brand new semiotics for mind body and soul

 empathy is just a word we made up    we don’t feel anything that doesn’t taste of blood      we’re all political shooters         here in Disneyland     sometimes we drag the low end      coz  we are feelers       we’re feasting on crumbs       foraging  through garbage       we are deep in the shallows      articulating the language of our nightmares     we collect the signs     that give us meaning     but all meaning is arbitrary     all knowledge obsolete

Goofballs

 some nameless arsehole     suggested that I was morbid in my preoccupations     but I exorcise my demons      with brisk forays into verse     I don’t need the remedy     just the culture     I own my shadow     I was forged in adversity     but that is true of almost everyone I ever knew      each had burdens to bear     and every burden borne        was a story to be told  

 

teach me to sleep     I feel like a mutt with three legs     I’m all awkward angles      and nauseous instance     a blunt blade drawn through rancid entrails      I’m expanding into unanswerable questions     goofball bums have no stories      they’re shambling zombies     and shadow men    those goofballs triggered my psycho reflex     I call that progress     I still get trapped in my thoughts     pure gestalt     no paradox     I’m running on empty     high on fumes     this is my parade     I don’t care what anybody thinks      seen from the shore      we are all of us drowning

Catechism # 371

 

I pulled the plug           cut the chord          the dividends        were huge        I learned to breathe        to be myself      no more pretence       no more posturing        I renounce the instrumental       in most situations        I own my fear         if fear becomes me      when moved I cry        if tears are called for      I celebrate my     little triumphs      as treasures won         if they suit my      temperament      and they ain’t           too heavy       for me to carry

hear my voice

Beaters

 

I’m just a dope

straight from

the lollipop factory

I’m a bird that can’t fly

a fish that can’t swim

a crock of broken promises

and a cesspit full of lies

flightless birds

and drowning fish

there’s a menagerie

of zoological interest

 

I traverse this page

to bindlestiff rules

weary and wary

incongruous momentum

sowing havoc at my heels

that’s some heavy shit

to scrape from my shoes

the distillation of excreta

stockpiled for decades

spread by the soles

of my vagabond beaters

 

V2 (carnage edition)

 

in appropriate order    the processional disconnect     mixed horses in midstream     an incessant pouring of cats and dogs     a menagerie of cold calls and strange encounters     to tell the truth     I’m having a V2 moment      earth shattering in its hellish brilliance     the cause of my ceilings cracked

I was cold-cocked      and lynched     by mercenary hyenas      then left to decompose in my own slime      my rotting bones ached with the stench of old ghosts    my cup overflowed with the heartache that burns     I was drowning in yet another tsunami of shit     I was stretched beyond breaking     with no place to lay my head      this was my Golgotha      my funeral pyre       I stand now in the ashes      bewildered and deathly tired     my friend Ross said it best when he told me he’d been carpet bombed       but had somehow survived

 

don’t remember me      not this way     put fresh flowers on my grave      pour ointment on my stone    smooth my sleep     and stamp my dirt down     you won’t meet me in heaven     my subscription has expired     I won’t be reaching for eternity     I’m imprisoned in this fleshy tomb        by my primitive vision of corporeal bliss        there will be no resurrection       I believe I’ve had enough of this

 

The Calculus Of Rage

 

it’s me

I did it again

I made a cunt of myself

for no real reason

that spike through my heart

the faulty adrenal gland

sent acidic transmissions

through my mind and body

I could tear my skin off, fuck!

 

I spiraled on terrible trajectories

like that moth in the bathroom

on its fatal final flight

an elongated spasm racked

and viciously surged

with a reckless head load of poison

acrid in my mouth

 

my words have cancer

cutting words, killing words

no balance attenuated

or room for reason

all passive strategy

lies in wait for the unwary

then pounces ferocious

into the maelstrom

fuck you!

fuck you

and fuck you too

 

I’ll smash your face in

eat your entrails for breakfast

tear the stars from their sockets

and grind them to dust

don’t come in

I did something nasty

I damaged my being

with psychotic clubs

The Well Of Despair

The pursuit of pleasure led you here. You wanted the cool solution to your inner pain. You sought the ultimate high to fry your beans in; closer to death than you are meant to be.

Touch the cloth and kiss the ring. Do you love your man? Show me your money. Are you ready for that act of faith? Are you abased before your personal messiah?

This stuff is poison. They cut it with strychnine and weevil husks. The trick is to cook it well in lemon juice. Neutralise it so it don’t burn your brain. The last thing you want is a dirty hit sickening your veins. You just seek a little ease and a glimpse of immortality.

Just a spoonful of medicine helps ease the shit going down. A little inner fire will stifle the gag reflex before it chokes your mind. You’ve been self administering for so long now that you’ve forgotten what ails you. This cure will kill you, but there are worse ways to go. You say you feel no pain – I hope that’s true. I mean no harm to lepers like you. So come back soon. I know you will. The path of least resistance leads to the well of despair.

Insomniac

 

There are voices black with laughter harsh as crows barking. They call me by name while I cringe in an unholy place to await their passing. I will not face them in the dark of night, nor confront them in the light of day. I fear their taunts and rebukes. Their arrows are unerring and practiced. I will not struggle against them, for they are my children. They are the offspring of my failings.

When the evening tide wanes in vile bilious waves; I settle behind curtains drawn to pray to my hollow god that something/anything will happen to relieve the isolation of my republic of pain. All I seek is some other channel where my ghosts can rest in peace and I can get some sleep.

Cinnamon

she took a piece     delicious little tart     I spun her some yarn     on the off chance      she still harboured     any romantic illusions     I dished out      some tired old boiler plate     straight from the top shelf     an awkward confection     of fractured truths      and outright posture      

she said somebody stole her cinnamon     but that someone wasn’t me     by the time I got to her      she was shelling it gratis     to every punk drifter    who cast her a glad eye

I was aware of her derelict status      and her approximate  cliché      she’d cut a raw deal from life      she dreamed of adulation      but settled for acceptance      it was always quid pro quo with her     she always returned affection     because she felt obliged      I told her she was easy      she did not reply

Buddha’s Clothes

you caught me

picking Buddha’s pockets

wearing Buddha’s clothing

and eating Buddha’s lunch

 

you heard me

speaking Buddha’s words

in the Buddha’s voice

and claiming Buddha’s mind

 

but you know

you needn’t look around

or ask who Buddha is

I’m stashing Buddha’s loot

and pleading innocence again