Sacrificial

it’s the stony silence
the morning after
a savage beating
the night before

it’s that fragile feeling
of quake and tremble
and those crimson stains
on the killing floor

the dawn reveals
the shameful secret
of blackened eyes
and fractured jaw

the sacrificial lamb
was led to slaughter
under dismal skies
by a man of straw

it’s a mouthful of ashes
and a handful of nothing
but the familiar lies
from his bloody maw

.

Shadow Dogs

for those we are about to deceive
may the profits make us truly grateful
and though we have been known
to fold our cards too early
we still catch them worms
cause there ain’t no flies on us

we was gifted twice in this life
as exponents of those killer graces
that grant us immunity from persecution
and with the promise of our chosen names
sanctified through industrial language
to never reveal our source code
or the identities of our sponsors

we was once foreign to the combine
and now we are its masters
long may we continue thus
in the pursuit of power
through knowledge
and to orchestrate the game
from the safety of the shadows
.

Arsenic

There was arsenic in his voice, boozy and bitter with recrimination, dark and foreboding as a winter storm. He was hostage to his fate; tied down by a wife and mewling brats and locked into the mundane drama of domestic life. His only succour was the drink that made him mean and the memories that only fuelled his dissatisfaction.

He was something of a philosopher when drunk – but his homilies smelled of meat and murder, and his declarations were as brutal as his hands. His facts were plain as his daily bread – his fictions as transparent as his liquor. He seemed to sup from that poisoned cup that twists at a man’s insides. He spewed forth a venomous mixture of sarcasm and bile that burned the ears and shamed the listener. I can honestly say I never knew him. I never saw beyond the disguise. He was an enigma to me and a puzzle to my heart was my old man.

.

Jesus Is Waiting

3 am again
and my mechanism
is stretched to breaking
tore a line from scripture
blessed are the poor in spirit
for they are on their tod
they haunt the early hours
searching for their God
but you know what they say
you’re never really alone
when you have a good book
solace comes in many forms
so I read the testaments
in search of consolation
and have been informed
that Jesus is waiting
but he can’t come
to the phone right now
.

Yer Mojo

you either got it
or you don’t got it
some folk
don’t have the ears
for it
some folk
don’t have the eyes
they’d be missing out
on something special
for most of the time
so let there be no doubt
as to the bottom line
if you can’t make it
then simply take it
just as long
as you don’t fake it
coz that would be a crime
.

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.