The pseuds are out, in every bar, never brawling
From over educated slimy lips clever words are falling
Ears search for plugs, the sensible among us for drugs
To block out the drivel dribbled out by the pseud mugs
"Have you read the..by the...", "my view is...cleverly"
Ignorance is the politeness in this hated reverie
A memory clouded by the pub clever men, studenty dour
Long coats, berets float on to top of heads dull and sour
Smelling of eastern oils, the philosophy of hypocrisy
The "we know best" sewage pours all over me
And I start to boil, I start to foam, I am working
And 38 year old students are still blurting
About the fact that they are still learning
As if my life has no educational meaning
The pseuds annoy, the pseuds destroy
With words spitting faster than the babies toys
flying from a million prams, as you say "hey pseud"
"I do mean to be incredibly rude"
When I say "fuck off"
3. Recourse (March 11, 2011)
March 11, 2011 and three fishermen
are out at sea
off the northeast coast of Japan.
Let's call them Kikuchi, Sasaki
& Suzuki— common family names
of the region.
At 1440 hours
they hear the earthquake warning
and 15 minutes later
the tsunami warning.
They hear the jisshin was 9.2
on the Japanese scale
but how can that be?
The scale goes only
up to 7.
Kikuchi, the leader, tells
Sasaki & Suzuki
to head out to sea
"We must meet the wave head-on,"
he tells them.
"It's our only recourse —
there's nowhere else to go."
Half an hour later
they see the wave
a rolling mountain
on the far horizon
or rather, obliterating
the horizon altogether.
All together they head for the wave.
"90 degrees," Kikuchi warns them.
"Make sure to take it head-on —
The boats and the wave move
inexorably toward each other
steadily, no hurry
like two old lovers
meeting by chance
on a lonely city sidewalk
"Keep your eyes on the wave"
Kikuchi tells them
"Head-on, head-on, 90 degrees —
don't be afraid."
Head-on, head-on, Kikuchi meets the wave
and climbs, the boat
bends over backward
rises like a rocket
to the celestial crest
then - over the top —
and the long slide down
the back of this brontosaurus
of the sea.
Out the starboard window
he spots Sasaki
"Good job, Sasaki-san," he spouts
in the radio mike
Out the port side window
he sees the roiling sea.
"Can you see Suzuki?" he calls.
Sasaki doesn't answer.
"Sasaki," he calls again
"Sasaki—can you hear me?
"Sasaki!" he cries
"Can you hear me?"
"I hear you."
2. Fear & Rumor (June11, 2011)
We’ve been waiting for three days
here on Tokashiki Island
in the Ryukyus
Finally, a tuna boat comes in -
the Mayu Maru, Captain Fujiwara
He’s got three yellowfin tuna –
two juveniles – Okinawans
call them shibi -
and one adult
It’s 35 kilos, sashimi grade
a beautiful fish if truth be told
it gleams in the sun
lifts it from the hold.
Captain Tamaki, of the Fishing Co-op
on the cell-phone
looking for a buyer.
They used to sell to Taipei & Shanghai
but no more – Taiwan & China
refuse all seafood from Japan.
“We’re in the East China Sea, for God’s sake”
says Captain Tamaki, “Over a thousand miles
from Fukushima – and still
they won’t buy our fish”
An hour passes
finally, a buyer in Manila
In Shanghai this fish is worth
a thousand dollars
Manila offers seven-fifty
Captain Fujiwara accepts
“Shipping costs will be higher too”
1. Recovery (September11, 2011)
The harbor is clean
There is no damage to be seen
except some cracks
in the concrete
of the breakwater
across the bay
But that could have come
from anywhere –
a coastal freighter
dragging its mooring
in a summer typhoon.
Where is the debris –
the garbage & wreckage
of the earthquake
the flotsam & jetsam
of the killer wave?
I know the answer –
I’ve seen the trash mountain
rising out of a rice field
from the railway platform
the last stop before the end of the line
here in Oarai.
The huge Kubota traxcavators
climbing the refuse mountain
look like Tonka Toys
in a little boy’s backyard.
This mountain is the harbor
and the waterfront
of Oarai – forty fishing boats
bent & twisted car doors
houses deconstructed into muddy junk.
