Hangover

we’re running low on drinks

this party’s hit the doldrums

and as the morning sinks

we godless frozen forms

pitch headlong into ashtrays

and empty bottles counted

then recycled in the telling

like the evidence that’s mounted

in the stories you’ve been selling

so paint me black in tales of woe

and fabricate the reason

to justify the fatal blow

and your final act of treason

.

Mandy

copped me the full dose
I licked the wrapper too
I ramped up the mandy
downed it with cheap wine
that shit’s complicated
but I don’t seem to mind
it fit me real snug
just like I knew it would
it was Christmas in July
did everything it should
it may be forbidden
but sometimes
it does some good
.

Insatiable

I shed a score

every time

I went

to the well

soon I was skint

and the well was dry

those are the dues

owed the

golden monkey

when your appetites

outstrip your means

and gluttony

obscures your reason

.

The Final Link

I seen you in your big boots
threshing out your grapes of wrath
you only harvested bitter fruit
from your black vineyards
but you could never touch me
or the dope that I had stashed
even then I knew too much
to take your shit to heart
.
they say the sins of the father
are meted out to his sons
I guess you merely did
what own father had done
but that shit stops right here
I won’t let it go on
if I’m a link in that bloody chain
I’ll be the final one

Judas Kiss

it’s not the stranger danger
but the et tu bruti
you have to beware of
there’s no more bitter repast
than the judas kiss
served from
treacherous lips
straight to the heart
and she took a piece
mucky little tart
we were only casual
I shouldn’t really care
but she took a bite
and she left her mark
somewhere between the folds
of my deepest  dark
.

Sleepless

nowhere to rest my head

no cradle for my dreams

I pace the lonely hours

just bursting at the seams

I measure dusk ‘til dawn

and see them back again

I’ve little need for sleep

I have a faulty brain

in the cold grey dawn

I feel as thin as rain

it’s mornings such as these

could drive a soul insane

.

Kingpin

kudos to the big beasts

and the fabled ocean riders

ixnay on the dharma jockeys

and the children of the sun

I am stand alone dysphoric

quartered by the meat racks

sliced down to the bone

I shall complain most bitterly

to my trusty dictaphone

.

see that bastard smile?

that’s the local kingpin

and he’ll turn away no more

I’ve got the essential matrix

that the cunt is looking for

he’s a fucking lean machine

and an arsehole to be sure

but he’s the only gig in town

there’s nowhere else to score

.

Coffee

it calls for extra coffee
on those pale mornings
when my remnant dreams
still cling as shrouds
to another me
in some other world
and the cold grey sun
s – e – e – p – s
little shards of heaven
to prick my sleepless eyes
.
I’m as tired as an old joke
told in a funeral home
I feel like a dirty burlap sack
full of ossuary bones
I’m the prolapsed organ
they dare not resuscitate
and quite symptomatic
of a broader demographic
of disenchanted and careless
mercenary vagabonds

Parade

I’m no knocker

no tattle tale

but I was at the front

of her big parade

remember me?

I was the arsehole

with the big bass drum

counting steps

and keeping time

with regimental

precision

.

everything was cushty

everything was sweet

until the rain

put the mockers

on her big day

there were tantrums

there were tears

she put on quite

a performance

and in all honesty

she preferred it that way

.

The Last Dog

I’ve used up all my shadows and I’m bleached naked from the big light. It’s been typical and that’s to be expected. It’s beyond four in the anus mundi and time to see what treats await me in the bumper box of pain.

My days are short lived, but my nights are so very long and weary thin. These are measured in endurance; each instance squeezed from bloody stones. Twenty thousand nights proceed as hollow headlights on empty cars. That’s many inches travelled, but hardly enough to justify the effort.

This is the hour of broken lovers and solitary maniacs devoted to causes long lost in the not so long ago. My lot in the sodium yellow cathedral quiet is quantification – the grand introspection. The detailing of the acute and sorry tales that constitute the most mundane of disasters. I’m sickened by the stench of self-indulgence, but my hammer is on the table and I’m in the frame until the last dog dies.

.

Barley

this happy heart

will be the death

of poor me

I tilled the earth

then scattered

cancelling

my subscription

to the ever after

to carve myself

a solitary path

through golden

fields of barley

in the soft

summer rain

.

Rental Dogs

Do me a favour would you? Lift the lid and let it breathe. Let some of the heat out, we don’t want it boiling over do we? We just want a gentle simmer to bring out all the goodness. Cooking is an art form Johnny and it takes patience to prepare a masterpiece. This is what it’s all about boy – meat on the table. A man must provide for his own and no one else is gonna do that for him. A man must provide even if he has to steal. Not too much like – only what he needs; you leave some for the next guy. You nibble the hand that feeds ye Johnny. If you leave teeth marks you’ll soon find a pack of rental dogs oan yer tail.

Those rental dogs are meaner than the average mutt and just love the taste of blood. They smell your fear and so you must keep that shit well hid. Never look ‘em in the eye. It aggravates ‘em if you look ‘em in the eye. The eyes are the windows to the soul and those mongrels have no souls, see? Most rentals are bereft of souls. Whether they were stolen by pimps, or dealers – notorious soul thieves – or worn away from the inside by worry, hatred, or avarice; the rented have a legendary soul deficit.

Remember Poor Boy? He went insane and sold his soul to complete strangers. He got a sawbuck for one weighed ounce of solid soul. He bought a wrap with the proceeds and smoked it, but it never filled the hole left by his soul. No amount of gear ye smoke, or booze ye drink, will ever relieve ye of a missing soul. Take all those rental buddies and barflies who congregate in the temples of oblivion, or the crack heads and junkies they look down on. They got no souls.

Half the world have no souls and mostly that’s avoidable. It’s a question of intent; of how much ye want something and how much you are willing to pay for it. My advice, Johnny Boy, is to never want anything too much. Besides, you’ll see the price come down if the seller knows you can walk away. Some have no means of paying for whatever it is their hearts desire, so they go rental. You’re only rental so long before you realise that yer soul is part of the deal.

It’s a nightmare to live without a soul Johnny. The soul is that vital spark that kickstarts the emotional and intellectual energy that makes you unique. The soul is yer passion, yer intensity, yer mojo, and without it you’re an empty husk. Take it from ole Buddha, ye never want tae go rental. You never want tae lose yer soul; not for fortune, fame, for women, or drugs. Because nothing you can ever possess is more valuable than yer soul.

.