Snowflakes

the calendar of memories
measures out the hours
in balmy summer afternoons
and sudden April showers
and I remember her
as snowflakes lost in play
I was a damp November morn
and she was Christmas day

Beauty On The Bus

blow me a kiss
single return
returning home
a hard earned day
of daydreams
and negotiated silence

inner peace
for pieces of sky

the heavens shout out
with special relevance
blue and vast cavernous
swallows me whole
and then spits me out

this is not enough
but it’s all too much
coughing up
spewing out
piss and puke
where beauty stops
so does the bus
stop
stop
stop
.

Hedonist

here’s to those louche lounge lizards
and licentious feline derelicts
who propped me up to dip my pockets
and barfly angels who furnished me with flesh
but were blameless in my corruption
nothing appealed to me like everything
and having everything I wanted more
because every pleasure seems attainable
when you’re a drunkard and a whore
.

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
.

Spots

I turned a new leaf
shed my skin
sloughed of my previous
and wiped the slate clean
the new and shiny
appeals to my ego
worldly still, but clean
sleek and natural
in mint condition
without form
over distance
without the reproach
of my erstwhile peers
I discarded the things
that brought me only sorrow
but I just can’t forget
what’s foremost in my thoughts
that I’m still a fuckin’ leopard
even though I changed my spots
.

Footprints

I didn’t fancy yours 
I didn't fancy mine either
that’s not the worst of it
but it's hardly the best
no one twisted my arm
I was hostage to opportunity
awakening in a stranger’s lair
there’s a sense of shudder
in these awkward instances
nonetheless departing
with guilty steps
and a vague feeling of failure
I left shallow footprints
in yet another world
.

Parasite

Back in the day punters flocked to sample our merchandise; such was the purity of the kit we were peddling. Much money was made, but many lives were lost in the game of dragons. Those were exciting and desperate days and while it was a swell time for some, it was less so for others. They say that nature is magnificent and beautiful, but it’s also ugly and cruel. We were predators and parasites who killed for profit and felt no shame; for we were tainted with death and steeped in our own ignorance. Our mantra was ‘buyer beware’ and we disavowed the consequences of our actions, blaming the victims for our crimes. What else could we do? For us self knowledge demanded a coin too sharp to bear.

They say that every action is the cause of an equal and opposite reaction, and that this is a law of nature which is fixed and immutable. Some call it karma and assert that what goes around eventually returns to bite us on the arse. This could explain why so many players find themselves hoisted by their own petards. Those who pursue the dragon often find themselves devoured in its flames. I’ve seen so many wise guys reduced to beggars by the crystalline or through liquid fire. No one is impervious – we each carry the seeds of our own destruction.

I myself am not immune to the edicts of causation. My own pathological indolence seems to stem from an apathy born of failure. It appears that everything I have set my hand to had some unforeseen consequence and consequently turned to shit. I have turned over new leafs only to find corruption concealed within; familiar themes expressed in novel patterns, mistakes written large on the pages of my life. I know the story and I know it well. I can’t erase the past any more than I can ignore it and I don’t know that I’d want to. The final word – the most damning indictment – is that given the opportunity I know full well that I’d do it all again.

Alien

I’ve got my tourist face on
all curiosity and confusion
with a little hopeful mistrust
the world is tilting south
so I strike a jaunty angle
by way of compensation
I must look like a drunk
not too far from the truth
I’m fairly close to home
but my surroundings are foreign
I’m a prospective alien
in my own home town
the carbon sky bleeds grey
the deluge tumbles down
and ink is now streaming
from my dubious credentials
my identity is in doubt
and confidence is waning
the bus is two hours late
and my welcome’s running out
.

Stricken

I met my morning with a lithium flush
the crew preferred the traditional libations
we stood unfurled in our own skins
before an unscheduled eclipse
and stumbled blindly in the dark
our confusion fuelled by hard liquor
and assorted oriental confections

I tried for the great indoors
but my inside was out
as my doors had been confiscated
during the last epic iconoclast
doors are bourgeois affectations
and privacy has been banished
here in the electric society
we are mere avatars for the combine
we do our shit and eat our bread
then watch the highlights on TV
that’s where we’re at now
nothing is real unless it’s been on TV

the tube has seared our minds
so we turn to moonshine and jimson weed
to enhance our perverse new benedictions
consequently many have been struck down
with the dread psycho reflux
but no-one cares for the stricken
no-one feeds their beasts or tills their soil
while they are lost to the great no no
for a man must make his own meat
to earn his fraction from the combine
.

Richard

That rat faced fucker is slicker than deer guts on a door knob. They say he’s making decent money pimping refugees and extorting pennies from the homeless. From what I know of him he’d steal his grandma’s teeth if she had any. I’m told he has a sentimental side and is good to his dear old mum, but so was Harold Shipman and that turned out well.