But the harbor now is clean
The work of hundreds -
volunteers, patriots of Oarai
fishermen, City Hall clerks
heavy equipment operators
high school athletes
teachers, parents, visitors
from Tokyo & Kobe & Katmandu
And now the harbor is clean
Then the silence cracks
breaks like a wooden house
in the jaws of the jisshin
as the Japanese call “earthquake”
as two fishing boats round the point
and enter the clean silent harbor
from the Pacific
and the muffled rumble of their engines
brings the silent immaculate harbor to life.
They are not big boats –
4.9 ton registry
to avoid paying the higher fees
of the 5 to 10 ton fleet
They’ve been dragging for whitebait
which the Japanese call shirasu
They eat them raw or steamed
as topping for bowls of rice
garnished with thin yellow strips
with pickled daikon radish
and miso shiru on the side.
Do I dare eat a serving for lunch?
I’m served a bowl of rice with topping
the Japanese call this donburi
the topping is steamed shirasu
the Japanese call this dish
The Japanese say “Umai!”
After lunch I visit the Fisheries Office
with the Town Clerk.
They apologize – they can’t give me
any data – all their records
their computers – washed away
They tell me there were 105 boats
in the fishery
29 were damaged or destroyed
or washed away
Most were fishing, out to sea
but most of those in the harbor
were damaged or destroyed
or washed away.
Today, six months on
80 boats are able to fish
but most are not fishing
they sit in the immaculate harbor
The weather outside has become cold
and inside the television's glow
the forecast of the season's first winter storm
sleet and snow
My priority is heat
various means of body warmth:
electric or gas
heating fans and fireplaces
vents and baseboards
But no matter the season--
no matter the temperature outside
my baby, she blows hot and cold.
It's the unpredictability
I don't care for:
this woman thing
Where nonchalantly she says:
"It's my character, that's all."
I make it a point to press her buttons with my remote
dinner and wine
candles and compliments
dessert of course
But, I'm lucky if the light goes on.
I say, "What the heck?"
I swear something--
something must be broke.
when I've almost given up
thinking: well, I don't have the right stuff
she will unexpectedly be turned on
I'll tell ya this game--
this game with her:
Man, it is getting old
You see, I just--
I just never know
My baby, she blows hot and cold.
The faces stare back, grim and unfocused
Looking for inspiration, frogs buried in the desert
Dry and waiting for the deluge
Ideas bereft, no imagination, nothing left
And the clouds contain nothing but old sand
This boredom, this living death sentence
Arrived at on trains and buses world over
Offices, factories, sweat shops and cafes
Broken hearts cling to each other
For the goodness of paper fiat dreams
The currency of our lives no longer emotional
No longer communal
There is no dog eat dog, who cares?
Hunting and gathering coins and notes
Hearts and minds just dust motes
In this incomprehensible mish mash
Love? It lies where? Or is it a lie, lying deathly pale
Under moneyed eyelids
And the children cry for another game
And the tinsel glints like bloodied entrails
A new toy, a new this and that
And the parents drink another school uniform
In the pub of our darkest day
And the milkman has gone
And the postman wants his Christmas tip
And I am tired of all of it
Whoever invented Christmas should be fucking nailed up.
The winter excites me, chilled and wrapped in melancholy blankets old
Waiting for the morning frosts and fog swirls ankle deep
The girl, cold in the corner shop, eyes of malachite glinting
I always wanted to take her by the hand, go somewhere better
There was nowhere to go, we were both just winter specters
Looking for warmth, but loving the bite of winter’s ruinous mouth
The acrocephalic boy building a pin head snowman laughing
The dead girl in the lake, shimmering like an ancient ice queen
The ridiculous aged flamfoo, winter clothed as if it’s still 1975
Flares and snow do not a good match make
I remember screaming that we were mainly in the 90s now
Angels on sidewalks, soft snow shadows of children
The cold always brings us closer together, you curl across my back.
I am always upset by those lonely single gloves, lost on pavements cracked
I wonder how many people are cursed with the same separation?
