Poetry under the influence of...

(a silver trophy)

#1

drowning inside the gut of a whale

the greatest killer of youth
is not
murder,
suicide,
or disease.
the cool evil blade of success is
slicing the heads off
our brightest flowers.
I’ve seen friends
shrivel and dry-out

like slugs sprinkled with salt;
good, clever people who drop to

a quick death
by falling stars.
they never return.

20-somethings dragged, kicking and
screaming behind
some crazy horse-dream into a busy market square
and put on public display.

20-somethings called into a room and told to wait
until
one day a starry hand

will touch them on the shoulder and lead them to 

the sun,
if they’re not ready, they will be burned
by it’s fatal beauty.
those who don’t make it will be left as carbon statues
standing naked in the street.
people stop and stare and point at these idiotic
figurines on the corner,
they stare long enough they too
start to look like idiots.

20-somethings, the tampons of our time.

20-somethings armed with the weapons of tomorrow.

20-somethings drowning inside the gut of a whale.

20-somethings talking of talking, but never actually talking.

20-somethings sitting in the lotus position inside of a pressure cooker.

20-somethings with not enough time to get to this part of the poem.

20-somethings with the wrong kind of love.

20-somethings blinded by the tear-gas
of ambition,
their ambitions,
their parent’s ambitions,

another’s ambitions,
histories failed ambitions.
the world’s expected ambitions.

there’s nothing wrong with living a life
without ambition,
a seed never dreamt it would become
a flower, a monkey never thought it would become
a man.
trying too hard will cause a quick destruction of the
mind
life is on course with or without us.

all we can do is
whatever it is we are born to do,
not because of
success,
money,
friends,
spotlight,
recognition,
flattery,
not for any
other reason than
we couldn’t live doing anything else.
only then will the gods take note.

we have to get
back on
the side
of the universe.

……………………………………

( a bucket load of champagne)

#1

fluttering around a turd

fame is but a butterfly fart,
that fades
with the first
morning light-
a tiny mushroom cloud,
that will make your nose bleed with fool’s gold.

fame’s potent perfumed rudeness;
like a stab on the foot, from the heel of a sexy blonde’s shoe
will be gone with tomorrow’s headlines.
there’s nothing quite quick enough to
catch it,
all those that try
have hands full of holes.
they wave them around the sky
like madmen,
looking for neon gold,
looking for their name in lights.

their crazy dance is in vain.
the search for fame will send
them to
the madhouse.

………………………………………

#2

a city of dirty plates

he wears an antique ring
on his left hand.
his finger nails are peacock feathers,
he talks to water
and
dresses in moonlight and cool razor blades.
he lives in a city of dirty plates
and smokes exotic cigarettes rolled
by lepers,  
he has never been home.
what people say about him is untrue-
he never killed the rain.
he has no shadow, but an army of black ants
follow him wherever he goes.
his mind is
made
up
of soot and fish bait.
he has a stained-glass eye 
and visions of
a happy epidemic. 
he once dangled without a rope.
he wheezes at dinner parties
and always shows his scars.
he never studied but he has a diploma.
he dreams of 
wooden mermaids
and makes love to
the sound 
of a dripping
tap.
his blood is pure
iron ore- remnants of an exploded
supernova and
his ears are
full 
of honey.

he only exists in these
32 lines.

………………………………………

(blood red boredom)

#1

jobs to be done

I
hit the last stop button,
pull out the sheet
and sling it on the pile,
I roll in another,
not thinking
I wield the hammer
once again.
I’m here the lumberjackpoet
still trying
to carve this tree.

a bus pulls up
outside,
it wheels the kerb
while I go about
my business
hacking away,
splintering words,
uprooting lines
trying to hatch out
a decent poem.
the driver of the bus
tries to fix a flat.
we both have things to do;
he takes the japanese tourists to see the tulips
while I
go about
extracting the
sap
from this sheet.

the driver sets off again
he knows where he’s going,
he’s been there a 1000 times before,

there’s a sign I can’t see
guiding me.

………………………………………

#2

unemployed and bored

now I have porn and time on
my hands more so than ever,
seducing myself out of boredom
is easy
and so it goes - wank follows wank,
follows wank
follows wank,
ashes to ashes,
gentlemanly fashion
riding the white swan.

life is a series of getting yourself off
time and time again,
wank follows wank follows…well wank
my future as they say is in my hands.

there’s more honesty in my bed sheets
than in any daily newspaper or tv report.

to prospective employer: I can start Monday.

………………………………………

#3

dragging cocktail sticks

I saw him this morning
and again
just now,
he has more courage than
those people on the streets,
he’s still fighting,
but his days are numbered.
the mouse stumbling on
legs like broken cocktail sticks
tries to flee when
he hears me come in,
he does a sort of sad, slow roll
he is dying.
shall I put him out of his misery
or do I ignore his pain ?
he used to scare housewives,
he could outsmart a room full of men,
he has always avoided the trap.
now he’s counting down to his final
breath,
leaving life as dust on my carpet.

