Monthly Archives: July 2019

Smooth Cider Like Syrup, in Tankard

Because it brings me dreams of green
Those fillings between hop fields and farm lads
Toiling with their flagons over shoulder and a mean
Wage, hairy youth which sup on apples
The trees in the wind with that summer pollen
Breathing through worms and fruits of the morning
Spurned through til sunset falls atop the crest
The day done the night come

Because it brings me the righteous haze of dripping
Poison, the suckling brown bottle beauty sweating
Cold, the farm hands amid the crops caressing hands,
And beads of milky sweat on the brow, they stream
Salt shaken and mineral and pure to the lips
They press on the tongue their sheep’s eyes

Because it brings me sugar with its continual sipping
And slurping chasing the dream, taking away
Meagre earnings for meatier pleasures,
and the hanging fruit.

Computer work

Computers do strange things to your art
You can’t rip a file
I mean you can rip it off a cd apparently
But you can’t tear it in half – you have to give it somebody
Once something’s written down you can’t hide from the reality
You either accept it or delete all knowledge of its existence
In one moment
You don’t even get the joy of trashing and burning
Does that help? Is that a good thing for, let’s say, a writer?
Maybe. But I find lots of old material I don’t want to change.
It’s interesting, sure, but I probably won’t use it again.
The ideas are in me, they always were, so why worry about
Them being lost anymore than they might already be?
This way is conducive to selling, or, better, to communication
I guess
Selling is communication’s psychotic half brother,
Probably from a different father
Causing pain with healing and vice
Well, we know all this don’t we?

About Romantic Odds

(a drunk normally writes too simply for anyone)

It doesn’t matter but you didn’t come
I barely asked you to but you didn’t
You didn’t answer and you didn’t
I sat for two hours with two beers
You would disapprove
I didn’t talk but I got some good reading
Charles Bukowski going mad and Orwell down and out
Every minute you didn’t come I spent more of my soul
Every minute you suddenly arriving got more important
Now I know how Bukowski felt about horses
Big dicks and bad odds
I drowned in my two beers and departed.