a choice?


free will isn't that great
being given a choice
not so wonderfull.
i've been told that free will
is gods' ultimate gift to us.
the gift of genocide
rape
murder
advertising
free will is gods' experiment.

somewhere in the world
right now
as you waste time reading this
a child has been abused
physically
sexually
emotionally
a victim
of the gift of free will.

maybe god
never loved us
enough.


bliss.


do angels dream?
or have nightmares?
an eternity spent wrapped
in comfort,
or maybe nothing,
as a reward for being good.
do angels remember shadows?
or indifference?
do they eat?
or know the pleasure of touching a naked back?
maybe they envy us
for knowing these things
and fear,
as well as we do.
do angels dream
of being alive?
do angels dream of sin?


chewing my way out.


sleeping with eyes open
surrounded by endless chanting,
high protein, low carb mantra
green leaf prayer,
point scoring salad dressing chorus
with a soya and bean hallelujah.
we regurgitate t.v scripts
dissect them for meaning
of which little is found
and above the repetative, knuckle stiffening
tapping of keys, we search
for cheap holidays,
cheaper car insurance,
gossip or
a story to be beaten into submission
by one of our own.

i will rise above it all.
with a roar and a pounded, bruised chest.
my cry will shake the water fountain.
knocking pictures of loved ones
and dogs from monitors.
they will stare in amazement.
unable to answer a phone or collect a fax.
i will crush carpet beneath my stride
and suck the air from the room
as i ascend a desk
bacon and sausage sandwich in hand.
screaming.
my exit will rumble and remind them
of their silence, until
a phone is answered and the whirring
tapping, sweating, eating beast
chugs back into life.
leaving me as a story told to the new
by the old.


cold universe thoughts.


blackholes are pointless
next to courtesy.
stars are everywhere,
galaxies and constellations,
stars and moons,
solar systems,
planets,
none can compare
to a womans flesh
and the warmth of skin.
or sitting on your front step
on a hot july day reading a book.
the sounds and smells of a saturday market
or shy first contact made.
the universe is cold and bland,
quite boring really.
your life matters
fill it with fire
and purpose
and pleasure and pain.
fill it with risk
and reward
and reaction.
nothing much happens in the sky
look around.


curious brown angel.


her fingers sought out the imperfections of my face
as though blind, she hooked the piercing
in my eyebrow with force and grabed a handfull
of my long brown hair to suck.
her eyes, grey as leeds febuary morning, focused,
constantly on something new to explore with tongue
and touch not gentle.
nails impossibly sharp for someone so soft dig
at my throat in the way she does when sleep wrestles
to take her away from me again.
a short time too long but invited and appreciated
by those like me everywhere.
my curious brown angel looks again
into me, wishing to figure out the mystery of this giant
holding her with arms of control and strength.
she is empty of everything but adventure.
perfect.
soft.
loud and wordless.
her head finds comfort on my bare chest
as her nails dig ever tighter on my throat.
sleep wins her over with a giggle and a kick.
my envy wraps itself around her.
both at peace for a time.


damaged goods.


you're not what i needed.
as much as i wanted your flesh
touch and submission.
i didn't need your smarts
your observations
or similar interests.
i needed your desire to please
but not your taste in food
or language
or film
or literature
i didn't want to do a book review
i wanted you to laugh
and cry
at lame stories and jokes.
i wanted you to drink
and not care so much.
i wished for you to find someone better
much better
than i.
you are delicate
i would break you without thought
and you would probably still love me.
but know,
i wanted to kiss your cheek
and make you happy.
i was just never brave enough to try.


death in the family.


my children die and i replace them.
i feed and water the new ones,
play them Miles Davis or Ornett Coleman.
i give the pretty ones names and wipe their leaves.
still they die, maybe
from my cigarette smoke, or heat
cold
food, light?
i can't make them live.

all i wanted was a comfortable room
but still i won't quit smoking.


dinner in france.


he strolled past where i stood,
nursing an early morning cigarette and cup of tea,
holding the duck by it's feet.
and with head still swimming in wine i followed out across
the hot grass and into the barn.
i missed the first blow, the one that as i turned the corner
had shook it from it's fear.
i caught the second.
his head caught between the concrete floor and club
and then as he was hung up
the blood came
dripping into a pool
beneath him as the convulsions tried
to tear him from the hook.
when he died
he was undressed and trimmed and that night
i sucked the flesh from his bones.
i had never witnessed a death before
               but i didn't feel bad about eating him.


