Painless

I never do house calls, but this radge was overdue and I was losing patience. He was all meek and mild till the talk turned to readies owing – then he turned bubblegum warrior. Scumbag tore me down, wrapped a rag around my face and blitzed me with a dirty one. Man I was sick. He then proceeded to dip my pockets; relieving me of my stash and less credible credentials. That was a boot to the nads – and me with no bullets in my gun.

Here was the neighbourhood leech rattling my cage and I felt the filth rising, but there was no point taking unkindly to him – he was doing all he could to alleviate the surplus in my pockets and bring comfort to my bleary head. The gear was no good, and the sentiments attached were bogus, but they nearly did for me. I was a cathedral full of blind mice tuned to panic stations – they sang the siren song of closet tweakers; quietly, tunelessly.

My knackers were withered, but my thinking was still deep enough to cover my space. So I fixed laughing boy with my good eye and asked, “Why do they call you Painless?” He just laughed and flourished his kit before commencing with the washing up; there was trouble brewing in his pipe, but I had my school craft down – this old dog knew a few tricks. It was well past noon before I peeled myself from his rock star wife to emerge victorious by the narrowest of margins – where I often do my best work.

.

Thief

I wasn’t fazed when she shied away from my touch. I expected that, top bird like her. She didn’t just jump into a situation like that – didn’t give her affections away to just anybody. Especially the likes of me. I was an imposter and I think we both knew that, but I guess I fulfilled some need in her. I made her smile and I wasn’t demanding her life. I just wanted a little of her time. 

Boys fall in love with girls like her and they never forget them. They carry their memory in some sacred place within. I could have loved her and perhaps I should have loved her. Summers fade and lilies fester, but nothing lingers like words left unspoken.

.

Monster

I’m sick of this tired old face. I want a new one – like my old one – like the one I wore when I was young. I see a hundred faces on any given day and every face conceals a story. What kind of story does my face conceal? At night I’m lost in a sea of faces that clamour for my attention – my dreams are full of faces; they crowd me to blame and shame me.

The girl at the back has a question – an unkind and supercilious question. Her query originates in the psychotic regions of a bleached mind and sounds an echo in memory – something about my missing soul.

“What kind of monster are you?”

I suspect it’s more of a rhetorical device than a question, so I ignore it. But later I get to thinking... What kind of monster am I? I’m a blind monster or I would have seen her coming. I’m a deaf monster, or I would have heard her lies. I’m a mute monster – because I said nothing. I’m a numb monster because I feel even less.

She was one gift horse I should have given the full dental. Those sceptic teeth made ribbons of ambition. I have little time for those awkward manoeuvres imposed by some milquetoast Mussolini. I have an agenda sublime to accommodate; others follow the mandate of their own hearts. I take solace in the fact that I may be a monster with no soul, but I’m closer to heaven than some.

.

Nettles

It’s the stony cold silence
The morning after
A beating
That fragile feeling
Softly trembling
The queerness in the gut
When the ebbing throb reveals
The broken incestual jaw
Of the sacrificial lamb
In a garden untended
And filled with nettles
It’s a mouthful of blood
And a handful of hair
Nothing to write home about
It’s not as if you care
.

Fish n Chips

Oh Lord, lead us not into temptation, but deliver us some cheap thrills. This one looks game for a laugh; she’s all fur coat and no knickers, not that I hold that against her. I know her slightly - just enough to know I ought to maintain a little distance. She’s comely all the same and the mere idea of her gives me a hard on; the way that casual acquaintance does when you’re on a sexual high and possess little moral fibre. I’ve known a few mongrels in my time, but this one takes the biscuit and she takes it greedy like.

I don’t mean to make it seem that I lack respect, but I recognise the limitations of this faux romance. Still the pretence of courtship is all part of the ritual – though I doubt that she even remembers my name. We’ll do the deed alfresco – doggy style – with no inhibition or manners. We’ll grab some fish and chips after and converse inanely for the first and last time.

.

