Archive for August, 2014

I was glad when she smiled at me,
A dark pretty lady on Saturday with a smile that kills evil,
Who writes poems like Sylvia Plath- all twisted and complex,
And knows inscrutable secrets that I can’t begin to imagine.
Dance with me, my dear, through the twilight and the half-light,
Lurk with me in places where they do not know our names,
Let’s be melodramatic and devil-may-care all over the streets of our town.
I want to wake up to your delicate features and your sweet red mouth like honey and give you an avalanche of kisses,
I was glad when you smiled at me.

Published in the Bitchin’ Kitsch

Cryptic whispers hang in the air in the fellaheen night
hhBending the mind magnetised over the moment,
I will wrench the lost evening till I eek out sweet wine
I will not pilfer the pretty girls’ hearts and keep them in a pouch of velvet
Instead I will coruscate with generosity of spirit taking each instant as injected with farce
Laughing at the universe- it’s all so absurd and capricious
And I will moan for lost loves and shallow relationships,
And weep at the frozen necessity of death.

The Beast

Posted: August 27, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

Breaking its back the garrulous beast cracks the moonlight in its bones.
The beast has many claws and horns but it still suffers, it still bleeds.
Sucking society through its wounds,
It grunts between spasms of suffering,
Then cries like a sick pony.
Barriers to compassion break down,
Time stands straight as a soldier
Memory and fortune are drunk on whiskey and off carousing.
I wail against the fangs of oppression and the pain of the beast,
For in the pain of the unfortunate beast is all our pain.

Beautiful people have beautiful lives-
Love is easy to find.
Ugly people have ugly lives-
Love is a dream and a gaping hole in soul.
Longing for touch is a way of life.
If the lights were out, the ugly wonder,
If anyone would dare to touch them,
Or kiss them full on the mouth and hold them.
Oh take me out my darling,
To where there’s music, and people, and beer.
Dance with me and make me forget the secret suffering of yearning for you.
Wipe out my loneliness with the power of your smile.
Help me not to think of myself as ugly,
As we square the circle of tedium that binds the town.

Hydra-headed balls-out motorbike insanity will rage against crypto-fascist propagandising all over the pubic public space.
The many hands and eyes of Tony Abbot will stultify us all and persecute us into deeper poverty.
Don’t let him grind you into bloody paste my pretty one-
Your astronaut mind is a rare and privileged thing, a cornucopia of wonders.
Love each neuron into a buzz of activity and let your mind frizzle and percolate with excitement.
And preserve those moments of peak experience that are meant to be rolled over on your tongue like a lozenge.
Times when a kiss freezes the universe, times when you feel loved,
Times when you see eternity peeking out from behind the clouds and shine on you.
Hydra-headed balls-out motorbike insanity and crypto-fascist propagandising then seem far away.

Living Room

Posted: August 12, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,


Twisting Serpentine smoke corkscrews from a huge pile of cigarette butts:
Highlighted against the curtain by a ray of sun-light and I can’t take my eyes off it.
Smoke curls around inside itself, swallows itself then fades into the air.
A helix of smoke arises from an incense stick and mutates into curlicues and the herbal odour permeates the atmosphere.
Smoke seems to be emitted from everywhere in the room, everything smouldering between apathy and antipathy.
Empty beer bottles are like used condoms waiting for disposal,
Dirty plates all over the floor like land-mines,
Waiting to trip someone up or smash into a hundred pieces.
A month’s worth of opened mail on the floor, ripped open, envelopes everywhere,
Combed for particularly desperate bills- everything else radiates from a central point.
Dirty mugs, bowls, pens, papers and miscellaneous crap festering on the coffee table.
Fuck me, what’s it going to take for someone to use the bin around here?

Why don’t the nice girls like me?
Because I have a big bulbous belly full of beer?
Because I have the social skills of an abalone?
Why don’t the nice girls like me?
Because I am not confident?
Because I am not sexy?
Why don’t the nice girls like me?
Because I smoke too much pot and write about it?
Because I let my guinea pigs crap in my bed?
Why don’t the nice girls like me?
Because I stare at their breasts instead of their eyes-
Even if it’s only for an instant?
Because I want them so much it hurts?
Why don’t the nice girls like me?
Because I’m always forgetting to clean the toilet?
Because, sad to say, I need to work on my personal hygiene?
That’s enough reasons I think-
Who can blame them?

Rook fresh meat from white bone,
Pack a dignified cone.
Manifest turbulent new born love.
Pale the Mandrake sunlight,
Inhabit a space of twilight.
Finger the runes of your deepest thought’s consequence.
Dread-drink down death and ponder the topography of oceans.
And wonder, keep wondering ‘Where will it end?’

‘When will I go out to meet the one that I love?’
On saccharine sad-eyes Tuesday with a pocket full of promise?
On misty windswept Wednesday with my hair tied back?
On a beer-drenched six-pack Saturday night in a pub?

A mystery like a knot of wind, never untangled and hard to contain.

Published in The Bithchn’ Kitch

Bent by time and substances,
Bamboozled by the ache of mediocrity,
I send my poems out to the world
Like desperate letters addressed to lost souls.
Who will reply?
Who will care?
Who can comprehend?
My metal skull reverberates with these thoughts:
Steel echoes and rasping squeals of weasel words,
Amplifying the resonant bong of self-indulgence.
Then I am alone with my musings, whisperings and doubts,
Empty like an egg shell,
Ready to be crushed and thrown in the bin.

I’ve never been to this place before.
Unfamiliar terrain: the scenery is out of kilter and strangely slanted.
Nothing is where it should be- the whole world seems to be warped by an insane god.
The plants are purple instead of green- the colour of sexual frustration- how appropriate.
The odour of sandalwood is in the air from thousands of sticks of incense.
I don’t recognise any of the birds: their cries sound like cats dying.
Very weird:
But you should never lose your will to be weird.

I’ve never been to this place before.
I’ve never sucked the insides out of a frog through its bum with a straw or blown up a frog like a balloon with the same straw.
I’ve never gobbled a monkey’s brain out of its skull with a silver spoon.
I’ve never masqueraded as a Wookie on public transport- though if I could get a costume I’d do it in a heartbeat.
I’ve never had sex with a goat: I imagine it would be furry, confusing and strangely unsatisfying.
Do or do not do-
Or end up stuck in paralysing goo.