Winter brings us together, unless you’re completely alone
Winter brings us together, unless you’re self hate makes you invisible
I love your hands in winter, cold on my thigh and the small of my back
I love your cheek, chilled and pressed hard against mine, sipping the warmth
The cold skeletal trees grasping for one another across parks and old roads
Like the dead stretching out for that final warm touch of the living
The 3 bars on the electric fire on, 30 minutes in the morning and 30 before bed
Electricity seemed more valuable then.
Memories and present time always get lost in my winters
I’m glad you are a part of so many of them
Naked in a frozen wilderness, your eyes in my mind would keep me warm
A squirrel dances, snow showering, up a tree as your smile opens the door.
He hits her daily, sometimes with love in his fist and sometimes with ugly fear
But never with hate, he loves her, she believes him with every bruised tear
I see them every day, holding hands, walking secretly in their anti biblical love
Their wives cook dinner, a daughter wants to be thinner, the lies fall breathless from above
The starving man howls as he creeps and he cowers at the rubbish from the burger joint
The pimpled teenage boy smiling thin, padlocks the dead grey rubbish bin, he blindly misses the point
The business prick prowls and into his mobile phone he scowls as he cuts another huge deal
His secretary laughs at yet another Hermes scarf that he hopes her heart will steal
The four horsemen appear, through dark clouds of fear and stare around with scabrous eyes cruel
Death looks at famine and war and asked "what are we here for?" and pestilence says it feels like a "fool"
Something from Calling All Shadows, go buy it up on the left there! U skinny rats!
Brought to mind by Stupid Boy by the inimitable JZ and republished nere by kind permission of the author, me.
The old faces of the comfortable shopping places are all closed down
Gone are all the old stalls, replaced by torpid, faceless malls, in this town
The worn velvet sofa in the old Mom and Pop’s coffee shops are rotten and gone
The corporate greens of business mens dreams are where we get coffee from
The burger stands are outmanned by the signs in red and gold
The grocer’s farm fresh veg has lost its edge and falls into a freezer cold
We kill community with impunity.
When all we need is some unity.
To get back what we’ve lost.
Twenty five kinds of lager they had
Only two were in stock, beautiful disaster
The Chinese British pub, ducks feet in onion gravy
Side of lumpy mashed potatoes and mao tai
Oh the cultural implications, beautiful disaster
Bar staff grinning, Ripper like, ready to steel extra yuan
from the implausibly quiet western man, beautiful disaster
My iphone, company bought, described as "stupid"
The next stool sat salesman could have got me 12 local ones
you guessed it, beautiful disaster
And a beautifully disaterous girl staggers through darkened doors
Made up and doll like, a massage for all, a message to me
Yeah yeah, a beautiful disaster
The round european blimp, more lumpy than the mash
His eyes searing "suck me" pellets as his snidely checks his cash
A fat fuck of a beautiful disaster
Odd couple, they leave, the space between the doors mirror the moment
Empty, yawning, their closure as obvious as the european leaving
with his beautifully cheap disaster
An Indian Chelsea fan, drunken turban askew asks where he can get a curry
More ducks feet appear, curry sauce and more mao tai
Cullinary culturally a real beautiful disaster
And the taxi ride home, head swimming at olympic pace
I feel sicker than a penniless slot machine
And as the taxi spins faster through this beautiful disaster
I realise what a pretty, calamitous evening I have seen.
And disaster is relative, beautiful or not, it's only a word...right?
So I went see Mr. Satori again, if you remember him from my old blogs. He was there in his shop as usual - off in the far end of the room sitting on his dark purple zabuton in the lotus position on the same two-foot raised tatami platform. His eyes closed with a half-full saké cup in from of him.
He didn't sir as I opened the old-fashion sliding wood and fogged glass entrance door to his coffee shop - appropriately named Zen Coffee.
I stepped in. Paper shoji covered the two windows letting the outside light in but blocked out any view to the street Four tables and stools for unlikely customers fit in the small room. And where the tables were, the floor was concrete. This was not that unusual for a Japanese mom-and-pop shop serving ramen or drinking spot "a snack" for salarymen. But then again, Zen Coffee is not a usual shop either.
The room was nearly barren. You see Mr Satori's Zen Coffee shop had to be that way. His shop doesn't even serve green tea.
