Sunday, 14 April 2013

i’m working dammit

on the promise of a viscous promiscuity
I would normally shoot first, clean the mess later, ensure no witness survives
in the middleweek each slatternly evening should be bedded early

recently, though, the inclination of a night is to drink
right! right! right!
read and write and write and ride a hundred of your dirty looks
in an all night steaming just to thumb fuck the irresistible where
god granted good sense is disavowed

christ my mind tonight where hasn’t it been
a  rattling mess
from the petty penury of the millennium’s silent bells
through a razored grift of oyster shells
via  packet steamed voyage that will never be

and I’m screaming
“why can’t you be my Yoko, passionista,
intravenous burned brown celluloid injector
crowning, howling, screaming blood-letter
leech wife barfly spittle shined philosopher

instead there waits a world to be shared
by just her and me
wings clipped by vows and golden bands
buried under the demands of continence

the peripatetic spur sundered
marrow spoon hollowed and forsaken in the soured grass
where lost co-ordinates of days of grace and grand escapes
offer no cue for slagged ambulant dreams
laid to rest in choked and over worked seams

disappointment is spread so thickly over the sailcloth of expectations
while deep within these tubes lies a germ of posterity
and its beetle glinting crawlspace
spits an imagined this


change the frequency, your smoke is staining my ears


remain though the matter of my subject
you and your forced finger self-inflicted wounds
if my words don't flow the knives come out
my hands may form a loving fist for the needful dough

I could carve a new you and I have just the tool

but she, already dead, chides
“count your breaths, count your blessings”

which begs me to ask is there too much on the page?
while the dead are still singing the wind must always
beg caution

how much attention does this whore seek?
fracked and sluiced to the point of release
where every kind of juice spills
from pores palm greased
with the patina of slovenly verse
paupered by the diminished returns
of a creased core

what is the call?

I stay, a frog in a pan, of course
warning  shy of every hopeful morning
and in a' very short space of wine'
it will be love again

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