Saturday, July 30, 2011


A tourniquet bed
tarnished and scented sheets
moth eaten cloth of heady, anticipation
dull static flicker from the TV
shaping your face with its
attention seeking vortex
damp walls and a wet heart
flooding inside your shirt
you, holding steady and prepared
you, touching lightly to prepare
I, only a broken gloom of skin
I only a faceless pity within
You, with your soft lips
and softer hands
you with your
dreamy earlobes
and your metal earring
you, are so beautiful
you are so doomed
Here in my arms you are doomed
as i am
without the knowledge that climbs into my eyes
like vomit
ready to upturn violently, but surely
upon your poetry
of this and that wisdom
this and that cunt
this and that country
this and that cock
and bull
this and that pubic enlightenment
of un-shy words.
you asked for an open can
an open woman
an open book
of an anal girl
stuck inside her own ass with her head in between
her head swimming in her rectum maybe
looking for all the value punched inside
her intestine
punched in,
pulped in.
gulped down,
bent down.
Her beautiful breasts
Her beautiful body
her humming skin.
The little noises
she makes when she kisses your memory
of some day you are speaking of
between your ribs
She is so safe
and warm
so very slumberous
and encompassing
In out
In out
The world contracts and devours
In out
In out
In out
The heap of her hollowness
Her empty giving
Her empty sharing
Her emptiness
Fills you
Fills you
with pride
fills you
It fills you
And then you empty her emptiness
In some other thigh.
On some other night
So unlike that one
So like her own
with her anal ways
her anal hide
swimming up her anal,anti-kind

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

The Auburn Insomniac

The auburn insomniac,
in his shell,
in his shoes,
with a hairy belly,
and not much to do.
Old monk on his bed,
and a restless head,
he sets out towards his window's gloom.
The night falls flat,
on boot and hat,
on floor and street,
the bars open or discreet.
And he loses some clear air,
with his cigarette about,
and no one to shout,
at his face splashed with serenity.
He lost his troubles,
and all his gambles,
to a constant state of temerity.
Such a man of the night,
such a spirit with fight,
But alas he sold off his dignity.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall

The smell of phenyl chokes the room and all its other smells. The smell of shit and pain and newspapers. The claustrophobia of my childhood inches closer and closer as the walls coloured with jaundice and 'aesthetic' yellow light, snake cool and familiar along my blind hands.The scarlet screams of mother and her nocturnal bathroom operas are just another routine, a sleepless scribble of sounds in the house. The cats theatrically stare at the furniture, the dogs run in epileptic vigour, chasing a figment of the REM cycle, and I sit down on my pot, wash my hands dutifully and take slow, careful steps avoiding toe-stubs across the living room. A hard rain's gonna fall

Saturday, July 2, 2011


I being the misnomer of a body
that I am
and you the green billowing
fruit of some tragedy
have places to trounce unending
fledgeling into the crust
of some songs
and gimlet buttons

I have painted your shadows with the colour
of waiting,heartfelt skin
I have improved the texture of my voice
so that you may fall in love
with its husky whoredom
of romance
I have prayed upon the teeth of
shifting darkness
to swallow my insipid curious eyes
as they fall upon you
meandering into some corridor
foreign and
with flowing hair
near its beads
of tepid, stale air
with clear, radiant cheeks
with perfect, contours for thighs
and lips, the pinch of some
Coraline watercolour
dignified and virginal

I am a thief of absurdity
a disciple of inane things
I am
an imperfect wisp of
polluted words
A nubile assortment
of overgrown years
tired years
years pulsing
with the harpoon
of fists
and table top edges
and borderline regret
shining starkly,
the oil on my skin
my heartfelt skin
skin, brown
and choked with
cystic dots of longing
skin howling
skin starving
curling skin
jutting out
as hands
and lips
and then waiting
waiting in its colours
in its covers
of your unknown
loath to
a pauper's demise
Not an animal's

Friday, July 1, 2011


We are splitting,
like light,
and the death of the afternoon.
We are sitting,
with our books,
and broods,
we are winning,
with our thought-like balloons.
We are spinning,
like orphaned moons.
like charcoal,
So very deep.
and dream heaped.