If I saw you I'd call you "Spam"
a cheap combo of offal and meat with a handful of mixers spit.
You could sizzle on my fry-pan
be bubble and squeak for one.
You'd still be over-priced, but with baked beans the best fart maker around, but for brussels
well the Belgians don't insult them out loud.
If I saw you I'd call you tomorrow
as I can't be seen in public with you
nor you with I
you know how people talk.
A kiss would be copulation
a double cheese-burger stomach swell becomes psychic gestation.
We could talk for hours about me and you
HOW BORING
them and theirs far more rewarding.
Award winning stars they are
celebrities like you and I.
If I saw you I'd call you over
you could be the chicken that crossed the road while they moved the other side.
Then what side would be yours?
The blood-stained or soaking wet
as lights change from red to green you go from green to worse
a dragon-fly on stagnant pools
as jesters play dragon fools.
But stay where you are
it's safer
and McDonalds is there
golden toothy smile.
If I saw you I'd know the colour of your panties
whether they were laundered or bedroom-floor repeats.
Your nipples would say "It's cold"
my tongue would cry "Behold"
I'd know what breakfast cereal you ate
I'd see the scars below your hair.
The blood-shooting eyeballs smirking lies
Such sorry knees, scarred and lifeless, still knocking a berber face-plant
carpet burning such a stinking waste of time
I'd know you're mine.
If I saw you you'd probably walk away
I'd be happy to see your behind
the panty-line dead centre, g-string love
bum-floss crusty and creeping.
Why do you walk so funny?
The "Duke" John Wayne in fish-nets thighs
horseless and stable
unmangered and Christless below my kitchen table.
I'd still whistle
your smile would moisten up
You'd still ignore me.
If I saw you, which I probably won't
though I might
were we in the same locale
that's a tough word to say, easy to spell
an "e" on local
the silent and invisible pee on invisible neighbourhood walls.
You'd probably be hiding something
I'd be hiding in the open
sore.
You'd probably point over your shoulder and laugh
I'd laugh right back.
That was
if I saw you.
Rat-tailed, thigh-high grey skirt, slut
I'm buried in you
so blue.
He's so black
so coiled, laid back
darkened dust awaiting words.
Part just a little
part just so.
I see
I go
you turn away
Aunty shakes her head, looks on regardless
memories of the days still gone tempting her own gallant man.
That feeling when sweat won't bead
when it sits as a film on the brow
clothes become second skins, all too tight and unnecessary.
Here and now to couple to love
to roll entwined about a gift
where a dream couldn't reach a climax.
I kill cockroaches in my flamenco dementia
stamping here and there
where-ever a brown bastard shows its diseased self.
"Ole that la-cocka-roacher"
I know you won't be there in the morning.
I'm standing here listening to the tears of angels
the whole world's laughing back.
Mr Cohen's Marianne never met Suzanne on the landing of cheapened luxury.
I feel like the breeze sliding between rushing bodies
an apple at rest.
Tangy poppy-seed orange with a caffeine fix
Solitary now.
Do you have anything for a lost memory?
Could you lose a future?
Another face in the blood-lust crowd
the contest like slaughter.
Show us gore
Show us pain
Show us how far people will go for money.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Devil in a blue dress on a slow moving train
while I watched the world pass and the wind called my name.
I approached and then glimpsed what she shyly flashed round
atop her 2 legs, a sweet hairless mound.
She covered then flashed quickly, I spied but a glance
the next I knew the serpent in my pants
is eager and willing as you sit upon the wall
open, inviting, like Humpty before his great fall.
As her lips part to meet me she jumps down, I'm left standing
she's floated away, I remain empty handed.
Was it my size that stopped her, brought her down from her perch?
Should I go over the wall and continue my search
and scale that hill to the one lonely tree
or stay where I am and wait patiently?
A shadow from moon-glow
Where is my canine companion?
A way back?
No
I should have known
he's bounds ahead
Night clouds between me and the lunar her
a black pall like death around Earth-locked me
Thoughts of uncupped, leaking, fingers and broken hour-glass statues pour from there
through me to here
to you
How optimism and missed opportunities can bring aggression
How an unclear mind leaked blood on the innocents hands
How far away can they hear my whistle?
How much longer does my tape have to run?
A nimbus in motion to a moonbeam bath
My stride measures fairway
and faraway they mocked me
taunted me
teased me to erection with a flash of thigh, of lace, of nipples hardened with fear.
Above the green that holds sands tight flashes tear at the night sky as if day was more in vogue.
Maybe it's the day of today or of tomorrow somewhere not here?
A warning?
A memory?
Gunfire of distant battles?
