Inca

don’t tell me

how bad it is

I already know

it’s suicide season

and I’m all out of bullets

but geared up for excess

bicarbonate of coca

the ancient inca curse

smother me with candy kisses

take this poor boy home

it’s the last big deal

coughing up rocks

and surfing on air

but it’s all good

at twice the price

they’re shanking junkies

down in the park

bloody lubricant

for a vicious mechanism

those black market forces

can be so exacting

but my hands are clean

I’m just a regular punter

looking for fun

.

Poppies

all the pretty soldiers

got their death heads on

it’s a morbid culture

where we sanctify sacrifice

but sponsor its betrayal

we murdered the enemy

we were only following orders

not that much has changed

it’s a different religion

but the same old excuses

we gather poppies in peacetime

to decorate the graves

of those whose lives we’ve stolen

but no-one can explain to us

just why they had to die

Swill

there is a stick
in my swill
stirring up the shit
that colours me sick

my wiring is damp
and keeps shorting out
with a cognitive stutter
and laxative slump

a tsunami of sewage
is drawing me under
with the sickly momentum
of a deep overdose

I’ve dipped my fingers
into that maelstrom
and smeared that shit
on my winding sheets
.

The End Of The World (Part Three)

Carlos and me

were getting high

and talking about

the end of the world

he was heading for the beach

presumably to swim away

I planned on getting drunk

and staying that way

until it all burned down

I had just thrown my funeral

while I still had the time

but nobody showed up

I guess they had their own

funerals in mind

there was a lot of it about

the world was duly penitent

but it was a little overdue

we tried to make our peace with that

but there was no peace to be found

.

The Prodigal Son

you should never have returned

there is nothing for you here

this is a land of ghosts

where people come

to bury their dreams

under layers of denial

and silent despair

.