Spike

this place is beyond bleak

it’s fucking grotesque    

I have the faint edge on

gloomy clouds signal inclement weather

and tired baleful concrete tenements

glower down on deserted streets

during the daytime

and the place seems deserted

and long ago abandoned by man

but at night the place comes to life

when troops of cocaine fuelled primates

fill the air with tribal war cries

and furtive indigent lepers

go about their business on the sly

what am I doing here?

I hate this fucking place    

everything went wrong here

I fucked up big time  

and paid the price

you expect to be kicked

when you’re down

but not by your friends 

that really hurts      and I got mad   

I thought about vengeance   

I’d be good at that     

but I’ve seen their lives

and that’s enough

it still smells of urine and cancer here

and has a soul crushing ambiance

the shithole that used to be home

but not by choice

never by choice

I got out

but came back

to find that there’s fuck all here

but the undead junkie hoards

and their feral klepto offspring

this is my hometown   anus mundi

I returned to lick my wounds

and escape from my failures

I’m decades away from anything here

this place was designated pointless in 1962

and filed under forgotten do not resuscitate

some part of me has died here

and shall forever remain

stashed in an unmarked grave

does what you’re doing

make you wonder

where you are going?

best not to think about it

the remedy is simple

press the needle to the membrane

now plunge     for  instant gratification

in vitro fertilization for the brain

less haste more speed

I stand enthralled    

I’m still drawn to the scene     

I do not say I’m compelled

but the inca in me

holds a morbid fascination

for the patterns of disgrace

so many faces to remember

so many to forget

I was young

I was arrogant

I was doped up

I was right

I was always right

everything that could be done

was eventually done

but the consequences were brutal

I held him in my arms

as his life ebbed away      

he didn’t remember my name

that’s when I knew   he was never coming back

his papers read DOA

they called it death by misadventure

but I killed him with kindness

and an extra generous hit

I’d already forged my connection

along with my papers

and was on the next bus to anywhere

don’t tell me how bad it is

I already know

it’s a suicide sport

and I’m all out of bullets

nevertheless

I’m geared up for excess

bicarbonate of coca

the ancient inca curse

so smother me with candy kisses

and take this poor boy home

it’s the last big deal

coughing up rocks

and surfing on air

but it’s all good

at twice the price

they’re shanking junkies

down in the park

bloody lubricant

for a vicious mechanism

those black market forces

can be so exacting

but that’s the economy

in my hometown

.

Gouge

All my life they spat on me
Because I dragged the low end
I got used to fighting for what’s mine
Blood of my blood and bone of my bone
I believe in an eye for an eye
I’d gouge away with bloody thumbs
Even if it rendered the whole world blind
Everyone is born with love in them
But you have to be taught how to hate
Each blow that landed was an education
They taught me and I learned it well
I want my pound of flesh on the bone
I’ll dig my grave right next to yours
I will pluck out my offended eyes
And serve the dictates of my primitive heart
.

The Secret World

I don’t have to live like this

I could give up the bug juice

I could get creative

Tear up my notebook

And start again

I could pluck out my eyes

Block up my ears

Tear out my tongue

And write in the air

There is no truth

And that being true

There are only lies

Stories that you tell

To make it seem alright

The object of thought

The indelible link

To predictable reason

The assassin of truth

Obscures the way

To self expression

There are no words

With which to write

The secret world

The inner life

For lies abound

Where silence prevails

.

Bones

Man I'm fucked. Inertia has carved me a mountain to climb. I’ve got bad bones - dry and brittle. They ache in the rain and fracture into vicious shards that pierce my flesh with darts of pain. I’m sick of my body – old and flabby. I captured a few pounds along the way, or they captured me. I’ll beat this vessel into an older shape – such a handsome youth – before the spilling of blood.

(He says he will. He’ll later say he did, but he’ll hold his place – it comforts him to remain inert.)

