Worms

this story for the most part

is lodged in my throat

I could choke on my words

if I could just bring them up

some people make me sick

because they’re unkind

those green fingered monkeys

who plant worms in my mind

they tie knots in my guts

and bring tears to my eyes

they dissect my entrails

with their blunted knives

to divine terrible truths

and more terrible lies

.

Sabotage

I tried to polish the connection again, but there was grit in my unction and it got into the mechanism. Now it won’t run with the smooth action that I was used to. Still, I rubbed and rubbed until I’d scoured its surfaces with tiny little scratches and its once smooth finish was dull and coarse to the touch. 

I don’t know what I was thinking. That was no way to treat something so precious. Perhaps I was trying to pare it back – to reach beneath the skin to a previous state of being. Whatever the reason the device is now scarred forever and it grinds where once it glided. It still works, I’m sure of that, but it will never be the thing of beauty that it once was. With a little effort I believe can still make the connection work – if I can ever forgive my little act of sabotage.

.

Wasted Time

the spastic membrane
in my gelatinous mind
plays havoc with
my recollections
and I have turned
from fire to ice
I’ve embraced the cold
and the numerous devices
of frosty indifference
they came readily to hand
that thin line crossed
I barricade my borders
with bitter recrimination
and self serving lies
the heart is fickle
and memory selective
there is a history here
I care not to remember
I banished such reflection
from heart and mind
and labelled the past
wasted time
.

Hinterland

the sky is dark and heavy
dismal as an infant’s funeral
tones of grey and black
divide the days
and we are hostage
to perpetual winter
the sun is dying
heaven is weeping
darkness reigns
in this hinterland
.

Crimson

nearly

never

or hardly ever
not now and then
but now, forever
sinking
they are out to get me
I know they are
their whispered fragments coalesce
to form steel traps
for my clumsy feet
tectonic plates shift
beneath the gut
beyond the entrails
into the deep
the heart of things
the end of night

my fingers are stained
with nicotine and blood
I’m high now – too high for comfort
each horrifying impulse
passes through my colon
with a nauseous thrashing motion
tearing like baby sharks
devouring their birthing sacks
I cannibalised my ego
to construct a prison
with no walls
and no means of escape
this crimson shelter
affords no respite
from the luxury
of self reflection
or the aching desire
for sleep
.

Crematorium

crematoria tears 
fell freely on the Monday
lapsed into silence 
on the Tuesday morn
we were all here
dutiful and penitent
we were all here
but you were gone
I heard you breathing 
shallow now
soft as snow
but far away 
someone still wept
through the aeons
that followed
for you had heard 
the mother of voices
she spoke to you
and not to me
.

Dinghies

 

It no longer hurts. I plucked out the offending instrument with bloody fingers and drew me a new one with eight crimson limbs – each an organ of enlightenment – according to my sponsors @badbuddha.com.

I believe there is no saving anyone, not even ourselves – especially not ourselves. We are each bound to a fatal trajectory; we all reach the same destination over time. We spend our days with the masses chewing the cud and shitting it out. We are all members of the one great herd - all bound for the abattoir.

But enough of this bovine philosophy – I have a boat to catch and my memoirs to forge. This shit does not cook itself. It takes days of careful preparation and intense deliberation to float these little dinghies. There’s a cheap and cheerful cliché – a clumsy metaphor requiring little imagination; little boats adrift on the glittering ocean; the flotsam and jetsam of tiny shipwrecks; no survivors to tell the tale.

Imposter

I can’t write. I have no talent, no finesse, no nuanced phrasing or beautiful prose. I recognise my key attributes now. I’m the devil’s bagman. I’ll poison your chakras and I’ll piss in your well. Just so long as I’m felt – just so you know that I’m there.

This woman – random bitch – in the hospital – called me an imposter, because I smiled when offered a cigarette. A crazy move in the locked ward. No one smiles in a locked ward unless they are staff. For them it’s a job, for the patients it’s a grim vocation.

I have me a new vocation – king of the night, burner of the midnight oil. I’ll sit and drum on this machine until I’ve squeezed the venom from my brainpan into some form of magic - something that leaps from the page and makes for the jugular. I don’t care who likes it – I’m not handing out sweeties – I’m signing death warrants.

Here is the new credo – love is for suckers – hopeless sentiment for rascals and liars. I’ll be fooled no more by pretty words and winning smiles. I’m the singular and heartless beast that lurks beneath the breast of every man and woman who was ever burned. I’m an imposter; feigning interest in truth and beauty when all I care about is getting my rocks off and cataloging my experience for the prurient thrill I derive from playing the game with style.

.

Reflective

back
in the laboratory
of my mind
I concoct solutions
to ubiquitous problems
the silken intrusion
and delicate rub
of afflictive memories
the cocks and cunts
of youthful infatuation
the fascination
of the flesh
meshed into pornographic
reference
forced into grotesque
and novel shapes
made to adopt
censored smiles
and null identity
but these subtle devices
imperfect in design
only breed new monsters
bittersweet and unkind
.

Ideology

you believe      what you want to believe     but there’s no give          in tablets of stone                and no thought   that fills your stomach             there is no dumb             eternal essence            no spiritual spark             that electrifies          the synaptic gap           we speak ourselves          into being        and our language                 articulates ideology         we are the vassals                  of whatever ideology  we call common sense         there are prohibitions              that control your actions                  and procedures       to improve         your ideology           I have no beliefs to lay claim to      and no faction lays claim to me           I’m not alone                there are millions like me   free of the chains             of ideology

.

Dead Man

I write like a dead man
with knotted fingers
and a feeble grasp
I cast no reflection
into the pool of life
here on the outside
the far outside
there are no windows
waiting
no welcome in the hearth
and there are no songs
for dead men
to wrap their tongues around
.

Pinocchio

“no-one fucks like that”  she said  “unless they mean it”

I had given it full expression    and I had meant it    in the heat of the moment    with the fire in my loins    but   hers was not my circus    I treasured my freedom    and would not relinquish it   just because we were good in bed

“what’s wrong?”    “don’t you fancy me?”   her eyes searched mine      I averted  shamefaced   my silence was evidence    of my guilt    I didn’t know what to say    the feeling just wasn’t there    well   that was my story   and I stuck to it

that was the story I told    and told over again    until I forgot it was a lie    it was a story of innocence    it was far from the truth    I have two glass eyes     and a silver tongue     I can lie with the best    and often do   but most of the time   I only deceive myself     with my selfish acts of betrayal