Did Charles B smell of inky sweat
& stale booze – of rolled odours?
That oil from his skin? It could’ve
greased a ship’s slipway [or fried
a sly heart attack brunch for us] –
& his scarred cheeks spat poems
between his knocking-back shots
& did he ever wash? Did he loose
his cock out on a street to shock?
Do I know you? – a paying heckler
was dispatched – again & again &
words were left again [beer helps]
as Hank [to his friends] swigged a
fat-neck Michelob & oozed grins/
This is what killed Dylan Thomas –
his column’s by-line spoke – oily
fish spit out their oily prey [he was
born to this] Castro’s twin in verse
Tag: alcohol
They’ll always revert to size-of-cock
They’ll always revert to size-of-cock
[& what-they-would-do-if-this-that]
as alcohol’s numbing repeats such –
this week’s cache of ex-wife cracks
& tall stories – from short-changed
men – they don’t hear anything – in
pubs they bawl out said-soliloquies
on deaf ears [‘cause no one listens]
except for offers of one more? [But
even then they are still dismissing]
They’ll wake to habitual headaches
British Summertime
Left off-shore by previous tides
& adrift behind a mask of cliffs –
redoubtable & other labels – as
if different [as if our differences
are good]/ Scuzzy pissed tribes
trip over bitter-sweet cocktails –
a mix – cruel shyness & loathly
arrogance gather outside pubs –
knocked back three – then off to
our match – foul origins boil &
spill across crowded pavements
as fists find their answers with a
night’s sweated dizziness & piss
dries quick on wooden benches/
By daybreak there is no hope or
glory on our lorded landing strip
[we were all sold short by Brexit]
I drop my ball sack
I drop my ball sack
into the bowl’s gap
& exhale out of my
arse – a sour split &
burn of [foul] gases
followed by spits &
grunts of red wine’s
overnight damages
inside [we will not
discuss what I said
eight hours before]
Booze talks & won’t
shut up/ Midnight’s
Scrabble is a forfeit
come morning’s hit
on glossy porcelain
of triple scores – so
shower with soaps
& don’t breathe in –
or see my posture –
here – no one prays
for foul drownings –
now flushed & dead
Stone-circled
Six men sit – perching –
on suffering bar stools
Six etched chunks – an
almost-even arc offset
[nearly of Stonehenge]
A curve with no motive
apart from supping ale
& muttering objections
& unruly explanations /
They grumble together
to a misogynist ‘banter’
There’s no women ‘ere /
Their justifications pool
as pints are dispensed
[equally tipped out & in]
If standing stones ever
fall then fools fill gaps –
to stone imposed rules
[of concentric intervals]
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