Ashcan

least said, soonest mended
so I dummy up nice
and batten down tight
stick it in the shade
and avert my eyes
from the unclean thing
that foul device
it’s just old news
bitter rebukes remembered
with a bullseye to the heart
I turn once more
down a path well trodden
but put the stoppers on
I don’t remember
or choose not to
those things that drag me down
who rakes for coals
in an ashcan full of yesterdays?

Promethean

what kind of monster am I?
I’m the man fortune made me
only as good as circumstances allow
and only as bad as I have to be
this heat and light are stolen
they obscure a multitude of sins
it’s an old cliché tailored to fit
and worn with a swagger
because I’m stepping tall
when I roll out my thing
this candle burns exceedingly bright
is neither hidden under a bushel
or extinguished in the night
.

Porcelain

At the eleventh hour she knew she could not fly, her mother had clipped her wings to minimise risk and circumvent adventure. Her limitations I ascribed to a troubled childhood, she was fragile, more doll than woman. Her porcelain was milky white and smooth as a babies butt. She was encompassed by phobias, riddled with irrational fears. She lived inside her head; perfectly manacled to her dreams.

She was married of course – to a stranger as it turned out. They collided on the periphery of their daily lives, never knowing the other with any depth. She possessed a wicked temper and drummed her heels in great tantrums which bemused the man; he had a phlegmatic nature. They never bit deep; there was no blood in that relationship.

I was there for a short while – under their roof – close to the hearth. I betrayed them both, as was my style. I could dig her skin and her brittle smile. I wasted little time in plotting her seduction. I presumed she had hidden depths as yet unfathomed and that I would be the one to draw them to the surface. An error on my part; her goods were on display, at the surface, they went no further than that.

It was a woeful misadventure; a giant tactical miscalculation. Often what seems exciting in the dreaming is fraught with sorry entanglements in real life. When it was drawn out into the light our dirty little secret seemed as retched as cum stained sheets. There was a scene and shown the door I left like a scalded cat. Some people are so uptight about a little play. There were tears, of course, but mine were from laughter.

.

Icarus

How high is too high? How low is too low?

I’m stretched across impossible altitudes. I got the vertigo, that cold dizzying flush, but who cares when flying is suddenly so easy? I can see my life from here; it seems so small and lacking any real significance. What matters is now, this moment of flight, this instance of freedom. I’m reaching for forbidden constellations while my feet, caked in mud, are sinking into the earth. These unnatural avionics, they say, are the result of faulty wiring. Who needs drugs when you have aerial acuity and are filled with grandiose intentions?

Oh, this is cool – this is sweet. My trepidation gives way to exhilaration as my aerobatics become practised and concise. You never lose it, the power of flight, and having once flown you never forget the exaltation those wings of wax can bring. This apparatus has been well examined and its flaws are well documented, but I’ll milk this sensation for as long as I can. I’ll ride this fucker until I hit a cul de sac and slam once more into sodden ground. Crash landings are the price you pay for your time aloft; some reckon it’s worth the fee.

.

Incendiary

Damn the stupid – for they are greedy fuckers lacking grace or art. There are holes in my mind where I tried to burn them out with poisoned liquor. One day it all got out of hand; I set the whole place on fire. I lit the inferno but others supplied the fuel. I saw them later, sifting through the ashes for trophies. Their laughter crackled in the air as they picked over my memories with hands as black as murder. The fireman told me that alcohol and drugs were common contributing factors in most fires. I am incendiary it seems – high as a kite – ready to light up and burn down the sky.

.

Worms

this story for the most part

is lodged in my throat

I could choke on my words

if I could just bring them up

some people make me sick

because they’re unkind

those green fingered monkeys

who plant worms in my mind

they tie knots in my guts

and bring tears to my eyes

they dissect my entrails

with their blunted knives

to divine terrible truths

and more terrible lies

.

