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

Listen to Cinnamon here

https://open.spotify.com/track/23n1N1lAOcVA1jmojjg5om

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

I could sell snow

to the Eskimos

 

I know my face

is my best device

so I still throw it in

though it’s seen better days

I don’t rehearse

I do it alfresco

but it all joins up

in the ancient ritual

and no-one gets hurt

there’s no crime committed

 

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 a glad eye

 

I thought it was a good thing

but I didn’t realise

she had ghosts in her blood

and absinthe in her eyes

we were never really lovers

but we fucked once in a while

 

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

but she did not reply

 

she was wearing thin by this stage

she still had last year’s flavour

no-one remembers her number

she was a day away from stony

and another from the street

so I let her crash at my place

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

 

Temporarily Buddha

 

man

I was stitched up

like a fucking kipper

they were in cahoots

my erstwhile friends

spiked me with a ton

of LSD in my fucking tea

a malicious prank perhaps

or an assassination attempt

on my fucking psyche

what could I do?

you can’t fight these things

so I went all Alan Watts

totally transcendental

 

I was mousetrapped

and locked within my closet

my eyes were sewn wide shut

by myriad instructors

I fell from the gravy train

and lost all my luggage

my scribbled entries

were smudged by tears

and washed away in traffic

I was tippexed out

I had mislaid my name

and had to start again 

temporarily Buddha 

left out in the rain

Zombie King

 it calls for an extra dose

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 parlour

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

 

I could be zombie king

if I so desired

complete with

chocolate toolbox

the amnesia haze

and four flat tires

so give me the reds

give me the blues

give me the yellows

and the white ones too

patch me to that big linear zero

and fill my cranium with soup

we’ll have no thought here

no cognitive assemblage

is necessary

I sense the world

through my arsehole

and its diarrhoea burn

 

I’ve left no imprint 

on the world of men

I’m a trail of breadcrumbs

a chalk mark on the pavement

one good rain

could wash me away

 

I had expectations

slender ones

faint and penny-plain

tuppence worth, please

I'm counting costs

for my rainy days

I might never work again

my mechanism is worn

with repetitious strain

and I stand here waiting

for a bus in the sodding rain

while the blunt edge of depression

carves me slowly once again

 

the wind tugs at memory

in indistinct murmurs

of the wilder country

of forbidden places

and ancient curses

I learned what it feels like

to become a beast

my face is fluid now

it can take many forms

angels and demons

dance across my surfaces

twinkling like children

in orphanage rags