Mental projections of my lightning strikes, my harpoon into the deep blue?
"2,3, hup"
An about turn
an about face
an "About fucking time"
The leap to hand of my terrier friend
tongue in need of moisture, breath steaming and glowing in a wash of yellow
I cast a shadow here
there the shadow cast me
a role
a bit-part cameo
the crowd scene
third face from the left
not with the glasses, though I was hard of sight, short of focus
the one in green shirt
to match eyes
to match the heart buried in pride.
My pride so brown
shitty, dirty brown.
Flung and wallowed in
wrapped in
draped in
paraded for all to see.
Coffin coloured apparel for the walking dead.
Unplaid , straight brown.
Straight from them to me.
I wear the leash about my neck like a charm
like a symbol of some long-gone slavery
like a safe place to hang a loop of flax
out here, under and in a night sky
one moment touched by the chill breeze and consuming dark
next moment back in the world of twilight
my zone alone.
I got a phone call from an old friend of mine says he's been "Hocking the wife"
life gets you like that between the mirror and the knife.
"She's not the girl I married"
Then he spoke of "Ghosts"
"The nights blur together and the day just never comes"
He quit working like a dog for a man as rich as an Arab sheik
he's been keeping company with "Rock Stars" and the upwardly meek.
The first time reared it's head, spat back the years like soured milk
the velveteen jade princess spread eagerly on purple silk.
the "Don't worry" came on like ivy-rash, all warm and unintended
"Worry"
"Me" he laughed
coughed a cough that never ended.
The kids grew up before their eyes like dreams lost in sleep
of all the faces and numbers in life mine's the one he keeps.
Families play at the beach
the sun beats down
I sit and watch and wonder "Where do they get the time"?
on a weekday mind
to lounge around and throw the ball
to drink coffee and talk and scrawl
as I now do
a day later no less
and look back and see that dress
and the girl who wore it
a fresh tattoo, left upper arm
something tribal, a totem, a charm
and the split to there
black bra she wore
Why can't she be the girl next-door?
But she is to some-one
though not me
and alas she'll be gone when I turn around
to be replaced by a memory now.
A rush that stopped a heart stone-dead
that turned a world to pain
The love that died, that bled to death
red torrents that found a drain
Psycho strokes the drunken mind
ranting tongue with ear to find
twisted round the passing time
No-one left to say
An empty chest, lost the stolen heart
to the tears that burn the night
Foot-steps that tread the weary path
shaking hands that find the light
Memory burns the future dreams
sleeping eyes that miss the screams
Ones not here denied the need
No-one's here to say
An empty bowl matches the empty glass
as the youthful take retreat
The vacant stool for the absent fool
the grown infant now takes it's feet
Spent a day too long amid the weak
to shelter inside yourself you seek
ancient hands seems out of reach
Who says who's to say?
The jaded look, like they don't believe
as if it matters what they think
They've seen it all, it's been and gone
passing time at the kitchen sink
Spread around the down they feel
dead, scarred skin they watch you peel
hatred born from truths revealed
There's nothing left to say
while I watched the world pass and the wind called my name.
I approached and then glimpsed what she shyly flashed round
atop her 2 legs, a sweet hairless mound.
She covered then flashed quickly, I spied but a glance
the next I knew the serpent in my pants
is eager and willing as you sit upon the wall
open, inviting, like Humpty before his great fall.
As her lips part to meet me she jumps down, I'm left standing
she's floated away, I remain empty handed.
Was it my size that stopped her, brought her down from her perch?
Should I go over the wall and continue my search
and scale that hill to the one lonely tree
or stay where I am and wait patiently?
A shadow from moon-glow
Where is my canine companion?
A way back?
No
I should have known
he's bounds ahead
Night clouds between me and the lunar her
a black pall like death around Earth-locked me
Thoughts of uncupped, leaking, fingers and broken hour-glass statues pour from there
through me to here
to you
How optimism and missed opportunities can bring aggression
How an unclear mind leaked blood on the innocents hands
How far away can they hear my whistle?
How much longer does my tape have to run?
A nimbus in motion to a moonbeam bath
My stride measures fairway
and faraway they mocked me
taunted me
teased me to erection with a flash of thigh, of lace, of nipples hardened with fear.
Above the green that holds sands tight flashes tear at the night sky as if day was more in vogue.
Maybe it's the day of today or of tomorrow somewhere not here?
A warning?
A memory?
Gunfire of distant battles?
Mental projections of my lightning strikes, my harpoon into the deep blue?
