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

coffee?

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

move

change the frequency, your smoke is staining my ears

move

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