Sabotage

I tried to polish the connection again, but there was grit in my unction and it got into the mechanism. Now it won’t run with the smooth action that I was used to. Still, I rubbed and rubbed until I’d scoured its surfaces with tiny little scratches and its once smooth finish was dull and coarse to the touch. 

I don’t know what I was thinking. That was no way to treat something so precious. Perhaps I was trying to pare it back – to reach beneath the skin to a previous state of being. Whatever the reason the device is now scarred forever and it grinds where once it glided. It still works, I’m sure of that, but it will never be the thing of beauty that it once was. With a little effort I believe can still make the connection work – if I can ever forgive my little act of sabotage.

.

Wasted Time

the spastic membrane
in my gelatinous mind
plays havoc with
my recollections
and I have turned
from fire to ice
I’ve embraced the cold
and the numerous devices
of frosty indifference
they came readily to hand
that thin line crossed
I barricade my borders
with bitter recrimination
and self serving lies
the heart is fickle
and memory selective
there is a history here
I care not to remember
I banished such reflection
from heart and mind
and labelled the past
wasted time
.

Hinterland

the sky is dark and heavy
dismal as an infant’s funeral
tones of grey and black
divide the days
and we are hostage
to perpetual winter
the sun is dying
heaven is weeping
darkness reigns
in this hinterland
.

Crimson

nearly

never

or hardly ever
not now and then
but now, forever
sinking
they are out to get me
I know they are
their whispered fragments coalesce
to form steel traps
for my clumsy feet
tectonic plates shift
beneath the gut
beyond the entrails
into the deep
the heart of things
the end of night

my fingers are stained
with nicotine and blood
I’m high now – too high for comfort
each horrifying impulse
passes through my colon
with a nauseous thrashing motion
tearing like baby sharks
devouring their birthing sacks
I cannibalised my ego
to construct a prison
with no walls
and no means of escape
this crimson shelter
affords no respite
from the luxury
of self reflection
or the aching desire
for sleep
.

Crematorium

crematoria tears 
fell freely on the Monday
lapsed into silence 
on the Tuesday morn
we were all here
dutiful and penitent
we were all here
but you were gone
I heard you breathing 
shallow now
soft as snow
but far away 
someone still wept
through the aeons
that followed
for you had heard 
the mother of voices
she spoke to you
and not to me
.

Dinghies

 

It no longer hurts. I plucked out the offending instrument with bloody fingers and drew me a new one with eight crimson limbs – each an organ of enlightenment – according to my sponsors @badbuddha.com.

I believe there is no saving anyone, not even ourselves – especially not ourselves. We are each bound to a fatal trajectory; we all reach the same destination over time. We spend our days with the masses chewing the cud and shitting it out. We are all members of the one great herd - all bound for the abattoir.

But enough of this bovine philosophy – I have a boat to catch and my memoirs to forge. This shit does not cook itself. It takes days of careful preparation and intense deliberation to float these little dinghies. There’s a cheap and cheerful cliché – a clumsy metaphor requiring little imagination; little boats adrift on the glittering ocean; the flotsam and jetsam of tiny shipwrecks; no survivors to tell the tale.

Imposter

I can’t write. I have no talent, no finesse, no nuanced phrasing or beautiful prose. I recognise my key attributes now. I’m the devil’s bagman. I’ll poison your chakras and I’ll piss in your well. Just so long as I’m felt – just so you know that I’m there.

This woman – random bitch – in the hospital – called me an imposter, because I smiled when offered a cigarette. A crazy move in the locked ward. No one smiles in a locked ward unless they are staff. For them it’s a job, for the patients it’s a grim vocation.

I have me a new vocation – king of the night, burner of the midnight oil. I’ll sit and drum on this machine until I’ve squeezed the venom from my brainpan into some form of magic - something that leaps from the page and makes for the jugular. I don’t care who likes it – I’m not handing out sweeties – I’m signing death warrants.

