a desperate act for the approval of strangers

 

it’s a blank page

 

words flying by

at a million miles

per hour

 

the average person

can’t do this shit

 

you then think of

all the bad poetry

out there

 

the average people

are doing it

 

you are not special

 

you were not blessed

with any rare talent

 

it’s all a trick

 

smoke and mirrors

 

that’s why you can’t

make enough to call

it a profession

 

it’s a hobby

 

a desperate act for the

approval of strangers

 

a lonely voice in a

hallway with no echo

 

an old dirt road where

all the old poets go

to die

 

look at the scars

and know it’s time

——————————————————————–

 

even you deserve to be loved

 

sometimes it’s catharsis

and sometimes it’s just

a good shit that removes

everything but the brain

 

a passing thunderstorm

and the bold belief that

even you deserve to

be loved

 

your father never had

the time to teach you

about fools, dreamers

and the need for a few

dark souls to dig ditches

and graves

 

all the young girls in the

houses around here are

growing up so fast

 

you’ll probably be in a

different world by the

time they start exploring

the dirty parts of their

souls

 

it’s a faint taste of blood

 

it’s another shooting on

the west side of town

 

all the old lovers have

moved on years ago

 

one of these days

 

you might get around

to it

 

Undercover

 

A shortening of this time, a tranquil hour,

as chaos and celebration continues behind

closed doors and bars. The stillness outside

allows the patter of foxes feet on concrete to

echo like avalanches.

 

The first sip always tastes bitter now,

my taste buds filed down by decades of

misplacement. A singular crack across

this glass is now more than sufficient in

bringing this evening to a close.

 

The recovery over four days lets those clouds

slowly break, but without rain. Just a gradual

reminder that our stride has now shortened,

our voices now grate against the most stable

of nerves.

 

It all crept towards us too early, like mould

upon damp carpets. and managed to break

our delicate swagger. that never held more

than its own body weight. It’s centre never

as soft as we constantly liked to portray.

 

 

Once it’s Gone

 

Just off that side road, taunting the last

dregs of each pint, our fingers never gracing

the filthy change left in our pockets. We again

look forward to that fictitious holiday we have

planned- two days upon uncut grass verges.

 

We drift pass those dilapidated lairs, once

occupied by working hands; calloused and cut

short without a word of thanks. Their achievements

now our meager entertainment, the fruits of their

labour now encased in dust and dispersed on this

slow, tepid breeze.

 

We climb those make shift steps, the clear

air a vaccine for our lungs, to protect us from

the next four months of smog. My eyes for once

stop excreting false tears, as we approach that

final bar, we understand the stain we leave is

unavoidable; yet another unwanted necessity.

 

 

 

 

Acid On The Lake

 

Silver seas

shimmering

mercury

diamond-glossed

reflecting

refracting

turning my

green pyramid

window-pane

mind

to stone

like it wasn’t

solid rock

before;

I slip

walking on water

fall

into depths

of subliminal archetypal

consciousness

watch out for that propeller!

WRITING OUT MY MADNESS

 

When the time comes for me to escape I’ll be glad

But right now all I want to do is simply sit and write

Gripped by an insanity that comes from living in this place

I sit and write as there is nothing else left to do

All the drink has been drunk and all the weed has been smoked

For now, well nothing left to do but sit and write

 

Thinking of my past life, before I moved to this town

And events, themes, chaos and scenes spark memories that need to be written

As they are as important to me as the things which happen right now

The times at school, of growing up in suburban hell

Of finding the real me in a forest of weed, sublime tales and dirty rock’n’roll

When the summers seemed endless and fun was to be had

 

The youthful times when I dreamt of being old as no kid seemed to be like me

Or dreaming of being a bin-man as I sat watching a black-n-white TV set

Spending time with my Nan as my parents worked all the time

She’d always whip me at table-tennis when I was aged 9 or 10

Or cut my tomatoes up so small that I wouldn’t even notice them as I ate my salad

Before sitting down to watch the cricket on a test-match afternoon

 

The days at school, of being the odd one out all the time

Towering over my bullies they would taunt me, freak, and weirdo before

Finally letting their fists and feet fly in my direction

Pushing me closer to a life of isolation where I spent every break-time

Avoiding playing football in the school-yard and hiding away in the library

Fostering a love of books that has long out-lasted my love of humanity

 

And every one of these incidents and experiences has helped make me

To help make me the kind of person I am today so for that I can only be grateful

But not to the bullies but to those who’ve stood by during this period

When I’ve been totally gripped by an urge to write out my madness

 

 

I HAD TO

 

I heard him crying
one night, alone,
I crept downstairs
from my bedroom
into the lounge,
he wasn’t aware of
my presence:
I crouched down
and watched my
father weep, drunk,
confused and
fucked-up:
for several minutes
I remained silent
and then I
returned to my
bedroom and wept,
I didn’t know why
except that
I had to.