dripping.


tears are reserved
for occasions,
a death,
a birth,
a union,
mistakes revealed or
a movie absorbed.
sometimes though
a tuesday
when the thought of canteen food
and t.v conversation
is too much to bear,
or when your cashcard hides in the
bowels of your bedroom.
crying makes you human
not weak.
tears release room
for resolve
and rebirth.
when you cry
you have never been
more human,
or more beautiful.


easy like.


i spilled from a dream
into an empty day
and an empty fridge,
no matter.
i had cigarettes
and green tea
and a step to sit on
drenched in mid morning sun.
it was nice until a
child started crying and a
mother, all flesh
and anger
screamed at me for keeping her
awake.
my silence provoked red
cheeks and words
of venom.
i thought, through the noise,
of the child growing
up around her.
it was sad
and i decided
that night to play
miles davis for him.


emma (my bourbon lullaby).


emma
amongst the smoke
and beer.
the twisted wheel angel,
designed to be loved wihout touch.
navel length blond braids
entwined
with silk and glass beads.
drinks delivered with a smile
and big, beautiful eyes.
every night a new outfit
curves noted,
her liquid movements
flesh, exposed and committed
to memory,
a belly like heaven
longed for
           dreamed of.
warmth.
she is my fantasy.
sheets of soaked up sweat.
clean linen mornings
no bad breath      or
crusty eyes.
just
clean
and perfect
and returned.


existence is futile.


the goal of a person is to be
remembered,
by as many people as possible
so that is known that their life
wasn't a waste.
that they ate and drank and raised
others to eat and drink
and maybe, one day, inspire.
over time the slug trails of our lives
will be erased
and anyone who ever knew you
will die.
if you haven't done anything
to be remembered
then you won't really
have existed.


fake memory.


age brings layers of complexity, added
year by year.
i'm left longing for the simplicity of my youth.
i miss her room and the smell of garlic
when she cooked.
i miss the military precision of her clothes cupboard
and the smooth skin of her back.
i miss her energy and her slothfull
morning rise.
i miss her talk
the way she made me cry.
i miss realising she didn't love me.


for the muse.


my friendship is built on lies, always
wanting more then i'm offered.
not strong enough to walk away?
a frienship built on pity
but still we fit together.

what maddening force created woman?
the softness of your belly flesh,
your smile
able to make me tremble.
the childish mischief and
the energy of your eyes
ingredients for the most divine drug i have ever tasted.

you have given me more than i can ever
hope to repay, you sliced me open
and let me breath again.
my reflection lies to me, tells me
that i'm the one for you.

i don't believe the mirror anymore.
i believe me.
i believe i'm strong enough
to let go.

loving you makes me ache,
your affection is my addiction.
your intelligence my nemesis.
your heart my hero.

you let me taste passion.
and
for that,
my love will not expire.


i hate your heels.


take your vodka
and paint the stink of your life,
person place or thing.
put it down and wrap it in words
preserve the rot
for the morbid
and the humane. to marvel at, and sip wine
on the house.
and then hang it up
like your balls
and let everyone kick them
with shoes more expensive than yours
take the shots thrown and the count.
get up and throw again.
throw your heart and hatred
at their swollen feet.
until you destroy yourself and those
who dared say love under breath
or in tickled ear.
then start again,
finally
with something to say.


light charcoal people.


you are not the person you are
in your head.
you are not as funny as you think
or desireable.
when you talk people are not staggered
by your insight
or earthly, suburban wisdom.
your words do not provoke thought.
are you boring inspite of your
well planed and rehearsed
spontaneity?
probably.
when you walk into a room,
people notice and then blur
your face.
isn't that thingy? they'll say.
what's his face, that guy, you know.
you are like all the rest,
like me,
a shallow dip in the puddle of a mind.
crazy in your own world,
average in others.
but you matter to someone
and that is what counts.


love.


she was thirteen. not beautifull.
i found her for six hundred pounds and
she agreed to get me to work
everyday
so that i could complain at how boring this all was.
i saw all the others driving
wallets and ego
and inside my bucket i laughed.


mine to go.