I knew Richard back when he was steaming a living from other people’s envelopes. Being a congenital idiot he was soon caught and they sentenced him to hard knocks for fucking with the mail. They tried to rehabilitate him, but he came out of jail even more devious than when he went in. The new Richard had no moral boundaries and an avaricious hunger that would never be satisfied.

Looking back it’s hard to see how anybody could be taken in by his patter, but he seemed a plausible cunt and many were. I used to lay him on deals which we’d settle on a weekly basis. Everything went swimmingly until he ticked a weight from me and did not return. I had to go fishing for him and he was a slippery fucker to catch. We settled up eventually, but then we parted company. I have no time for thieves – they see everyone else as chumps and you’d be a fool to trust one twice.

Richard formed a habit that’s hard to beat. They say he has a jones that costs him a grand a week. That’s a lot of corn to filch and one fuck off greedy monkey to be feeding. He’ll never dig himself out from under that; that’s a life sentence with no chance of parole.

I saw him the other day there and he dingied me. Maybe he thinks he still owes me money. He was a hundred years old and his rodent features were even more pronounced. It seems form follows function and you become what you do through time. The vagaries of intent are both capricious and complex and we seldom get what we want; but sometimes we get what we deserve. Everything has its price and those dues will be paid. So while greed might fill your wallet one day, it could cost you dear the next.

.

Alky

I know the stuff is poison, but I neck it anyway. It’s a psychic shield against the vicissitudes of strife. What a happy delusion to carry around in my head. A soft and fuzzy lie I like to bathe in. Get me to my bed where I can adopt my cloak of dreams. I don’t care what shape the world is in – I don’t want it banging on my door 24/7. There’s a place I lay my head where I get the peace that grants me immunity from the combine.

.

Forgiven

Big Malky went down hard. He took a hell of a beating before he cracked, but crack he did. After a couple of hours of relentless punishment, he was sobbing like a baby and pleading for his life.

 “Please Mo – there’s no need for this. You dinnae huv tae dae this. I’ll go away – you’ll never see me again. I’ll gie you money – anything you want – just dinnae dae this.”

 His words burbled in his bloody mouth and I was both disgusted by the display and elated by the sense of power it produced. The once mighty Malcolm McTear, the last man on my list, begging for mercy – crying like a schoolgirl. I let him go on for a while, but the final word went to my 1911 Colt 45. I whipped the big pistol out and without a second glance tapped him on the forehead – right between the eyes. There was blood and brain everywhere. I was pleased by the action – solid and professional like.

 “Did ye see that boys? One slick movement – like a fuckin’ samurai.”

I was determined that everyone on the list would be dispatched before the old man’s funeral and I had achieved my goal. The old man would be pleased and I imagined him watching from on high with a big smile on his face. He was a wise one my father – not only was I visiting vengeance on his enemies – I was clearing the ground for increased business. He knew that these scumbags would try it on with me after he was dead and that the wisest thing for me to do would be to liquidate them before they became a nuisance.

The whole operation had proven to be much easier than I had anticipated. We caught them napping – they thought their troubles were over when they heard that the old man had snuffed it. They were soon to be proven wrong. Most of these so called hard men had pleaded for mercy and I had shown it through the barrel of my gun. All except Jimmy the Flea, he had stood his ground right up to the end.

 “You cunts had better kill me – cause I’ll be coming back for ye. You Mo – you’re scum just like yer dad. We had a party to celebrate when that dirty old fucker died – and mark my words – you’ll be following him soon enough...”

I silenced him mid tirade – he was boring me, but he went down fighting and I respected that. I made a mental note to take care of Flea’s two boys – if they had half the bottle their old man had they could become a problem. For the time being though my work was done and I could focus on dad’s funeral – it would be the biggest the city had ever seen with faces from all over the country coming to pay their respects.

The day the old man died the whole family were gathered around and mum was insisting that they send for a priest. The old man was against the idea until mum said to him that she’d miss him should he end up in purgatory. He eventually relented and Father Mulligan was sent for, but the old man was as awkward and stubborn as ever.

 “Do you renounce the devil and all his works?”

 “I do Father.”

 “Do you forgive your enemies?”

 The old man did not answer but lay there staring into space.

 “Do you forgive your enemies?”

 Again the old man did not respond.

 “For the sake of your immortal soul Jock – do you forgive your enemies?”

 “Aye, alright – I forgive my fuckin’ enemies!” rasped the old man.

 He then turned to me and fixed me with his steely gaze.

 “But there’s no need for you to be forgiving anybody Maurice.”