Bongs and bombs left craters in my bronchial organs. I wouldn’t smoke one of them – that’s a needle for the lungs. The wheezing, gasping instruments of life – collapsible bags of phlegm – expelling life by the root and tubers of my chest.

No more graveyards for me – too close to home to bring comfort – full of old bones and memories – such places only bring me down into the cancerous layers of yesteryear – coughing spluttering bloody handkerchiefs. Coffin nails stain my fingers brown – the colour of creeping death – the sepia tone of ancient photographs – windows on the dead. Brown is the colour of the sod that covers my corpse - the colour of my rotting bones beneath the dirt. My tired old bones embrace the inevitable – I’ll be gone, but my bones will remain.

.

* Graphic ‘Cyclops’ by Stanley Mouse

.

Shadows

I own my shadow

thank you Dr Jung

it’s always been there

companion and jailor

adversary and friend

some nameless arseholes

have suggested that I’m morbid

in my preoccupations

but I don’t need the remedy

just the culture

I exercise my shadow

with brisk forays into verse

our stories are shadows

they follow us around

the proverbial bad penny

or a lousy streak of luck

you can’t shake them

with drink and drugs

but you might lose

the plot in trying

this life will kill you

it’ll make or break you

I was forged in adversity

that’s true of everyone

that I’ve ever known

each had burdens to bear

and every burden borne

had a story of its own

.

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
.

Far away

more haste – less speed
the minutes s t r e t c h out
racked in terrible instance
tortured in the passing
the throbbing mechanism
of desire
the beatings of fleshy drums
pulse off into nowhere
on and on
the cycle persists
the dim morning
cold grey light
seeping gently in
through empty windows
framing the silence
with spine chill –
and frozen sap
another day of coffin nails
and cellophane smiles
of sleeping lovers
far away in time
.

Ageing

Old man, his hands look dead. His neck is creased like a scrotum. His eyes are milky blue. He looks right into me for a second and something flickers and disappears. He’s moved on – moved within to some ancient memory that seems more real than I. Age draws the mind inward until we live on memories. The world at large loses its allure. The world gave up on the old man long before he deserted the world.

Will I grow old I wonder, real old I mean? Will I live long enough to grow raven’s claws and a purple veiny beak? I can just about imagine losing my marbles and retreating into my yesterdays. Becoming some drooling old fart sitting in my own shit. I’m terrified of that. Not having my faculties, not even knowing what kind of hell I’m living in.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and die before that ever happens. Maybe I’ll get luckier still and live to a ripe old age with my mind intact. Either way, I don’t relish the prospect of aging, but there is little I can do to negate the process – short of suicide and that is an even bleaker prospect.

.

Funeral

Heavy industrial gloom
Settled like a mantle of black ash
On my old hometown
The crushing weight of sanity
Cast an oppressive pall
Over the grimy rooftops
I had to prise open his coffin lid
To ascertain the cause of death
They say he jumped
But he was pushed
No-one ever jumps
They are all pushed
We lifted him from his coffin
And left him in the open air
Where the crows could get at his flesh
Where the sun could bleach his bones
And the wind could caress his carcass 
While the rain poured down 
On my old hometown

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.

.

Mysteries

the three great mysteries       life, love and death     compass all      our little knowledge     borne like jewels      is of no advantage       in the face of the unknown     deep in the heart of the sun       the sound of tiny hammers     beating on golden anvils        ring out in a single wavering note      they are pounding out our dreams   too vague to make sense of    and as fleeting as our lives  

.

A Little Blood

a little blood?
well, what did you expect?
every birth is an act of violence
life is bloody, beautiful and short
at night we lay us down to rest
in the morning we shed our dreams
and take our place on the treadmill
the dreadful work begins again
bloody ankles and deadly smiles
men fall as the leaves fall
each is whittled into nothing
by the relentless mechanism
of commercial necessity 
an unseen hand wields a final blade
we are enfolded in black wings
and ferried across dark waters
out into the nevermore
.