Over the years that I have infrequently visited this shop, Mr. Satori has looked pretty much the same - very little change with age. Perhaps he was always already old. His long white beard was a little longer, but not much. I wonder if he ever trims it. His long white hair pulled back - looking like an eccentric brother of Mr. Miagi in Karate Kid.
Mr. Satori served only one kind of coffee - black, served in a small cup with no handle. You might say Zen Coffee is 180 degrees from Starbucks which has at least 20 different flavors of coffee and 5 different sizes - plus all those scrumptious expensive snacks. But it is also often hard to get a seat at Starbucks.
Zen Coffee is unique. Coffee served with koans, not scones, if you get my drift.
Either something had been bothering me or I just wanted to see the old geezer for some odd reason again. Anyway it was I who came to him and not he coming to me. Or simply I was looking for something different from the usual Starbucks and the like coffee shops clones.
My eyes scanned the room looking to the best seat in the house, not that any particular one table would have made much a difference in this one small room. Anyway, I chose the table sort of nearest to where Mr. Satori was sitting and parked my ass down. Mr. Satori continued to sit in the lotus position. Eyes closed.
I was always pretty much amazed by those people you can sit in that zazen position - A. I'm not that flexible; B. the position is not natural; and C. I just can't do it - never could, never will.
After I picked my seat and settled in, Mr. Satori opened his eyes. and recognized who I was - or maybe not. I was just another customer - though perhaps he has very few customers these days. In those few times I have gone there, I've only ever seen one or two customers.
But before I could say a word or order my coffee. Mr. Satori asked, "If you were to find enlightenment then what would you do?"
It was unusual for him to start of with such a question - a zen koan if you will. In the past, before bringing the coffee, he would first come over and whack me on the head with his bamboo stick and call me "Stupid boy". So, I was a bit surprised by his new shop's strategy.
OK I'll play. I thought to myself. I mean, how can I be one with the universe and everything in it? I can't grasp the Milky Way which our own galaxy let alone trying to get a handle on infinity and beyond. Also I have no interest in becoming one with my cat's litter box.
"A coffee" was how I replied to his question about enlightenment.
I thought for minute before asking, "So Mr. Satori, so how do you become one with the universe?"
Mr. Satori came bearing my cup of coffee. He put it down at the table next to were I was sitting and in a flash pulled out his stick which he had tucked in is obi belt, and whacked me on the head.
"Stupid Boy," he said.
Frankly at that moment I was a bit pissed off. The customer is always right. And this is Japan.
Then I thought about Starbucks around the corner and down the street, and their coffee served in paper cups with plastic lids.
I reached over to the next table and picked up the black coffee in the simple cup he had purposefully prepared for me.
Golden brown leaves
on stiff autumn branches
rustling in the wind
I stop and take notice
to watch them fall
She came in the spring
stayed though the summer
but left in the fall.
Button my winter coat
and turn away
the wind in my face.
Disconnected from the birthplace
Wandering, grin intact, but like curtains
hiding the dark on the window's other side
A shelf filled with a wealth of books
I'd need to live all over again to read them
A sad thought, obstructed by my disconnect
Skulls stand gaily on sideboards
Luckily no wax dribbled wine bottles remain
A night time of youth, disappears, waxing moon
There are no longer any bicycles in my house
and the space hopper burst on it's way to the graveyard
Rizla packs and old mugs, a sex pistols rare single
It's rarity no longer pleases, obstructed by my disconnect
I'll never buy another wedding album
That should make me happy, I have two already
A gored child's face stares blank from the CD rack
I used to love those songs, obstructed by my disconnect
The rise and fall of Reginald, or was it Ziggy?