I can’t see you any more mouse,
but this poem is for you

come tomorrow i’ll put you
in the trash
but for now, enjoy your last little game of survival.

I look at the green
dustpan and brush
and say
farewell to
my friend for a day
the unlucky
‘hero of this poem’.

(a fever from hell)

#1

finding passion between the hands of a clock.

It’s time to get back on
the horse
and gallop madly through the cities
of spoiled milk.

It’s time to pause a firework
explosion 
and
leave it as a flower in the
sky - a token for the gods.

It’s time to snip the wire and
stop the ticking of deaths time bomb.

It’s time to dance 
the tango
with a pear-shaped Spanish woman
who calls you ‘sailor’.

It’s time for the great thief to
jimmy
me
away from this bed.

It’s time to follow a canary into the hole.

It’s time to pick up the laundry

It’s time to catch a falling 
businessman.

It’s time to put a
little mustard on your opinions
and serve them up raw.

It’s time to cough
up
your superhero.

It’s time to
blend out.

It’s time to miss somebody.

It’s time…

It has always been time.

……………………………………

#2

The corridor cowboys

I always thought I would
be glad to see the
back of them, but
I was wrong.
their permanently broken noses
and home-cut army
crops,
those spirited faces
lions in the front line of a stupid war.
all the glorious fights they started and finished,
their proud blooded fists and ripped shirts,
their intimidating bodies in the changing rooms,
they were built like battleships.

they were the
kings of the classroom.

I never had
the balls
to do what they did.
I played by the rules.
they had a passion
to start things,
they were naked flames
stoked on
by those who were too scared to go
against them.

they were the real
teachers.
 
they fought with who they loved,
just to be loved.

these boys were my heroes,
strong
enough
to give better than they got.

sculpted through
hurt and
misunderstanding
these good-
hearted
men
were made
of
steel.
they could take down
walls.

they knew school was just a form of control.
-just one way of doing things, 
but they had peaked too early,
their brilliance was neglected
and confused for disobedience.

now, they sit in
factory canteens
squeezing
plastic coffee cups
thinking of their
playground victories.

they used to be unbeatable.

……………………………………

(a gut full of beer)

#1

on a bike heading nowhere in the sun

the summer cooks
people like eggs,
the sidewalk is laid out like a parisian
breakfast table.
a strong coffee-headed women
struts by,
I don’t trust anything
her body is trying to sell
me.
and the air is full of
flesh and smells,
just flesh and smells.
fleshy smells
sandwiched between
smelly flesh.

I outstretch my tongue
and take a wet scoop
of the free air.
it tastes of secondhand clothes,
I light a cigarette
to smoke out the moths in my lungs.

I squeeze the brakes
on my bike
and give thanks to the stop
light for
30 seconds of normality
away from the carnival.

………………………………………

#2

heaven’s scrapyard

I’ll keep on swinging
until I send this
typewriter flying out
of the park.
my shoulders are starting to loosen,
I can feel it,
it’s close
the reason why I punch
and bruise this paper;
the golden one,
the lane-changer,
the holy line.
I’m on all fours, crawling
around heaven’s scrapyard
searching for it,
I can smell nirvana between
the tired feet of angels,
I can taste the embers of
some burning
epiphany,
I don’t care if I make
a thousand dead lines,
a thousand write-offs,
all I need is one,
the one in which I talk to god.

………………………………………

#3

a blind hand

my thoughts squirm, like a
snake trapped inside a vat of brandy,
slowly burning under a spotlight.

there’s a gambling wino; a fallen hotshot
resting his elbow
on the fleshy bar of my insecurities,
up there between my brain
and skull. 
my gentlemanly and
ladylike defences
are in for one hell of a train wreck.
he steals my drink and lights my last cigarette.

with a penniless madman behind the engine
all I can do is hope to survive.
this scrapper will fight my battles,
drink me to hell,
fuck my women and my men,
and vomit in my sink.

his hangover makes
me late for work,
but he has cleared away
that shit smell of worry to help me
face the world again.

………………………………………

#4

the bum note

there must have been a time
in the great viennese musical halls,
exhausted,
half dead,
and
hunched over a borrowed piano
that even mozart would hit the
wrong note,

even genius needs to slip away from it’s host for a cigarette break.

I like to imagine
that for every bad key he played
a few coins would find their
way into the hands of a street bum,
even when the music critics would sigh,
a drifter would be touched by grace.

the benevolence of passing genius.

…out on the steps, the street rat stares
bemused into the light, as the marriage of figaro begins
playing in his mind.