"2,3, hup"
An about turn
an about face
an "About fucking time"
The leap to hand of my terrier friend
tongue in need of moisture, breath steaming and glowing in a wash of yellow
I cast a shadow here
there the shadow cast me
a role
a bit-part cameo
the crowd scene
third face from the left
not with the glasses, though I was hard of sight, short of focus
the one in green shirt
to match eyes
to match the heart buried in pride.
My pride so brown
shitty, dirty brown.
Flung and wallowed in
wrapped in
draped in
paraded for all to see.
Coffin coloured apparel for the walking dead.
Unplaid , straight brown.
Straight from them to me.
I wear the leash about my neck like a charm
like a symbol of some long-gone slavery
like a safe place to hang a loop of flax
out here, under and in a night sky
one moment touched by the chill breeze and consuming dark
next moment back in the world of twilight
my zone alone.
I got a phone call from an old friend of mine says he's been "Hocking the wife"
life gets you like that between the mirror and the knife.
"She's not the girl I married"
Then he spoke of "Ghosts"
"The nights blur together and the day just never comes"
He quit working like a dog for a man as rich as an Arab sheik
he's been keeping company with "Rock Stars" and the upwardly meek.
The first time reared it's head, spat back the years like soured milk
the velveteen jade princess spread eagerly on purple silk.
the "Don't worry" came on like ivy-rash, all warm and unintended
"Worry"
"Me" he laughed
coughed a cough that never ended.
The kids grew up before their eyes like dreams lost in sleep
of all the faces and numbers in life mine's the one he keeps.
Families play at the beach
the sun beats down
I sit and watch and wonder "Where do they get the time"?
on a weekday mind
to lounge around and throw the ball
to drink coffee and talk and scrawl
as I now do
a day later no less
and look back and see that dress
and the girl who wore it
a fresh tattoo, left upper arm
something tribal, a totem, a charm
and the split to there
black bra she wore
Why can't she be the girl next-door?
But she is to some-one
though not me
and alas she'll be gone when I turn around
to be replaced by a memory now.
A rush that stopped a heart stone-dead
that turned a world to pain
The love that died, that bled to death
red torrents that found a drain
Psycho strokes the drunken mind
ranting tongue with ear to find
twisted round the passing time
No-one left to say
An empty chest, lost the stolen heart
to the tears that burn the night
Foot-steps that tread the weary path
shaking hands that find the light
Memory burns the future dreams
sleeping eyes that miss the screams
Ones not here denied the need
No-one's here to say
An empty bowl matches the empty glass
as the youthful take retreat
The vacant stool for the absent fool
the grown infant now takes it's feet
Spent a day too long amid the weak
to shelter inside yourself you seek
ancient hands seems out of reach
Who says who's to say?
The jaded look, like they don't believe
as if it matters what they think
They've seen it all, it's been and gone
passing time at the kitchen sink
Spread around the down they feel
dead, scarred skin they watch you peel
hatred born from truths revealed
There's nothing left to say
Friday, December 24, 2010
You should have lingered in the warmth of the gestation-bliss and bathed in embryonic-fluid for as long as possible, perhaps even to now for some, because when push came to "One more please", "Just one more should do it", you weren't to remember the passage from the assurance of the womb to the horrors that have awaited you down through the years.
The accounts from survivors of the consternation that is childbirth will attest to the pain. A pain they maintain is almost beyond description. Yet they attempt with mere words to convey the epitome of the "HOW NEAR TO DEATH WAS I" legend (this is the birth-ers not the birth-ees, please remember that).
Did the pain exist like the blinding light that could only of been HER, and charge all space and time to be the real, as you glissaded on by to the air-conditioned climate of a hospital ward, to the unfaltering hands of the skilled surgeon or mid-wife whose coaxing had got you propelled this far, propelled to and through the greatest of the unknown. YOU WOULD HAVE HOPED!!!!! (Had you indeed of known hope whilst still an infant, hope that only dawned as you beheld a world replete with life stealing on passed to appertain to others without explanation for you).
Could you of envisioned the deprivation of weaning, the humiliation of shitting yourself, the inadequacy of your own parents as doctor and nurse, the torment of schooling, of attempting to acclimatise to a foreign environment, of being abused as "The Little Bastard" simply because you survived the most protracted slide of your life?
The cogitation of age 14, at the dawning of puberty, that returning to the interior of your mother for the duration just might have been preferable to fronting life as you knew it.
That at the age of the original immaculate sexcapade, failure or no, that you may, if fortune persisted and company didn't impede your efforts, secure another chance to be the man you'd always heard about or seen paraded as role-model extraordinaire, complete with a harem from then and now, a harem that comes as testament to capability, sociability, adaptability, technical capacity and all round GREAT-BLOKE-NESS.
Would a life-time of occupying the maternal-incubator have been more easeful on the whole?
