where all the happy thoughts go


in ten years,
all my dreams
are supposed to
come true

a fortune teller
advised me not
to have a countdown

you'll end up
in disappointment

so, i have tucked
it away in the back
of my mind

where all the happy
thoughts go, i guess

all the pain and misery
stays up front

not the easiest way
to live

but, as most people
that know me know

easy was never
a fucking option

A Scar Once Born

When a scar is born  
it reminds us of the pain we once felt.
Etched into our skin.
It starts sore and painful.
Slowly healing
aching day and day.
Time passes and the scar will soon fade. 
Leaving only a story of resilience
to the pain we once felt.
So wear a scar with pride,
for the journey you traveled of healing.
A testament to the strength within.

            Monkey, And Pigface


I remember the day
my Dad died.

Of course I do,
I'll never forget it.

He was already in
a coma, but he was
really, struggling to
breathe.

My mum said " Talk to
him, Ian. "
As she went to call an
ambulance.

" I don't know what to say. "

I'm sad to have to admit to
that, but it's true.

My mum said " You'll think
of something, some good
time. "

And, so I told him about how
much I'd enjoyed working
with him.

We both worked as engineers
in a toolmaking workshop.

I was his apprentice.

We worked together for
ten years,we had some
great laughs, and some
bad arguments.

So, as my poor, poor Dad
was passing away, I was
reminding, trying to remind
him, of the names we used
to use to take the piss out
ot the other workers.

" Dad, remember Dave, the
monkey, and Pigface ?
Bungle, and Blakey ? "

I hope he understood me ,
he would've laughed if he
could, I'm sure of it.

Pacquiao


Was lethal
In the ring
until he
found Jesus
then everyone
said he
lost his
edge his
killer instinct

but the
real truth
is when
a fighter
believes
in anything
more than
he believes
in himself

he is done.

Before the Relapse

 
a heart-prolapse, insignia of hour
graciously galloping in cyclone of gore.

every leap, every mile, a recalcitrant shower:
is every earth not an ore of the onerous?

breath, a dissonant swing, fluctuating
like a restless wind seeking where to nest.

are we not all wings seeking where to perch?
but this suffering, a persistent plough, a pinnacle

tirelessly rowing itself to unsatisfactory shores.
a spine-prolapse, an interminable hammering of life’s

tarnishing tides, tinctured into a threshold of damnable
trailblazings: are we not all farmers of futility

furnishing death’s furrow with our sweats? a larynx
of leaves, a sway of scythes—songs quartered,

quashed to rotten brown reminiscent of recurring droughts
stationed at doorposts of new beginnings, the reopening

of recycled ash. here, it’s either you grow or you burn.
it’s either you sing or you become a song ferried

by mythical birds meandering in restless winds.
euthanasia is a prayer, a fervid hope of things

to sprout in the afterlife—maybe there, mercy awaits us
like hungry loam awaits a lectern of raindrops.

Jubilee


pluto in aquarius, saturn in pisces
picking a tarot with an astrologer has
failed to regain a transactive memory
that passed away on a jubilee night
i paid a price for a failed bargain with 
fate, exposing an archetype in my energy
got me secluded to a place where men
plucked early flowers with a starkly life
growing from a bud. a light crimson
as blue as the universe freaks me to 
hades with an earth shattering laughter of 
a shenanigan tossing with his inventions 
of solving an algorithm, of undead men
roaming with beheaded heads, finding
brains like accessories, a kind of wilderness
that makes the world a dystopia.

Moments of Deep Enlightenment


At midnight there’s a
lady with a face of wings
standing in a field 

of blue snow, and the
moon resonates out across
the prairie like an

ancient temple bell
suddenly transforming this
random and one-time- 

only-occurrence
of stepping out on the back
porch to take a deep

and much-needed piss
off a deck, somewhere, in the
Heartland, U.S.A.,

into a moment
of deep enlightenment in
the courtyard of a

Zen monastery,
somewhere in the mountains of
Japan, maybe, and

for a few frozen
seconds, suspended there, in
the winter air, no

rush of wind through the
trees, no hooting of owls, no-
thing to disturb us.

Schnuckiputzi

When I called my girlfriend
by the German endearment
I had just learned –
Sweetie pie – she slapped my face,
accused me of being a perv.


She Club

I was in love with Jo Weldon
from the days she first danced
at The Classy Cat in the early 80s. 
New to Atlanta – I grew up in Indianapolis –
I started going to strip clubs
soon after I moved here, a lonely guy, no friends.
Bikers, drug dealers and furtive guys hung out there,
but I always kept to myself.
Jo got me hooked on burlesque,
and when she moved on
to the clubs on Cheshire Bridge Road,
I followed her, a big fan. At the She Club
she’d do robe dances and acrobatics,
cartwheeling across the stage
on four-inch heels, and my God,
there was a reason her nickname was “Boobs.”
I followed her across the street to the Starcastle
when she left the She Club.
But then, a few months later,
somebody fire-bombed the joint!
I remember it well, November 30, 1981,
my 28th birthday. I’d gone to see Jo dance
at the Starcastle. I’d heard  the rumors,
bad blood  between the owners of She and Starcastle,
but I didn’t know Manny Isaacs, the She Club owner,
arranged to have the Starcastle burned down.
All that came out at the trial a couple years later.
By then I’d given up on clubbing,
met my first wife Lucinda at a friend’s party 
had our own little Atlanta social circle.
But I still dream about Jo Boobs Weldon
forty years, two wives, three kids and eight grandchildren later,
nearly every single night.

Contrast

Ahead behold
an awesome sight
Our house burning
against the night

Darkness hangs on
cindering frame
Weighing down
the house aflame

I must enter
this place tonight
For it is the
last source of light

Grandeur:

each poem
is an excuse
for not having lived
more grand.

take this poem.
i wrote it instead
of seducing twin milkmaids.

dear friend, beware:
life is brief.
and there's as much paper
as there is life.