Anus Mundi (Redux)

This place  is beyond bleak - it’s fucking grotesque. I have the faint edge on. Gloomy clouds signal inclement weather. Tired baleful concrete tenements glower down on deserted streets during the daytime and the place seems deserted;  but  at night the place comes to life when troops  of cocaine fuelled primates  fill the air with tribal war cries and furtive indigent lepers go about their business on the fly.

What am I doing here?  I hate this fucking town   Everything went wrong here.   I fucked up big time. I crashed and burned. You expect to be kicked when you are down; but not by your friends - that really hurts - and I got mad.   I thought about vengeance.  I’d be good at that, but I’ve seen their lives and that’s enough.

It still smells of piss and cancer here. It has a soul crushing ambiance. The shithole that used to be home - but not by choice -  never by choice. I got out,    but I came back to find that there’s fuck all here, but the undead junkie hoards   and their feral klepto offspring.

I could do this of my own accord you know. I don’t require the spike. I do alright on my own and I could write if I could just get some sleep!  Men of a certain age find it difficult to sleep. Shit loads of pent up emotion and barely suppressed anger keeps them awake at night. You’ll find that men of a certain age carry luggage heavy with pent up emotion  and barely suppressed anger. But, they have the fear on.

This is my hometown - anus mundi. I came here to get away from it all and I succeeded. I’m decades away from anything. This place was designated pointless in 1962 and filed under forgotten -  do not resuscitate. Some part of me has died here and shall forever remain in an unmarked grave

Does what you’re doing make you wonder where you are going?

Best not to think about it; the remedy is simple press the needle to the membrane - now plunge. Instant gratification; in vitro fertilization for the brain.   (exhale)

                less haste    more speed  

I stand enthralled.  I’m still drawn to the scene. I do not say I’m compelled.

The Inca in me holds a morbid fascination for the patterns of disgrace.

So many faces to remember  -  so many to forget.

I was young      I was arrogant     I was doped up      I was right 

       I was always right

Everything that could be done was done, but the consequences were still  brutal. I held him in my arms as his life ebbed away. He didn’t remember my name. That’s when I knew he was never coming back. His papers read DOA

They called it death by misadventure, but I killed him with kindness and an extra generous deal. I’d already forged my connection along with my papers    and was on the first bus out of there.

Don’t tell me how bad it is. I already know. It’s a suicide sport  and  I’m  all out of bullets. Nevertheless - I’m 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.

hear my voice

Muzzle Up

of all things now
and nothing later
wring out your covid sheets
lockdown your positive membranes
you're getting a raw deal
your kind always does
you're the proud citizen
of an idiot nation
you won't muzzle up
because you have rights
all lives matter you say
but some more than others
it's always been that way

Babylonians

they stole my breath away   those burning babylonians   I was with them   at least in spirit   I'd tear the whole thing down   and grind the rubble to dust   lest some vital spark     be forged in fire and prayer     I want to feel that heat on my face    the barricades and burnt out squad cars   the looter shooters   and lambs to slaughter      this world is old    bring on the next    I have a hard-on for dread vibrations     the death row convulsions  of a dying culture    we refused to live as children      and so we die as beasts

The Great Grimaldi

heavy weighs the crown

on your crooked brow

you’re master of inanities

and king of all the clowns

but that sugar breath of yours

smells of shit to me

for you have shovelled moths

into your gaping maw

and you’re wearing kind of thin

tell me of that vision narcotic

you pass off as your own

it has the familiar flavour

of someone else’s gum

you got no metal in your veins

or I’d simply cut you down

but I’d be just as happy

if you no longer came around

.

Mutton

there are skag villains neatly
bungalowed  on every suburban street
and there are fleshy instructors
festering in every tenement close
I've seen uncle bluebeard
and his tribe of mutant terriers
cashing subs at the post office
they normalised incompetence
so that he could claim disability
the poison radiates outward
from the point of corruption
I picked mine up at school
because I was paying attention
all justice is arbitrary
and rope is for lynchings
there is comfort within the flock
but we must obey the dog

Tremors

we felt tremors - but we ignored them

when cracks appeared we just filled them

with scrap metal and toxic waste

the world rattled as she screamed and tore

and we tried to ignore that too

but we all bunkered up for the bat flu

it seemed the world had turned on us

just as we had turned on each other

we fell in with dank villains and petty tyrants

and we pledged allegiances to avaricious gods

some of us tried to follow the way

so far as we were allowed

don’t get me started on the games people play

it’s hard to harmonise with nature

when you are a parasite and a killer

….

Bleached

my bones ache

I’m infected

with ghosts

the kind that grind

a man to dust

this confinement

withers me

desiccated notes

and ancient rituals

crowd my nights

with recollection

I shield my eyes

from the righteous

dread vibrations

of straw witnesses

and trial by radiation

Grease

the committee gave me

the full inquisition

but my numbers were good

so I got a pat on the back

and sent on my way

they couldn’t tell

I’d cooked the books

to an old family recipe

where the left hand don’t know

who the right hand is screwing

I’m not dishonest

I’m just being realistic

everybody does it

and only a fool would starve

when there’s gravy to be had

I’m not a greedy man

I don’t take enough

to get myself noticed

I simply skim the cream

on its way to the top