The memory held back by a broken path
My old brain, swiss cheese or scratched record
I can't recall my first love's face, obstructed by my disconnect
I remember the first time I heard the word "nigger"
It upset my Mother more than "cunt", I felt proud
Paki bashing skinheads beaten up by gay pride gang
I used to dream such beautiful things
Now it's all sex and zombies, obstructed by my disconnect
My partner smiles and for a second things fit into place
I take a book from the shelf, one already read
I will start again, maybe there's time
The glorious friend with a salty custard Grandma
His laugh sometimes rings out when the silence bites
I try so hard to obstruct my disconnections
LET NOT anyone tear us apart, my sons gleam in the distance
"'til the sun burns out!" I told her a thousand times
I hope she's happy, smiling at some new car
Mind open, riverlike memories clash, no order
my Father laughs, like glorious thunder, a great man
A shadow of such length, it spans my life thus far
Beans on toast, a feast of unemployment, obstructed by my disconnect
Still there is no order, nor ever should there be
Ordered chaos? Oxymoronic theories abound
And still Joe Strummer is dead
Elvis is working in Clapham
and 2011 nears the time to close it's eyes
And put another book on my overflowing shelf of dreams.
Woken up by Iggy Pop
He's got a cock in his pocket
i remember open up and bleed painfully
Aurally, physically, one time sexually, Gita was her name
Went to sleep with David Bowie, in a quicksand of dreams
Boogie with Hooker, John Lee and Mai Ling
Different folks, penis strokes
Music fills everything for me
Alongside the inevitable words
Crazied on by Burroughs, drawling saxophone syringe
Out clevered by Cocteau
Upset by Celine, no fascists please, of his time, out of line
Stephen Hawking failed his physical
But destroyed another God and found his own universe
Paper, plastic, vinyl, celluloid visions
Not interfering internet
Tear jerking happiness
with a side of reality
Lou Reed laughing at my velvet underpants
The tunes ring out
And the words live on
I need electric friends like a bicycle needs an ashtray
Where have our lives gone?
Where the fuck indeed.
Sucked into forums
Sucked into social sites
Exposed to complete strangers
My father keeps in touch through bank statements
With creative codes
A black winged serpent watches
Photos of mad nights in bars confuse
Phone calls to mistresses now a free for all
Happiness prevails … absolutely
Times are good
Times are good
I watch your cock bob up and down as you head towards the light switch. The last thing I see before you turn out the light is two big balls. Suspended between your legs. Fleshy. Wrinkly. And covered with a fine fuzz. You fall asleep with your arm around me. Warmed by the red neon of the Safeway sign. Bathing us in red. Until you turn over and I stare at your naked back. I know that when you go, the imprint of your body will throb in the darkness on the mattress next to me. And when I stretch out my arm to feel you, your absent fingers will trail up the veins in my arm. But for now, I’ll be your Zelda Fitzgerald.
A world filled with friends, how beautifully quaint
A thought shortlived before the inevitable taint
Of bulbous truth bursts through, the minds creaking door
Since school days died, friends don't exist anymore
People yes, they are there smiling in their vaccuum
Hip Hoppity dancing to their new cell phones dead tune
Or typing and skyping to their internet set
Believing there's truth in every text message they get
Those unseen socially networked faces, are honest and real
That androids and iphones are the most efficient way to deal
With emotions once crafted over years of physical contact
Smiley faces, crying avatars now friendships shoddy contracts
And of course honesty is best served without a physical presence
And who needs phyiscal contact? It has lost any relevance
In a world where decisions need not even a shake of the hand
This plastic book of false, friendly faces is another nod to the bland
Bullshit existence, accepted, loved and treasured
The number of mails in your inbox are how friendships are measured
Well I'm happy, delirious, a moon drunken great moth
Buzzing in my lonely universe over all the friends I've not lost
My inbox is empty, my iPhone silent gunmetal grey
And me and my ever friendly cyber-pet hope they stay that way
Don't take the Lord's name in vain
Some even command it that way
But God damn it,
If I open my eyes
I see sickness,
Even Siddhartha couldn’t escape his demise
I swear these worldly things don't –
don't impress me
Not one bloody bit
I figure, you've got tell the truth
even if it is to your
A good amount of suffering in the world
is caused by man
as if the already God-given misery needed our helping hand
war and strife
pleasure and pain
the enduring the smiles and cries of everyday life
Birth and death
The struggle between our first and last breath.
We do everything to cope
Accumulating material wealth
living on hope
praising the Pope
If there is indeed a Hell below
Well, it’s one place I don’t want to go
Oh, hell no!
Actually I wouldn’t mind the heat,
But I'm quite choosy about the company I keep.
