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

 

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