 
IF I ASKED, I’D SAY

 

Write something down that’ll
kick-hard between the world’s
legs, let it know you’re
around and that you’re not
fucking-around for applause
or pages in books:
write something down that’ll
seize readers by the throat
and will force the heart to
beat faster, to take away a
breath, to leave a scar, give
no mercy and fuck the
consequences:
write something down,
scribe the truth
and don’t be afraid.

you gotta keep writing to keep from going insane

 

sitting on the steps of an art gallery in the hot sun

no one ever goes inside

(I once went in there …

you wouldn’t believe the garbage I saw)

 

sitting on the steps of an old white building in the hot sun

doing nothing

wondering why I’m here and

not somewhere else

as the sweat crawls down my hairy back

 

sitting on the steps of an art gallery in the hot sun

doing nothing

admiring the thighs and asses of young girls

as they walk by in their summer shorts

(did you know that the age of consent in Mexico

is 12?)

 

sitting on the steps of some old building in the hot sun

doing nothing

as the benches burn

the parking meters boil

and the world gets ready to explode.

 

 

 

 

Previously published by Pyrokinection

P

 

the unwashed masses

 

lost in the rhythm of

the unwashed masses

 

we were born to lose

 

to serve our godless

parents until they

reaped everything

from the earth

 

to bow down to the

rich and make sure

there were no spots

left on the cheap

ass crystal

 

the edible panties

taste like cardboard

and smell of boredom

 

parade around in a

tiny purple pair lip

synching to george

michael’s i want

your sex

 

of course, you know

someone is watching

 

that’s part of the fun

 

cast off and always

misunderstood

 

there’s a land for all

the freaks, they call

it los angeles

 

i hope you don’t mind

living in a tent

 

you’ll have an incredible

view of the ocean just a

few blocks away

——————————————————————

with such hunger

 

i think i have

figured out why

i look at nurses

with such hunger

 

those damn pants

always make the

ass look so damn

good

 

somewhere freud

pipes up and reminds

the room my mother

was a nurse as well

 

i’ll take a drink and

proudly exclaim

 

that’s not the mother

i’m looking to fuck

—————————————————————

the most elusive woman on the planet

 

think of tears as a reboot

for the soul

 

think of pain as a friendly

reminder that you still

exist

 

think of hatred as a tool

 

think of love as a unicorn

 

think of happiness as the

most elusive woman on

the planet

 

think of dreams as the

flames

 

think of nightmares as

the world

 

think of truth as the

dividing line for

everything

 

think of lies as the

currency for humans

 

Room 212

 

A twenty dollar bill

and a two dollar

bottle of wine

 

Drinking from one

snorting through the other

chasing happiness a

gram at a time

 

We talk about the streets

We fuck and I mention

that if she got a tit-job

 

she could raise her prices

 

I know how to talk to a lady

 

She says I’m a good man

once the money changes hands

in here, under her, I want

to believe she’s right

 

But it’s quite a different story

beyond and outside of

that wafer-thin

motel door

 

 

 

 

This is Not For You (Unless It Is)

 

Would you rather I describe

the beauty of the tree upon

which a starling sits, perched,

it’s twig- like, tiny talons of feet, or

would you more enjoy witnessing

me unravel myself, one syllable

at a time?

 

I could tell you about the silver

sky of sunlight in a Faulkner story

line or I could bring you the dark,

the rain falling uninterrupted

inside my head, watering dead memories,

nurturing what should never live

to see the light of day

 

Why don’t you just write happy poems?

Why don’t you mind your fucking business?

I’m not doing this for you, I’m not

doing it for me-I do this for the one

not yet sitting where it is I stand

 

The one who might still have

the glimmer of a chance