A Visitor

He dropped in and
shifted everything –
not my furniture
more of a loosening –

a reformation of views
without drugs or booze
as dark coffees cooled
in talk’s elbow space

Nothing in that time
was left untouched
by his too-close-to-truth
Revelations etcetera

 

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Thanks to Helen Ivory @nellivory for suggestions via National Writing Centre @WritersCentre

A Dealer Calls

She flipped-into old apparitions
Then Acne-kid stood in her kitchen
with his mouth turned up high
My missus fuckin’ hates me dealin’

One word-blunt white line fixer
He’s still on to it – arf a gram
Fifty quid – No – No more for now
No point-six-measure – or nearishness

but – then – ten longer minutes later
he’ll do one (or – One more for mates)
It runs out yer nose – drips –
She fuckin’ knows I’m fuckin’ doin’ it

But Diamond Wife will not stop talkin’
I live it mate – her drunk mouth says –
One prefers a more tightened wrap –
as opposed to too-loosened stuff?

She likes ’em – those bullet capsules
with grinders
A quick-spun chamber
You’ ve not seen bullets? She hasn’t –
to laughter – You guys got my number?

That Farmer’s Wife

Tess was never an unalloyed maid –
not Hardy’s vessel of pure emotion
untinctured by innocence

Such country girls are as scarce
as a hen’s brightly bared tooth
Too hastily judged? Or not?

She was metallic – below – to me
When bared – again – by a kindred
lover – our fusion rubbed to rust

Divisions of men – such she kept
mapped close enough to feel – to plot
and find her way – only her eyes shut

whilst her barn doors swung wide
to near-unhinged arcs of openings –
as her balm of blood – of love’s slaughter –

blew out on her cousin’s stunk breath
as he bent with her to snort at troughs
aligned by credit cards – then blocked

All a loss – it is no more a sweet place
Not for me – Sour scents off her wetness
turn on Etkin-Bell’s ring finger

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten
her odour as he wipes his creased brow
She dragged too many too close by lies

Fluxus

My heated tears contain stomach acid –
piteous shit – feeling sorry for myself
having thrown my empty gut’s content
into the piss-plated Made in Italy bowl

They will not scar my face – we only fear
such long-term effects on our throats –
heightened instances of – that is enough
for now –

Sit with me as I pop my evening’s dose
of slowers and helpers – shaped as pills –
and pray they stay long enough to kick in
and get me through a night I need

I am still sucker-punched – struck as such
through this day – but needs must
so let me sleep and find a brief peace –
I am sorry Son for saying I want to end it now
It comes and goes


Hustings

Please hide a lemon
in your old man’s coat –
their tear gas is primed
but that citrus is hope –

suck on its stung flesh
as if you suck for your life
Your vote for democracy
has been long-denied

We all carry crosses
but some are not struck –
we’ll all hang our heads
Hangin’s not enough

Read widely beyond
their ruled short lists
Education is brief
’til you’re taught by the past

Students Don’t

They don’t throw parties
like we did –
no sleepovers in puddles
of puke and-or-piss –
or found shagging bareback
their best mate’s lover
They don’t sink pure vodkas
for breakfast –
no acid – nothing dropped
without a full appraisal –
googling its providence
Unlike their bad parents –
who took to partying too hard
with only the letter E to look up –
They don’t throw up like we did

Zero Four Thirty

For a man who has done his natural duty,
death is as natural as sleep. GS

Here we meet again
you no longer a friend
you jolt – a waking itch
this drugged portend

This unnatural discontent
which sleep is for me
it is a sickly thing

It is as if rest itself
is my disease

It is as if my register
of a simple expectation
of a longed-for sopor
no more allows it to admit

Yet we will drift in daytime’s
impolite light
with eyelids weighted
by the night
just enough to stop me seeing things

This puzzle of so many pieces
which darkness has become
You – my new foe –
my agonist – my bedlam

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County Lines

There – incongruous in khaki
among the lurid colours of youth –
two sallow lads sat by the tunnel
at the love-etched bench

as if recovering from a hundred years
of trench warfare with their coughs
whilst the younger troops are bound
to school desks and repeated tasks

The soldiers’ drugs are sweet perfume
above the sour rot and kicked mud
of the early hints of a winter campaign
across county lines with bunched fists

Drugs

Which drugs work?
Well anything illegal,
plus doses of alcohol,
or inhaling some freedom:

Not television-consumption,
and the inanity of such,
which is foul humdrum,
remove that crutch.

Let me read Ginsberg,
howl wild words ’bout sex,
meet strangers to talk to,
but not to fuck (not yet),

because fucking strangers
brings swabs of bad luck,
which need more meds
and I’ve said drugs suck!

Let me loose on the world
before it dissolves,
let me lose this shit time,
before the shit takes hold.