Tag Archives: poetry

The feeding of the instinct in the eye

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And in the hand the adrenaline need
Meanwhile seated and curled some
Clicks in bones some sores the ache
Of the eye meanwhile backward this
Head focus gone or stayed sleepless
Such a casual feed apparently easy
Stressless except on the emaciating
Body these games these hands this
Warped mind desperate is one of
Many possible ends that in the false
World can be lived by the dying
Hope to sleep in order to wake and
The brain goes on past exhausted
Forearms wrists fingers broken brain
Goes on past the body the two selves
Split for the sake of a pyrrhic dream

The long sounds of the night

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Are the sleeping world as it settles 
A humming light socket or creaking 
Shoulders of wooden chairs the wind 
Roaring beyond draughty window panes 
And sudden paw shuffling of the dog 
Dreaming below the bed or the shifting 
Of legs beneath these sheets the shift  
Of the iron bed with its metal wheeze 
And a flash of wind catches and draws 
The blinds and dances around corners 
A spirit has entered the animals turn 
At the thing and it’s gone all over about 
The room as the blinds still click and a 
Few drops touch the glass perhaps the 
Plants will be fed tonight the wind quiet 
For now and by my knees the cat curls up. 

 

Standing on the pebbles in the dark is

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Being washed by the spirit water the
Mild ocean spray and the sound of this
Ceaseless movement that covers
In the night all is quiet around you and
No-one to worry about or watch swim
In the cold and if the spell was going to
Break you would hear them coming alone
On the pebbles behind you against the
Tide so here away from the lights at your
Back you can be at peace and let the spirit
Water clean out the dark puddles of your
Mind you forgot to think about earlier
As you stare off into the folds of life
Washing themselves and smoothing rocks
And grinding sand that gets stuck in your
Crack on other less stony kinds of beach.

He’s a lovely lad but my advice remains

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Forget him and find someone else easier
And smoother I think but much less desirable
Easier easy is good I think life is short and
Love is long etc ah love easy don’t fall in love
Easy though love is hard falling in love is
Easy you wanna love easy and fall in love
Hard and not for long a wank is a way out
Of feeling and meditation is this pent up lust
Only helps you enjoy the torment of longing
This guy Charles Bukowski is a genius I’d
Love him but he’s dead and he wouldn’t want
My love he’s dead comes first though coz if
I sucked him hard and drunk enough he
Might want me before the end cums

Just sitting and writing at the table because

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My desk has too many books on it and other
Shit and suddenly there’s a knock at the door
I pretend I’m not in I want to write I want
There’s banging at the door and it gets loud
In my head and so I’m getting up to go to the
Door and there’s a tap on the window I think
Oh no it’s the pigeons fucking again I look
Over while on the way to the door and see
Nothing go over further to investigate there’s
A banging on the floor I’m not playing any
Music today maybe there’s a leak in the toilet
Again I check the bathroom and there’s this
Door noise again perhaps the banging on the
Floor was really at the door I open it oh you
Forgot your keys again fine okay do I want
A beer sure I want a beer I pop the beer in the
Kitchen we’re drinking and chatting behind
Me the laptop screen goes into power save
The beers on the table the caps underneath
My toes massaging the serrated edges my hand
Thru the carpet we’re watching a film now
I look over at my laptop I drag myself up
Stare at the screen a moment walk back to the
Kitchen for more beer drinking lying down
Drinking lying down drinking lying down
Apparently people struggle to do that without
Feeling like drowning not me though

Twelfth Night Live and Online

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There’s a love beyond a fuck that lasts
And a fuck beyond love too short they
Meet constantly like in a cheap Shake-
spearian comedy mistaken and struck
By tragedy but still living and awaiting
True recognition these siblings these
Comrades these necessary parts of one
All mixed and split in our lives so ruined
This too often unhappy tumbling a pain
In the repetition a sublime join in the
Resolution so long lost and trampled

You can fuck or be fucked and enjoy it
But not love eachother, and you can love
Forever without fucking, you can love
Deeper than sex, I wouldn’t necessarily
Recommend it but it is possible and the
Problem is we mix them up, someone
Thinks sex is love, someone thinks love
Is sex, people lose lust and go off fucking
And get crushed by their own still virgin
Love and the jealousy and then people
Having affairs think they’re in love just
Because they’re in bed together and all this
Fucking confusion, you need to know
What you’re doing you need to accept
How you feel you can fuck right and love
Right but it won’t always be both, and it
Won’t always be either and you have to
Have the sense to know and know that
Reality will keep on being itself regardless
Of what you want from it and that is just
How the fuck it goes.

You’ve got some jam on your lip and

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I don’t say
You’re making me new to your eyes
They could be yellow if I could look
Above the floor your bright shoes
And you gave me your ‘slut dress’ so that I could
Give
Myself
At home in the quiet I jut my hips and
Massage my lips
With clay and
Wandering fingers edge my tips and
Because you believed me without being told
Because
You didn’t slip under me or over me
I miss that slick prick
Pushing through skin
Dredging up thick weaves
The sinful sighs
Come again
Solicited and moaning
And I’m silent about my dress
And he’s laughing and smoking
And I’m sucking

Looking at myself in the mirror tonight

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Wearing my dad’s robe and pink knickers
We used to call all robes dressing gowns
But if I say I’m wearing my dad’s dressing
Gown you won’t quite get it the burgundy
And navy striped flannel not the silk I
Bought for myself and not the hospital
Gown they wrapped him in so I look in
The hallway mirror and the pink panties
And the robe and I’m wearing Christmas
Socks and there’s something about this
Homeliness and memory in the robe is
Like he’s hugging me and I stop wondering
If maybe I should move the mirror away.

Sir Harry Wotton

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To God, I’m Ill

You’re the universe but that’s just pain in me now
Crying on the couch loveless and miserable sick
I need a drop of Christ’s weepings or something
It’s not a matter for hospital beds and hypodermics
An ear of David’s seed to suck and chew so you
Can drown me out of the world Christ son bought
With his life and that’s still not good enough for you.
Get off your arse you fat fuck, prove you’re the God
Of love and not a Satan in universal robes. I’m ill
Because of you. It hurts.

Queen B

Stars have nothing on your eyes except numbers
And more than two would be weird kinky
You’re the bee that brings in the spring humming
Over birds with their cheap autotune your bass
Vibrating the flowers into pollination neither
Violets or roses or any other kind of colour
Beats your black and yellow back your arse
Wobbles the best dance eclipses those virgin
Queens and hovering over me I pull on your sharp
Stinger to feed.

The sun comes up earlier now

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And most of my daylight hours
The wireless box flashes non-responsive
I’m losing my sleep and dream
And wandering time there’s not
Enough dark in the moonlight to
Hide the world from my eyes
Illuminate the ravings of a heady
Projectionist flashing unrealities in
The quiet black in the room lit by
A laptop screen but the dawn is so
Perfectly restful and again beauty
The way the orange rises with blood
Light blue above like a tidal wash
Like a facemask the shadowed buildings
Somehow reassuring silhouetted
I suppose I can learn to daydream
In sunglasses and lying on deserted
Beaches home is a coastal getaway.