Bullshittin’

Late at night, when confronted by
A gun-totin’ fool outside the bar,
You just know the gutless wonder
Demanding money is bullshittin’.
But then, Messieurs Smith & Wesson
In a shaky hand, might not, in fact, be
Bullshittin’.  So, bye bye wallet and
Bye bye my whole last two bucks.
Which, when my robber checks
The take, he laughs and gives it back.
“You need this more than me, dude.”
Out of the goodness of his evil heart,
He hands me a crisp new Jackson,
Then disappears into the darkness.
Truly a fine gentleman.  Perhaps, I’ll
Meet him later, in the slammer,
Since I got arrested for, sucker that
I am, trying to spend a crisp new
‘Counterfeit’ twenty dollar bill.

musk

 

we did it

with the window closed

and the little plug-in heater

going full whack.

afterwards we lay marinating

in our puddle.

my eyes boiled in their sweaty sockets.

the ceiling vibrated, purple.

everything looked purple

and hummed:

the walls,

her.

even the air was starting to bleed.

I couldn’t breathe

and I didn’t mind.

I was being choked

in the aftermath

and it felt like I was still cumming,

like I’d cum and choke

into eternity.

I do like our musk, she said

and did a theatrical sniff of the air,

her nose pointing up like a

cartoon character sniffing out a delicious pie.

we’re proper fucking potent together, us!

and lit a fag.

the smoke of her duty-free Marlborough Light 

baked us

in her humming purple box. 

I’ve been

being cooked alive

ever since. 

Day By Day

Day by day
I'm forgetting
more, and more
about you.

How you smelled,
how your lips felt.

I hate it,
but I can't stop
it happening.

Next I'll forget
your voice.

I hate it,
but I can't stop
it happening.

Day by day
you disappear
more and more.

I hate it,
but I can't stop
it happening.

God !
How I miss you ! 

 Slough

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now, 
There isn't grass to graze a cow. 
Swarm over, Death!

John Betjeman 1937 First. verse

 

Moscow

Fall friendly bombs on dread Moscow

much more deserving than poor Slough.

Stand up, Putin; take a bow, 

Meet your fate, Death!

 

You must get your just deserts,

especially if it really hurts,

both you and your grim perverts.

Gasp your last breath!

 

Destroy the city and the thug

who sits at that table looking smug

as he sets out to pull the plug

on all mankind.

 

Don’t forget Lavrov whose droopy features

reveal the most cynical of creatures.

Oh, he’s a credit to his teachers:

Evil defined.

 

And smash Russia Today (not tomorrow)

And smash those who are spreading sorrow.

Let’s see them all light up like flambeaux.

Burn, baby, burn!

 

And don’t spare the oligarchs who add

to the profits of the repulsive Vlad.

They are greedy rather than mad.

Some never learn.

 

They can’t pretend they didn’t know

Vlad’s grand plan. It’s only the dough

that interests them, going with the flow.

Send them to Hell!

 

Each one’s been delighted with his lot,

spending millions on a superyacht

while leaving compatriots to rot.

Hear their death knell.

 

Putin kills civilians by the score

in this criminal act of war.

He exudes venom from every pore.

It’s payback time.

 

Fall friendly bombs on dread Moscow,

ensure it’s no longer fit for plough.

Let nothing thrive there now.

And spread quicklime.

these dirty thoughts
 
those long legs
look like they
need to be
wrapped around
my head a few
times
 
plus, she's here
because of an
injury, so maybe
she won't put up
much of a struggle
 
of course, i'm
kidding
 
all of these dirty
thoughts stay
trapped in
my mind
 
no lucky soul
has found the
key to unlock
these gifts
------------------------------------------------------
which way the buzzards are going
 
late winter,
early spring
 
the days where
you look to the
sky and see
which way
the buzzards
are going
 
death can be
a little jarring
when everything
is supposed to
be coming to
life
 
that happens
when you forget
the first rule
of life
 
it will end

On-Line Ads

I should very much like
These on-line ads for
Miraculous drugs and
Amazing techniques
Which all promise a
Rock hard erection to
Immediately cease.
That is, unless they
Come with a woman.

Pimping my poetry

 

What began as a hobby, fitting in between

kids and the groceries, leads to obsession;

no longer pastime but the day’s main event.

 

You see that you like it. You want to

be noticed and hope that the lits like it.

 

So, what came from the gut, now needs

the seamstress. You tweak and you

modify, in accord to the monthly theme;

its ethnicity, demographic, even its politics.

 

As you change/rearrange, geared to the

place you’re submitting.

 

So, Joe becomes Javiar.  Mary, Maria; the

Goldbergs, the Smiths now, etcetera, etcetera.

 

The knish on line three, becomes manicotti,

or arroz con carne, dropping the carne, for

the zen and the vegan blogs.

 

And the scene shifts location; the Bronx, now

Belize, Manhattan, the midwest.

 

You write what you live, but you kill off your

accent. Fuggedaboutit Brooklyn, when you

meet with the higher brow.

 

And you write and you write

till your knuckles turn green,

 

some nights, not sleeping

 

just you and the moon man

and a half pack of Marlboros.

Dinner for Two

 

We went out to dinner

just the two of us.

You wore a buttoned-down shirt

with a collar that framed your freshly

shaven face. I, in a dress & heels,

tired, shivering a bit from the cool air.

How many dinners have we had

like this one? The memory of them fades

like a replica, a watermark in a book that

wanes with each page until barely perceptible.

We were happy once. Maybe we’re happy now

thirteen years later. What will it be like

in another decade or two? Will we still be sitting

across from one another quietly searching for

conversation, holding hands out of habit

rather than desire.

JOY

06. 03. 2022.


Disorder 
by Joy Division randomly 
plays on my mix, 
as I stare out of the window 
at my mum’s house - 
cracking open a beer, 
whilst the sun outside  
sets on the city 
and another week dissolves.

Footage of war and brutality, 
plays on mute through the TV. 

I think back to the years 
I spent in Spain 
and a Ukrainian girl 
in my Spanish class. 

She was cute and we met 
for coffee and broken Spanish 
several times, before she 
eventually returned to Ukraine. 

But I think of her now, 
with no way of knowing how 
she is and I pray she’s okay - 
as I stare back outside,  
at the sky and birds - 
thinking of the bombs dropping
elsewhere and how it looks so 
unfairly beautiful
and peaceful here, for now.