Tag Archives: writing

More of the Same

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A dark Soho street or wherever there’s some red light
Basement drinking wine bars with charming waiters
Conversation and red blood flowing in the town’s
Ghost rivers that drown below the pavements but really
I mean the moonlight and the yellow street lamps and
You taking me to a place telling me what wines to buy
Sometimes I just want to be a girl a woman like the way
They said like romance and broken hearts unwanted
Pregnancies I just want your voice in my ears and you
In front of me in your subtle way and smelling the wine
That has been in your mouth and looking up and down

I digress

A harsh reality that unfolds like out of a song the wine
Dragging us away into some den of iniquity by which
We mean a side street with the lights out and the tall
Men in the street with their air of knives feeding drunk
Me for which you will be required to pay because
I’m your lady and knives and later we walk through
Endless bunker corridors of a block of flats of rooms
In this safety on this rough blue carpet in your sweet bed
The look in your eyes you understood what’s in me
You saw me and liked me you knew me and gave me up
For shame and that’s all there is it is now ended and
I’m not alone but I’m not with you and I want you
Sometimes but otherwise it’s just more of the same

Booze

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I’m drowning or
floating badly
beneath the water swim shoals
depression booze seratonin screens
above the water like an iceberg
the booze also looms promising
sanctuary when my fingers touch
the cold island they freeze to it then
slip and burn as I plunge back below

You don’t notice the dawn if you sleep

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The orange or red rising thru blue night
And how it chases dreams away from
Tired eyes you can’t see how it wakes
In you when you don’t want to raise your
Head from a pillow or low shoulders
These birds with their necessary beauty
Like a carefully chosen alarm ringtone
But better and how the night lights of
Your room dim in the coming day the
Wifi box once so bright or broken party
Fake candles or candles or lava lamps
How a morning saliva gathers in your
Mouth like the sun is meat like the day
Is flesh and how eyes ache to behold
Such wonders after a whole world of
Day and night gone by yes under the
Right circumstances dawn feels like
You’ve lived too long and refuse to stop.

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

I put on my headphones like ear muffs and wait

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For the quiet buzz leg moving shifting chair creaking
Like a metronome that fails every thirteenth beat
Gin trickling down my gullet feels like its behind the
Heart and my throat is rocks limestone warm knees
Under the robe warm knee under knee aching finger
Spiderweb headaches snot dribbling at the back of
The throat itchy cut unabrow cheekbone sniffling
Scalp crawling ear pulse and tickle and burning eyes
Waiting for the line that I lost watching a film and
Drinking gin and tonic gin and tonic.

U have to read to write good

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So sometimes I like to read
And go into their dreams
I feel the grass like the wind
In Dylan Thomas and everything
Smells of semen he’s always
Talking about salt and ears
Of corn and things I hear his
Deep voice imagine Welsh
Baritone or just booming or
Hungry and dripping with words

And then I go on hobartpulp.com
To see tens of unique but similar
Tales of realisation, family, love
The new poetry and I look over old
Couture Noir feature lists and
Maybe I write something in LA or
Miami and then it’s vagabondcitylit
If they’ve decided to do an issue
Lately and I’m looking for poems
About transgressional romances

On my table are two Hunter Thompson
Collections I read over and over
And three collections by local
Poets Andrew Graves and Penny
Pepper and Society of the Spectacle
And a horn and a clay jug and my
Almost broken headphones taped
Together with hairbands and a pot
Of coffee and as I get to the peak
Of the coffee high my mouth vents
Petrol and I roll my head back.

Don’t Equate Me

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The same Grammarly ad five times 25 minutes
The same grammarly ad ten times an hour
25 miles of grammarly source code can’t
tell me that inconsistent capitals, no full stops
random line breaks, can’t tell me
How to improve lazy and bleeding noise –
Is a cover up: 6 times twenty five, 150 empty
grammarly ads for air heads who are acting in ads
School never let them write
Like this
And 25 maths questions about fruit doesn’t
Tell you how an apple tastes in 10mph wind
On the seashore, salt-sodden trousers and dying
Devices in the pebbles and health among the
Broken glass paraphernalia of cutting and honest
Forced out phrases with hyphens in the wrong places.

Anohter [sic]

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There’s not much better on a Sunday
Five layers of salt smell wafting
Midday activities pleasurably concluded
And a 2ltr cider resting on the table there

Pristine before the implosion, pristine
And then the week comes with the best
Dirt, and the days roll on – cheap fabrics
Cut under an industrial skylight, on and on

No other time will the salt smell so good
No other way to paint the layers in peace
No other space to breathe the dust

Smooth Cider Like Syrup, in Tankard

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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.