Here is the new credo – love is for suckers – hopeless sentiment for rascals and liars. I’ll be fooled no more by pretty words and winning smiles. I’m the singular and heartless beast that lurks beneath the breast of every man and woman who was ever burned. I’m an imposter; feigning interest in truth and beauty when all I care about is getting my rocks off and cataloging my experience for the prurient thrill I derive from playing the game with style.

.

Reflective

back
in the laboratory
of my mind
I concoct solutions
to ubiquitous problems
the silken intrusion
and delicate rub
of afflictive memories
the cocks and cunts
of youthful infatuation
the fascination
of the flesh
meshed into pornographic
reference
forced into grotesque
and novel shapes
made to adopt
censored smiles
and null identity
but these subtle devices
imperfect in design
only breed new monsters
bittersweet and unkind
.

Ideology

you believe      what you want to believe     but there’s no give          in tablets of stone                and no thought   that fills your stomach             there is no dumb             eternal essence            no spiritual spark             that electrifies          the synaptic gap           we speak ourselves          into being        and our language                 articulates ideology         we are the vassals                  of whatever ideology  we call common sense         there are prohibitions              that control your actions                  and procedures       to improve         your ideology           I have no beliefs to lay claim to      and no faction lays claim to me           I’m not alone                there are millions like me   free of the chains             of ideology

.

Dead Man

I write like a dead man
with knotted fingers
and a feeble grasp
I cast no reflection
into the pool of life
here on the outside
the far outside
there are no windows
waiting
no welcome in the hearth
and there are no songs
for dead men
to wrap their tongues around
.

Pinocchio

“no-one fucks like that”  she said  “unless they mean it”

I had given it full expression    and I had meant it    in the heat of the moment    with the fire in my loins    but   hers was not my circus    I treasured my freedom    and would not relinquish it   just because we were good in bed

“what’s wrong?”    “don’t you fancy me?”   her eyes searched mine      I averted  shamefaced   my silence was evidence    of my guilt    I didn’t know what to say    the feeling just wasn’t there    well   that was my story   and I stuck to it

that was the story I told    and told over again    until I forgot it was a lie    it was a story of innocence    it was far from the truth    I have two glass eyes     and a silver tongue     I can lie with the best    and often do   but most of the time   I only deceive myself     with my selfish acts of betrayal

Dragons

for my head
Shug said
and gave me a wrap
for the pain
all fingers and foil
trembling slightly
I inhaled
the acrid smoke
burning lettuce
slipped easy
into grateful lungs
I was waiting
waiting on a wave
a cool dark one
to sweep me up
and lay me to rest
I smoked myself sick
but even that felt good
in fact everything
felt good
too good
and I saw that
a man could lose himself
chasing dragons
.

Only Dreaming

years later
long after
you died
I dreamed
of you

in the dream
you were sixteen
and altogether
beautiful

death had yet
to touch
your brow

your life force
shone out
strong
and proud

and I woke up
wondering
if I was only dreaming
or was it really you
.

No Angels

there are no angels
there are no demons
there are only survivors
the world stones its saints
as it buries the innocent
and in the end no-one
remembers their names
.

Forbidden

Take a picture of this
We were holding hands
We had heavy heads
And happy hearts
We were stoned
In the regular variety
We rushed to the shore
The sea lapped at our feet
The wind tugged at our hair
We were immortal then
We were cleansed
Spotless as in infancy
The world had yet to find us
To bind us to convention
And condemn us - all three
For the  love we shared
.

Sixteen

there were days
when we lived
as if we’d never die
days we were
perfected
among the race
because our love
was the first love
to ever reach
those heights
but we were sixteen
and did not know
that time was a thief
who’d steal our love
and leave us naught
but our memories
.

Missionaries

.

It was a glorious summer’s day and I was pleasantly stoned. Two young missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints knocked on my door. I must have been pretty high because instead of palming them off with the usual spiel about my being an atheist I let them in. It was a hot day so I served them some cold lemonade.

