woody

 

woody was an artist       he stole his supplies       from the council depot          he said he knew the score     he sketched it out for me       with red paint       and an old tooth brush      he said life was bloody        as was death       and that the old world had to die         to make room for the new       I asked him what the new world would be like     “like new”     he answered     and walked away knowingly        woody was heavily charismatic       he’d never been called an arsehole

when he’d gone I took the opportunity to scope out his latest work        it was a murderous apocalypse of a painting         it was still wet       and I got some red on my fingers        I left my incriminating prints all over the death of the old world         or was it the birth of the new?       I was a criminal in the both worlds      it seemed         this and the next

 *painting by Picasso

jack the lad

 some moments live with you       some moments linger on     like that first morning        our great false dawn       when I tipped head first into your coffee cup and dissolved    sweetly       later    looking back    we’d call it love at first sight       we had talked all night       I loved the sound of your voice       and mine       

but the mechanisms of disclosure       are often misleading       you played the angel of mercy        and I the prince of thieves       there were few flies on me        I was keen as a blade     I pulled a stroke now and then       coz I loved a spot of gravy        when there was gravy to be had       

from here to there       wasn’t so far         but from there to here      I spent some agonising hours           I bled out between your sheets      what’s that the symbol of?        a pattern of self denial?         or some form fatalistic love?        I was only seventeen        and I could touch the sky      but my hope and my despair        walked together       hand in glove 

time has dried our eyes       you moved on       and so did I      I’m a creature of habit        my life is an open book       you’ve read this one before        with the turning of each page       I gradually metamorphosed      into the ebb and flow

now I crack with the dawn       to bark with the crows     it’s an angular song      with no melody        but it sounds my name       and suits my clothes       I’ve been on the high serenity        since I busted the final taboo      I’ve lived long enough now to perfect my illusion      you could call me a modern man       but I have standards to uphold        

they say that we only see       just what we want to see         well    I’ve seen enough to know          and know enough to hold my peace        I opted for peace I didn’t like the power dynamic        that some people wanted to cut from my cliché      I’m a rarefied species         the once in a blood red moon            I’m the one who cheated life         through the needle and the spoon

 

zentacles

 

can I just say    I own this space?      I own this space      and the spaces between      the spaces between        that’s of little consequence        in the grand schemata        but it butters my scones just the same    

can I just tell you      I own this day?     I own this day         and the days between       the days between       not that it really affects       anything or anyone       beyond the scope      of my own dharma

can I just add        I own this name?      I own this name        and the other names       that I have been        stretching out into infinity        but that’s old news        of no interest to anyone       let alone me

love it all

 

they say the good outweighs the bad         I hope that’s so      because everywhere I look       I see horror and brutality     pathos and hopelessness        hatred and stupidity       but somehow        I see beauty in it all       I’ve witnessed the power of the human spirit            I have received the kindness of strangers        I have seen love triumph over despair        I sense something deeper         than the endless cycle of human miseries          and despite the blood        the tears        the anguish     and pain        I love it all just the same

the shit just hit the fan

 

jesus give this poor boy a blanket      and a place to lay his head     coz the shit just hit the fan       and tomorrow we’ll all be dead        the world is on fire       everybody’s talking about the  third world war      I don’t want to die       I don’t even know what we’re fighting for     will we plant our flags in ashes?      are ashes worth dying for?      today it’s them     tomorrow it’ll be us    so enjoy what peace you can        we’re on the eve of armageddon      coz the shit just hit the fan