Measure

What measure for my madness?

What succour for my pain?

No desire in my body

And the suffering starts again

 

How to reach out to the other

How to embrace my pain with love

I don’t find any answers

Falling down from God above

 

When we meet the end of all

When our turkey’s chopped

Will it be like a kick in the balls

Hoping it won’t hurt a lot

 

What purpose in my sentience?

What reason in my race?

Why don’t you take me seriously?

Is it ‘cos I’m off my face?

 

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For my ex

 

I remember you skin on skin
That time when I took you from behind
And you said ‘fuck harder’
But now you’re gone
Moved on
And I am alone
And soaked in memories
From the wank bank
I am still eternally grateful
To you
For my most successful relationship
Which wasn’t really that successful
As I was taking too many drugs
And running amuck

Triptamine

I’ve built my life on triptamine

Cut the grass of consequence

Never sucked on the nipples of satisfaction

Though I’ve dreamed of putting my head in your lap

 

I’ve been to pagan places

I’ve mutated through my muse

I’ve taken life more pleasantly

And dreamt of kissing you full on the mouth

 

I’ve frenzied in halls of confusion

I’ve danced with whores in dodgy bars

I’ve wanted to tell you how beautiful you are

Then retreated into my insignificant musings

 

I’ve cuddled lovely piggies

I’ve fondled my gonads in desperation

I’ve thought of you and dreamt of coitus

And longed for the holiness of romance

 

But it’s all illusion

The wishing, the dreaming, the frenzy of excitement

A boondoggle, a mystery, a dense malfestation

I know you’re with me as I try to strain love from light

 

 

 

Are you my angel?

Hanging out in underpasses, beard resplendent- your Hawaiian shirt bringing down the psychometric city

Dancing down pavements with your hash-pipe in your pocket

Dressing up as a spooky clown to freak out suburban natives

Mellowing out under a tree in vibrant sunlight with your heart full of love

Marrowing the meat of the moment like a pilgrim on the way to the abyss

Are you my angel?

Are you my woman?

Infinite gladness paints plasticine fractals from life

Diadems sparkle like schizophrenic stars

While muscles relax problems contract

Gonna be alright daylight transcending midday melancholy

Under purple skies, pastel balloons soar like birds

Sun smiles on tie-dyed moments illumining faint tracings

Perfect day blazing sensual sentiments

Peace of the soul for humankind

When dreams are confessed

Love becomes manifest

Martha

Martha
Martha is a very weird piggy
She’s the noisiest pig I’ve ever had
Always squeaking and wheeking
A very big piggie
Brown black and white
Abyssinian- with rosettes
Very loving
Very hungry
Loves to sit on my shoulder
And purr happily
Occasionally gives a little nip
But it never hurts
Getting old now
But still a lovely piggie

Underpants

Icicle underpants blazing concrete death mothers
Bread lacks street cred harrowing halls
mangrove mandala giving taking breaking sifting lifting
like mangoes day glo I don’t know
some kind of wiry knot but not constructed of ants or string
My daylight ramblings through train stations like a pilgrim
Chewing gum paper waffles of light because not always because not always like Christmas Eve
Neither Monday nor Pork nor April nor channelling delayed language

Nor being composed of monolith bracken bridges
Driven out and over by the pineapples of co-incidence
Beat rhythms sometimes no sequences or sentiment
Pedophile epididimus roached to quiet satisfaction
Hate and love not identity politics
Consider lesbian grief munching
under old sheets
waiting for a perverted minute
corruption breeds chocolate sphincters
Glistening kraut cadenzas
Happening repeated orgasms of light
poisonous meat bucket knows loaf trousers
metaphors metastasizing grave neurons
simplex engagement fundamental questions
What penguin? Which anal bead? Which weapon of need?
Everything and everywhere, even in your head
Waiting for melting bananas and dust
Remember Jabba Jesus Jack Kerouac Jimmy Hendrix Jim Morrison

For my guinea-pigs

Piggie furry piggie sweet
How I love your little feet
Piggies wheeking piggie songs
I love my piggies more than I love my bong

Martha, Mary, Molly and GP
Just some of the piggies who’ve loved me
Piggies with their own personality
Always enhance my stoned reality

I in my Image for Dylan Thomas

I in my image who never sought scandal
Fried in a vision of celluloid mist
Bearded and beaded and broken like egg-shells
Newspaper lifelines that twist around friends

I in my image of speech bubble sentiment
Mired in the marrow and marred in the bone
Cracked and corrupted like a corpse’s maggot
Craving an instant of vegetable sleep

I in my image of gossip hewn character
Sliced to a stereotypical density
Daily confused by bent backed insanity
Near to a candle-shine movement of light

I in my image so soaking in solace
With cellophane junctures of alien anxiety
Woman soaked consciousness restrained by indifference
Never becoming yet destined to die

I in my image Hawaiian shirt swollen
Bent bud-brain reeling by gleaning the green
Poison attempts to fit into the in crowd
Caustic of consequence that mutters an end

Empathy part 2

Symbiotic empathy
Is precious as platinum
Person to person network pulsating
Holding hands with minds and mutual goodwill
Understanding pain like nails hammered into souls
Interdividual manifestations of companionship
Mirror-feeling alien emotions of others
Can unite us like no other magic
As we are social animals
When we feel the other’s pain
And can imagine their journey
Compassion flows like honey

Desperation

Fuck this shit
I like women
Women don’t like me
It’s a conundrum
A paradox
Who the fuck wants to fuck a middle-aged fat bastard
Who the fuck wants to cuddle up to someone sweaty, bloated and pointless
How much longer will I self-destruct:
For love
For the sake of pain
For madness
For joy
For kicks
For blitzkrieg insanity
For lack of a good woman

I like women
Women don’t like me
I am:
Too fat
Too lonely
Too desperate
Too maudlin
Too pathetic
Too weird
Too stoned
Too drunk
So I have another beer
And I have another cigarette
I have another cone
Occasionally I have a shot
And exude infinite soul-longing for silent death-bliss
Which will come on like a shot of smack and euthanize my emptiness
And set me free to roam the realm of Spirits
With angel’s wings