you about the human race? People only care about what’s in it for themselves and are only ever altruistic where it concerns self image. We want people to think well of us – no matter what our motivations and goals are.

I used to think that good would always prevail, but I’ve been disabused of that childish viewpoint. Now I know that stupidity always prevails. All you can count on in this world is crudity of thought and deed. You see we are just monkeys after all. Our basic outlook is tribal and our prime motivator is fear. It’s hard to think straight when your default position is fear – all you can do is react – fight or flight are the orders of the day. Shave a monkey and you have a man, but being human takes effort – constant effort. Most never make that distinction and so they are immersed in the tribal.

“It’s them or us” they say, “If you are not with us, you are against us.” Well they look just like me. We all look the same – stupid and ugly. I used to think that the good outweighs the bad. I still do. A little good can undo a whole lot of bad, but we live in a world where they tell you that to kill can be bad, or good, depending on the cause. So now I know good can be bad and bad can be good – depending on who you are. If that sounds crazy to you – you’re right, it is. I used to think people were basically sane and that enlightened self interest would save us from insanity. I know better than that now; the greatest insanity was to believe we were ever sane.

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Photograph ‘Shout16’ by Misha Cordon
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Like A Dagger

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
Rutting in the street
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
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Can you see me now?

I could feel your eyes on me
Your cold, dead eyes on me
I could feel the spittle
From between
Your clenched teeth
Spray against my cheek
I could hear your words of hate
Feel your fists slam into me
All I want to know is
Can you see me now?
Can you see me?
Set the stars alight?
I’m beyond your reach
But I always was
Can you see me now?
Did you ever see me?
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