And if there Heaven up there,
seeing that it is supposedly created by the same architect
who created this uneven Earthly mess,
then I would guess
that heaven wouldn’t be any different
than right here - right now
Otherwise, the whole thing just doesn't make sense.
When the wind gets tired of sifting through a thousand sighs
You know you're in trouble
When the sunlight always falls on something else
When shadows whisper old gods' names
and you start to believe they exist
start to believe they are worth a conversation
while incense and candle smoke beg a favour
don't bend your knees and mock yourself
ghosts and gods, ghosts of gods, many have died
or maybe they were reborn, reborn, that's sensible
reborn into the eyes and fear filled mind of mankind
I don't want to die, so I shall believe
I don't want to die, unhappiness crushes
It's all about the blood, wine to some
flesh and bread and a long life for the dead
I prefer to feel sadness, it's more social
There is elegance in a sigh filled with despair
A human elegance that I'll let no new god steal
Breasts carved from beetroot shredded chests
Entrails snake across a sweet lime zest
I'm not mad
A toothbrush knife splits an eye
The sweet music of a skinned cat's sigh
I'm not mad
The masturbatory back bus seat thrill
The magnifying glass sunrise on an insect kill
I'm not mad
The screaming murder of fresh plucked crows
The glorious stream of thick blood flows
I'm not mad
The death of love, all guns ablaze
The smell of burnt flesh through the morning haze
I'm not mad
The repetition of the same act, outcomes don't change, that's a fact
"You're mad" I say, "You're mad".
I don't know about you, but I've got a big pile of bills to pay
Not like the bankers who took the money and ran away
Bailing them out was bonkers
But we didn't contest really
Now that's what I call grand larceny!
It's a crises -- a financial global meltdown
A global sell-off,
A global hell-hole
Sub-prime, derivatives and swaps
The real estate bubble
All our fault
What a bunch of SHYTE
Now it's those fucking Greeks
Italy will be next.
Wow! How can moussaka
And pasta carry so much weight?
Blame those dumb Europeans
Who just can't get the Euro right
Meanwhile, credit card debt is at max headroom
Surely the next shoe to drop
So why can't I get some sleep?
My brain bubble is gonna burst.
And what's worse
Nobody has a job
but everywhere is occupied
Gas prices are high, but I'm not.
And Warren Buffet may be up for the year, but I'm down.
And all these so called economists are a bunch of clowns.
The rich get richer and big corporations pay zero
You would think Geithner
Would be brighter
We cry foul, but we learn to live with it with a little lubricant.
So to pay for their mismanagement
the government will raise our taxes
Were are all bunch of dumb asses!
Let's all fall down
Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique. - Karl Shapiro
I took a fairly interesting picture today
or maybe I took it yesterday--
or was it the day before that?
Hell, if I know since everything is a giant blur.
Finding myself alone to think
staring out from my blue window
I push the shutter
my eye blinks
to capture the scene
Picture taking -- making a visual record of my life
which too will someday pass away
an unsteady stream -- a short film
perhaps it's all just a lost and lonely dream
A pair of warped lenses
call them the maker's defect
out of focus, out of touch
I'm just an observer
in this world of make believe
And you might say, the whole thing is so funny --
so funny that it's killing me
Each click before the next
with a degree of innocence
each image unique
And no one to share it with me
He said he loved her longer
She said nothing
She should have said something
But nothing was said
It's all been said
And yet nothing
Nothing has been said
Just love, practice and find faith in something
She loved him, always did
There's a song in my head
the words are lovely
while a lonely guitar cries
fingers on a piano
follows along softly
and a smooth saxophone
filling my soul
a constant beat
I heave a sigh
the chorus of voices
"stay with me tonight"
I threw a bottle in the sea, I wanted to find someone
I took time choosing the right bottle, no cracks, a green one
I found a spot where the sand was filled with my memories
So that my feet would feel comfortable caressing my history
The wind was coarse, beating like cockroach cruel wings
The sea howling mad as if it had seen the end of all things
A girl on a dune, crouching, sad like a mouse waiting on the cat
Her midnight red cardigan flapping flayed fleshlike at her back
I skipped a flat pebble to make sure the sea was ready
For my bottle, my message containing the very essence of me
It bounced crazy, seven times, then drowned without waving
A gull stopped and stared cold, then escaped it's cries raving
At the sky, a thousand wash grey, like my old clash tshirt
A skeletal chill at my neck reminds me how much it does hurt
When you try and write down everything you've learned in this world
And as you try and force the memories to make sense as they unfurl
I throw an empty bottle into a blood black sea.
