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.