We discussed the bible and Jesus Christ. They told me about Joseph Smith and Brigham Young and they gave me a Book of Mormon, so I thanked them. We even prayed together – though I did so with a certain amount of mirth. I talked and talked about Christ, Buddha and Krishna – mostly I just talked until they could not wait to leave. They informed me that they must be making tracks. I looked doubtful and said:

“Are you sure?”

“Yes” they replied

“That acid I gave you ought to be kicking in about now.” I informed them.

The blood drained from their faces as they reeled from the shock. They unravelled from smug satisfaction into deep consternation before my eyes. I laughed and shook my head.

“I’m only kidding. I wouldn’t do that to you guys.”

They seemed unconvinced and left rapidly - still in a state of shock. To this day No Mormon missionaries have knocked on my door since. I see them coming down the street going door to door, but they skip past mine. I think I’m on that database of theirs as doomed – an instrument of Satan.

.

Little White Lies

once I had two lovers
I know what you’re thinking
you’re either thinking lucky dog
or filthy rat
I think the latter is more accurate
I was definitely some form of rodent
nervous and fearful of discovery
scurrying through the dark
from house to house
and back again
.
both girls new about the other
but it was still an emotional minefield
so I used to lie to them
little white lies to smooth the way
little white lies to spare their feelings
I’d make up stories about my day
never mentioning one to the other
I’d tell stories about where I’d been
and what I’d done there
.
I had deceit down to a fine art
it got easier to lie as time went by
until it was second nature to me
that’s the thing about lies
they breed like rabbits
one lie begat another
until I was swimming in an ocean
of those little white lies
.
when I took all those lies
those little white lies
and put them all together
they made up one big black lie
my whole life had become a lie
it was hard to keep up with them
and they were discovered
one by one
in the end I lost both girls
because I was such a liar
and liars seldom prosper
.

Bobby

Bobby and Susan were best buddies
It was purely platonic, so they said
In fact they were so close
That when I asked Susan home
Bobby came as well
I could tell he was crazy for her
His eyes never left her
As we sat drinking coffee
In my living room


I thought I had struck out
Things being the way they were
With Bobby there and all that
I stood up and stretched
Said it was time for my bed
Susan stood up and took my hand
As we both left the room
I clocked Bobby’s dial
There was a look on his face
I’ll never forget
.

Rose Of Jericho

I pushed her buttons
And she opened up like a flower
What’s that the image of?
An unfolding fleshy flower
The sacred rose of Jericho
Tattooed to my ribs
The five wounds of Christ
The seven veils of wisdom
The smiling secret cyphers
Signalled between a lover’s lips
Behind closed doors
Between the sheets
Beneath the heaving flesh
Sliding – rolling on the mattress
Pressed against her bosom
Jammed between her thighs
Inside her velvet prison
My walls come tumbling down
But just in the moment
.

Wake

Take him and lay him out on the tall trestles
Put him in the shop window
For passing trade to see
Maybe some use can yet be made of him
I won’t dirty my hands with the details
Some words cannot be retracted
I’ll just say that he was here and now is gone
On twenty one occasions I asked for his forgiveness
He just shrugged his shoulders and slouched away
“No”, was all he said
Come on girl – no use moping after him
His journey is over now
But ours is just begun.
.

Blackened

When did we learn how to hate?
Was it incremental
Like the constant drip, drip, drip
Of a leaking faucet
Delivering the droplets of hurt and humiliation
That gradually painted our hearts black?
Was it as sudden as the illumination of betrayal
The spike of ice cold acid in the veins
The shock of the inevitable,
The realisation of all our fears?
Or was it always there
Carried within
Before it ever had a name?
.

Sunny Side Up

it’s been a thin time all round
inky black and such
hard graft for the crooked
a long stretch for the touched
the good people of the parish
shell a little corn into my cup
but it’s one of those deals
where you fight for your meals
it’s not all sunny side up
.

Scream

This writing is futile
I can’t express how I feel
Not in so many words
I’d like to take my pain
Roll it into a ball
And stuff it down your throat
So you’d be mute like me
Your seams leaking
Blotting your copy book
With a silent crimson scream
.