Wherein lies the peak of life
When all's been said and done?
I return to the park
retrieve the bench -
the warmth is gone.
The sandpit is still awash with sand
my sons had bathed themselves
in times of yore
and flung the grains in glee midair
like fluff from wilted daisies
when summer's done.
The swings still sway in the breeze
but the seats are bare -
the boys in sheer delight
both shrieked and shrilled
with each forward push
I made to spur them on -
ascending skyward with pointed toe
and descending feverishly
with the downward ebb and flow.
In time they'll come to know
the rhythm of the swings
resonating from within
the very ups and downs of later life.
As I watched them in their fervor
to reach the heights
soaring as if to touch a passing cloud -
I thrilled with each thrust they made
and recognized the splendid wonder in their eyes -
I had been there too.
We aren't in love
but we sure are in deep like.
And from that one kiss
I haven't been right since.
We both had too much to drink that night.
All the conversation thereafter
the flirting back and forth.
So here I am
chasing after you
like a dog
chasing a rabbit
to its hole
It's not fair
to put me on this way
I'd love to know
where this is going.
Words are broken and the smallest token
From minds half broken and mouths wide open
Show the game we play on this absurd liars plane
And ignore the shame usurping our selfish domain
when we fight our own and ignore all we are shown
while others wank and moan and the dying groan
into ears deaf to the sounds of those left
who appear to be adept at hiding among the rest
baa baa black sheep have you any wool
I do, but it's mine, so get fucked you greedy tool
Ok, let’s get that filthy scent…
The silver sparks burst down the spine, blackout, pleasure blackout
Mercury rising behind eyelids closed, afraid to see who she is
Like a huge, throbbing over ripe fruit, greased and on a buttered lilo
Lightening spurt, love hurts, scratching nails on your back feeling like a hero
A grunt and a groan, a quick peek and a moan, the man is embarrassed
Does having my cock sucked demean her? The thought is a micro flash
Keep licking girl, play that filthy skin flute, make it sing, you love me
The great lie is about to be exposed, the big one, the one they all say
Kaboom, I won’t come in your mouth, it’s probably protein, the Chinese do it
Remedial remedies for those who believe in tantric sex and sperm based medicines
Calm down Mr. Kama Sutra, that back bending one really doesn’t suit you
Just like snooker, potting pinks and browns, billiards making sure the white goes down
Hugs all tender, in the mind of the drowned, what time is the bus for the one with the empty bag
Ah but we love each other, it’s so nice and clean.
Well I love it filthy, raucous and mean.
Love is for talkers, poets and fucking stalkers
Sex is for driving the demons out, crashing the train, cursing the stains on the bed once again
Sex is a battle, sweat, blood, laughter and madness, biting down hard, passion is the fashion
Flames and hot coals, not flowers and crystal bowls from tuppeny stores, fuck that I want whores
I’m foaming as I write, biting tongue blood red gaping, laughing knowing that there’s no escaping the fact I’m a man, with a dick and desire
And I want to fuck the whole world…
At least someone should
Stop writing, get it on
Stop the adjectives! Get it on!
Stop the metaphors! Get it on!
Stop the world...and just GET IT ON.
I can smell him on my fingertips. Scent. Sent me away while he leaked out of me for the rest of the morning. Clinging. Cloying. Long after he has gone I have him. Still. On the tips of my fingers. I don’t want to eat, wash my hands, brush my teeth. His tongue has been in my mouth. Polishing my teeth. I shouldn’t talk. I shouldn’t urinate because that hastens his seed into the toilet bowl instead of coating my underwear in cream. I want to wrap myself in Gladwrap and slowly suffocate in his scent. Draw arrows on my neck pointing to his teeth marks. I delight in the marks he leaves on my body. Branding me his. Owning every inch of me. As a sign to others. Like an upside down claddah ring. But you are the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. Only it is I who have set my watch to American time and wear it to bed.