Would it have saved the cringes as the reality dawned; "That we are all"
As education persisted through secondary to tertiary or further, or the years saw the insistence of forays into the adult world recognised as genuine employment, who could possibly foresee the bitterness and misunderstanding invoked through rejection, the incomprehensibility of "how could some-one be better than I"?, rear it's ugly head not once, but twice, thrice, four times and more, ad infinitum ad nauseum, to see what ever faculties you possessed remain wasted, stagnant in a swamp of non-concern, stalled in an environment of "WHAT IS IS WHAT IS"!! because it is.
Could this of been eschewed simply at the inconvenience of a mother?
Could you have permitted the passage of siblings conceived subsequent to you into the external world, permitted them to make their own course bravely, ignoring the advice of your seniority as they went?
Would there have been room in the womb-with-a-view for two?
As you maturated to adult proportions would evolution of altered the state of your mother to accommodate your being?
Would she of been capable of fulfilling the other roles she was destined to play?
This is conjecture since the umbilical has long been dissevered, and though parenting is inherent, and we shouldn't leave father completely at the mercy of those who would scream "TYPICAL" to his role as passive non-toter, you as individuals, and I as opinionate, ought to be aware that maybe remaining comfortable and effusively warm somewhere we comprehend is certain to be a better option than endeavouring to produce more than a destiny from the fate we are dealt regardless to others, missed opportunities because of , or dearth of achievement due to.
It is an impossible situation, a parallel to Stephen Hawkins theory of time travel.
Who knows? Maybe on day.
The accounts from survivors of the consternation that is childbirth will attest to the pain. A pain they maintain is almost beyond description. Yet they attempt with mere words to convey the epitome of the "HOW NEAR TO DEATH WAS I" legend (this is the birth-ers not the birth-ees, please remember that).
Did the pain exist like the blinding light that could only of been HER, and charge all space and time to be the real, as you glissaded on by to the air-conditioned climate of a hospital ward, to the unfaltering hands of the skilled surgeon or mid-wife whose coaxing had got you propelled this far, propelled to and through the greatest of the unknown. YOU WOULD HAVE HOPED!!!!! (Had you indeed of known hope whilst still an infant, hope that only dawned as you beheld a world replete with life stealing on passed to appertain to others without explanation for you).
Could you of envisioned the deprivation of weaning, the humiliation of shitting yourself, the inadequacy of your own parents as doctor and nurse, the torment of schooling, of attempting to acclimatise to a foreign environment, of being abused as "The Little Bastard" simply because you survived the most protracted slide of your life?
The cogitation of age 14, at the dawning of puberty, that returning to the interior of your mother for the duration just might have been preferable to fronting life as you knew it.
That at the age of the original immaculate sexcapade, failure or no, that you may, if fortune persisted and company didn't impede your efforts, secure another chance to be the man you'd always heard about or seen paraded as role-model extraordinaire, complete with a harem from then and now, a harem that comes as testament to capability, sociability, adaptability, technical capacity and all round GREAT-BLOKE-NESS.
Would a life-time of occupying the maternal-incubator have been more easeful on the whole?
Would it have saved the cringes as the reality dawned; "That we are all"
As education persisted through secondary to tertiary or further, or the years saw the insistence of forays into the adult world recognised as genuine employment, who could possibly foresee the bitterness and misunderstanding invoked through rejection, the incomprehensibility of "how could some-one be better than I"?, rear it's ugly head not once, but twice, thrice, four times and more, ad infinitum ad nauseum, to see what ever faculties you possessed remain wasted, stagnant in a swamp of non-concern, stalled in an environment of "WHAT IS IS WHAT IS"!! because it is.
Could this of been eschewed simply at the inconvenience of a mother?
Could you have permitted the passage of siblings conceived subsequent to you into the external world, permitted them to make their own course bravely, ignoring the advice of your seniority as they went?
Would there have been room in the womb-with-a-view for two?
As you maturated to adult proportions would evolution of altered the state of your mother to accommodate your being?
Would she of been capable of fulfilling the other roles she was destined to play?
This is conjecture since the umbilical has long been dissevered, and though parenting is inherent, and we shouldn't leave father completely at the mercy of those who would scream "TYPICAL" to his role as passive non-toter, you as individuals, and I as opinionate, ought to be aware that maybe remaining comfortable and effusively warm somewhere we comprehend is certain to be a better option than endeavouring to produce more than a destiny from the fate we are dealt regardless to others, missed opportunities because of , or dearth of achievement due to.
It is an impossible situation, a parallel to Stephen Hawkins theory of time travel.
Who knows? Maybe on day.
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