saint nick

 he knows my name        has that much hold over me         my over friendly beggar         my demon in rags       but when the bottle’s passed       I never wipe  the neck     that’s a sign of disrespect      and so the black wine        passes from his lips to mine        and his eyes are night       and his smile is daylight         and he has my undivided   fascination     I’m his puppet        to lead to heaven        to hell        and other places        you can’t find on maps

 and downtown in the killing fields       he makes my ghosts to dance        that old man reeks of corruption       I found him sleeping in fetid leaves            in the woods      in the damp dark season        when decay rules        and everything dies but death     I met him in the pub one night        ladling on the charisma          buying everyone pints        yeah   I know him well     he’s my mentor         my guru     my homeboy          but we were never friends  

graft

 it’s all graft sure enough      our sweat buys us candy        but there’s little gravy handy       I was a toiler       couldn’t get myself square        but manna flows from heaven        and I know I’m due my share    

I tried to scrape an honest living       but didn’t have a prayer       some call it criminality        but I don’t really care       coz only a fool goes hungry         when there’s gravy stashed somewhere         

faded

 poor boy shone feeble        against a starless sky     before he flickered out          to give up the ghost and die      was there a moment       when he knew his time had come?       did he awaken in some faulty paradise        reserved to losers and bums?      or did he simply blink out       as he spiralled away       on his final moth man trajectory?          prayers were said for him        which fell on deaf ears        the lesser god  of hobos and junkies         was just too stoned to hear      his last gasp went unattended      there were no fond farewells       no intimate gestures         he drowned alone in a pool of vomit      there’s no dignity in that        his sleep was too swift and deep     to allow for human comfort       we held a day of weeping      but his name has long since faded from our lips         no one here remembers his face     and no one really cares       

sailor

 I shied away from the pain       I balled up my grief      and swallowed it whole      I never

 let on        but inside I was dying       you left me here      standing alone       misadventure

 they said      but I knew better      you killed yourself     through reckless abandon         one

 way or the other      you simply didn’t care        

I can’t afford to think about this       it’ll only drag me down     but where can I go      that you haven’t been       down to the shore        and into the water       out to the undertow       where all the drowned sailors      bleached by the sea         huddle together       for comfort and ease

outside

 I’ve got the deep chill      from standing on the outside      coz while all the world was fast asleep      I was on a bender       and burning out my innards        with jugs of liquid fire           the intrusion sparked the fear within     and I blew a heavy fuse trying to contain it        back in the night       back where the fun begins      I’m all fingers   thumbs    and knotted nerves      but I’m skinning up      and dumbing down        I have avian reflex in beak and eye       but this rooster’s teeth      are worn      from gnawing on old grievances 

 

she always thought       I wore my heart on my sleeve      but she was wrong     only the sleeve was real      the heart was an affectation       heart  or soul    what’s the difference      when they’re both absent?      she said I’d carry that load      through the ages     and that I’d been enslaved    by my own instruments      I serve     but do not know

 

 I learned to run from her sagacity     I need no commentary on my decline   I leave my own words as reference      a salutary lesson in personal abuse      my words are as brittle as my bones       and as hollow as my intent       I didn’t force the world on anyone    I acted as an outsider     a mere observer    in my capacity as counterfeit hero    if my efforts fell short of my bourgeois pretensions       it was more a matter of attention span     and my penchant for the seemingly exotic      than any predilection for deceit    

 

somewhere on my covenanted half-acre of hell     there stands a mausoleum     washed smooth with tears      here the holders of my promissory notes  are interned     along with the wax effigies of former lovers       I lie    but not through intention       I lie from carelessness      and a casual disregard for facts      I have a proven record of self-deception        and quiet ineptitude       may the evidence show  that I was never deliberately cruel    but was perhaps reckless in the pursuit of pleasure     the most damning indictment against me is selfishness      I confess my guilt       but reserve judgment to myself