Fat Bastard

King of the big fat bastards – apologetically corpulent – a sedentary warrior on a motionless battlefield. I’m sick of this shabby body and its flaccid interior. Bashful and shamefaced I pace out my days on the inside. I know where everything is in here – no surprises. They think I’m crazy, but I’m just hungry. Buddha wants me for a dumpling and I can no longer hide my embarrassment behind a jocular disguise – I’m going the full agoraphobic – I might never go out again.

Disfigured, bloated and monumentally fractured. The faulty chemistry, the kink in the grey matter that winds me up to draw me down, has me flip flopping and gasping for air. My stars twinkle softly; they shine low. I eat the silence. The silence allows my delusions to flourish. I can almost buy into them.

The rest of this story for the most part simply withers on the page. I could drone on without meaning or direction, but I won’t. These are the hollow words of a foolish man; too vain to leave the past well enough alone. My days pass so slowly – must be the road I’m on – a road only traveled by the weary and the lost.

*Image ‘Window’ by Fran Yule

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Immaculate

I just hopped off the bus

to fulfil my statutory obligations

I been zapped in the brain pan

by that solar radiation

if she had only seen me

back when I eclipsed the sun

she’d have a little more patience

with her beloved skid row bum

now she was feeling mystic like

and squatting on her haunches

she cast an evil eye on me

so I gave her beer and roses

I was coming off some slick machine

and was very nearly empty

this was in the morning after

on a day of rest and prayer

I played the messianic dope fiend

she made out she didn’t care

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Monsters

there’s no sleep for me
there are monsters in my bed
the creeping sons of chaos
just will not let me rest
.
they’ve fashioned lethal weapons
from my sacred memories
to lacerate my consciousness
with morbid fantasies
.
I plead not for redemption
that’s far beyond my reach
I bargain for the mercy
of eventual release
.
deliver me from kindnesses
invested in by strangers
I have no use for enemies
when friends will steal my tongue
.
this union of erstwhile companions
this compact of seasoned liars
have anointed me with kerosene
and lit my funeral pyre
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Meat

I could afford to laugh it off

it was only dirt being dished

and I’d heard it all before

my lips were sealed

so my hands were clean

but she had her snout in deep

and was up to her ears in shit

she ought to get herself a read

drop the plastic facsimile

of injured humanity

and learn how to dig deep

for something more substantial

than gaining friends and influence

through her poisonous inquisition

I’ll take no lessons

from some menopausal midlife crisis

and her alky reject fancy man

I could see it in their eyes

no fucking empathy

they see only meat

and they left me feeling raw

down at the bloody end

of their killing floor

.

Mislaid

it’s a tedious chore

and no mistake

around the houses

and home again

the whole rigmarole

a wasted journey

a tortuous trek

in an inclement season

but I’ll find myself

on some darkened side street

soaked to the skin

but no worse for wear

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Excision

I severed that tie

with definitive force

I cut it off

and cast it out

then I set it on fire

powdered the ashes

and buried it deep

far far away

but it haunts me still

the flesh of my flesh

that lost appendage

cleaved from the bone

a bloody sacrifice

to some lesser evil

it’s a revenant organ

or a phantom limb

it’s a forbidden exhumation

and an itch I long to scratch

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Heavies

it was my party

and I was having

a right hee haw

when the heavies

came crashing in

it can happen that sudden

like the flick of a switch

or an amphetamine surge

with the rock steady dread

and the big bass drum

big boys took my high

and buried me

with knuckle dusters

they came mob handed

tooled up for a killing

it was totally hopeless

but my delusion

was so fantastic

I still fancied my chances

.

Chocolate George

Chocolate George

Was a pussy magnet

He’d had more tang

Than Frank Sinatra

He said it was nice, so nice

And it all came from a nice place

That it was no mere gesture

But the gift of awareness

That the algorithms of affection

Played out naturally

With no need for ceremony

Or archaic ritual

Were as beautiful

As they were natural

He stressed that

He was not the message

But the messenger

And there was no device

Or calculation

Behind his success

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Empty

I need a whole new bundle

to keep me on my feet

I’m winding ancient nightmares

between my dirty sheets

I got nothing left to bargain with

I’m on my fucking knees

all native electricity

has deserted me

I purchased naught for nothing

I’d like a refund please

these are times of want

in the chaos factory

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Snowball

snowball had the loathing something chronic       she’d smashed all her mirrors in iconoclast  and said she’d pan my windows too if I didn’t lick her wounds        self inflicted wounds are often the last to heal       least said      soonest mended they used to say       but they were wrong

she had come on like a breath of sunshine        but she had dark roots      I’d been keeping a beady on her peroxide explosion       altruistically fucking her from time to time          it cut both ways      we both had needs

I was pretty liberal with the advice     but more frugal with my affections        I like to think of myself as a coward       that’s the best spin I can place on my actions       I couldn’t dive in       because I can’t swim        so  I turned  away      at the crucial moment I closed my eyes        but I still heard her cry  

I guess for her I was yet another disappointment in a long series of disappointments          was I a user?     an abuser?     or just a man of straw?     I’m not the best judge of that      for my part      her voice is one of many       all asking the same question    do you now   or did you ever   possess an ounce of soul?

 

 

Formless

He’d once been a pariah, an untouchable. He had a definite shape, but it was asymmetrical. He was composed of acute and awkward angles, ragged contours and sharp edges. Cutting edges. He had always felt at odds with nature, a square peg in a universe of round holes.

He felt powerless in his predicament. There was no panacea, no prescription, no discipline, or philosophy to ease his discomfort. There was not even a name for what ailed him, no diagnosis for his wayward geometry.

His was the difficult path and he stumbled often, and sometimes he fell. But over the years his angles were chipped away and his edges were made smooth through collision and erosion. So that one day he awakened to discover that he was practically formless.

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The Temple of a Thousand Buddhas

On the first day of summer,
In the Temple of a Thousand Buddhas,
You turned and said to me;
“Your smile is a blessing to my heart”
That was long ago, but I’m smiling still.

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