Written

You gotta have style
Something you can pour
From a tall pitcher
Into a short glass
That thing that oozes
From you fingertips
And shapes the words
Into shade and nuance
Imagery and thought
Something that says
This is me
Nobody else can do it
Like this
I’m not talking varnish
Not just a thin layer
Style is deep
Your style is you
In the abstract
Stamped into the page
.

The War On Sleep

by the seventh night      I have torn the veil     and crossed the line     into the land of death and annihilation     my eyes are red and sore         my head buzzes with empty space        and I stand thinly      at the centre of my void     I am insulated by static mush       thinking in a single stream of mercury       I’m constantly in the frame      consolidating the one true IS      

everything speaks to me     and I speak to everything     this is the high on high      close to the heavens      and closer to the edge of oblivion      all this is more than I can translate     into cohesive thought        I roll myself a number and eat the smoke      just a little fire to ease me through the night     

insomnia is my oasis     where my dark thoughts and I take refuge       sleep is the kiss of death      the obliteration of my senses       nevertheless     the time must come for crashing     and the horrors inky black

naked    inert and defenceless    sleep beckons me with iron fingers     and I am too weak to disobey      she takes me down     into dark oceans     filled with forgotten dreams     I fight like a drowning man    but she takes me hard and relentless      down into the deep 

 

Pig God

the secrets hidden in your head
the occult pleasures of your heart
the treasures you have plundered
then passed off as your own
mark you out as a singular failure
the simulation of a man

in the solitude of your prison cell
you pray to your pig god
that no-one sees your true face
or the bloody hands
that betray those guilty secrets
and your empty aspirations
.

Smoke

I love the way beer burns an empty stomach and leaves a heavy buzz in an empty head. I love the feeling of minor vertigo produced by a lung full of green and the gentle rocking of my boat in the calmer waters dreamt of in my cooler quarter. Send me sultry jazz messengers to soothe my mind and smooth out the corrugations of my life.

I deplore obliteration, but dig augmentation. I like a little spin now and then – to hone my edge and free up some space in my tool box. There are a billion jurors on my case who’ll condemn my predilections as errant criminality, but I pay no attention to dogs with no teeth. I like to cultivate a little distance between myself and the unclean thing, ‘cause the unclean thing really twists my nuts.

.

I Don’t Remember

I don’t remember
ecstasy
the summer loves
and winter tragedies
softly spoken promises
and bitter recrimination
.
I don’t remember
you
any of you
partners in crimes
too sweet to resist
.
I don’t remember
wounds
carved by bloody lies
and broken promises
or the hand
that wielded the knife
.
I don’t remember
.