it's all fairly nice
i suppose, i think
as i perch almost comfortably
in a cracked leather armchair
surrounded by paintings,
bland linear compositions
of mugs of milky coffee.
mounted on a small table in front
of me is a mug of milky air and coffee
that could have bought me a ten deck.
the window lets me see down
onto the crowns of consumers
as they scurry around like dogs.
over the road
a window sits, like an open mouth
displaying the teeth
of an identical coffee shop
complete with linear compositions
and milky air coffee.
escher would be proud.


my candyfloss moment.


opposite a petrol station i stopped
with glued feet.
ears leaking coltrane.
there
like a sickly sweet film scene
without an orchestra
a sky of blue
and pink and puple candyfloss clouds
leaving trails good enough
to eat.
like the stuffing from a torn cushion.
a present left by a gratefull sun.
i stood
looking
smoking
making myself happy
and late for work.
gladly.


my friend the bullet.


i was fifty up after borrowing
ten from a friend.
the bullet had been good to me
bouncing around with kindness
and landing
where i needed it to.
i bet safe all night
covering rows and leaving only four
or five numbers that counld burn me,
but then the beer took hold.
challenging me
to lay it all on the line.
it wanted me to pick red
or black,
odd or even
red or black.
i wanted to be in the back of a taxi,
mortgage money cuddling my pocket
as i watch neon, gathering signs float by.
i wanted to watch a good de niro film
sucking on a beer to keep my peak.
the coward in me was challenged
and lost
and i picked
fifty fifty chance
i lit one up and sucked deep on the filter
as the bullet spun
indifferent
as always.


nail broken skin.


we loved from distance
for months.
through messages.
typed words
that created images
of her lips, her hair and the look on her
when she came.
her passion enough
to scare me, my greed for her flesh
feeding her.
encouraging her.
i imagined her flesh
impossibly smooth.
hips narrower,
breasts larger.
she became perfect.
i rejected her mind and
her traits,
they were unecessary.
i made her cry,
i made her want me.
she sent letters and cards, words
from her heart.

i never said i'm sorry
and meant it.


newsprint blues on a bucket seat.


bombs get dropped,
prices raised,
children grow then go away
only to return and linger
like i did, do.
athletes get caught
like cheating husbands and wives
but not forgiven
only forgotten,
for now or when required.
music still moves me, some times,
like good art
and good wine.
my car breaks down
for the sake of breaking.
i write for the sake of nothing
and smoke
and spend too much.
justice still hides
seen, lurking in shadows
by those who lust for red vengeance.
love is flung
like the frisbee of reason.
indifference still rules
but my laziness reigns
supreme.


nice body, nice neck.


my guitar sits in the corner
alone, but loved, by an idea.
it's hollow wooden body
waits,
for someone,
anyone,
for me,
to fill it with something
worthwhile.
every now and then i pick it up
and caress it with a cloth.
i rid it's body of dust, and play
i try to make it weep
sing
roar something primal.
i try to fingerpick the blues,
some albert king or john lee hooker
but soon
always
i tire of not being a natural
and my guitar sits in the corner
waiting for me to give it a life.


otherfish.


a wooden bowl of soon to be rotting fruit.
decorate the lounge area.
on a table with glass of beer
and ashtray overfowing,
tea stained mug and plates
with orphaned noodles that
swim alone in soy sauce
and chilli broth.
i lounge
and watch fish
as they clean their tank and stones
dancing plants and bogwood.
they swim and clean and then forget
..... and clean again.
i feed them
cucumber
brine shrimp
flakes of fish food.
and wish i was
otherfish.


potential.


what the fuck is a normal life?
sunday roasts
and football matches.
broken hearts
and forty eight hours freedom
before it starts
again and again.
weeks and months
minutes turning into decades
leaving most of us behind,
walking your dog.
fucking on a saturday night.
drinking beer
smoking cigarettes
and wishing
we'd lived up to our parents
dreams.


reasons.


i should be writing
instead i pick at the nail on my small toe.
the page stays clean
as a piece of nail and skin is torn
slowly from my toe
leaving
a sting and the reality of pain.

i listen to Dylan.
i listen to Tom Waits
i stare at the page
mocked by it's purity.
more nail is peeled back
leaving my toe open to infection.


removing stains from the heart.


i typed with a fury, burning words into the paper,
words weaker than the impact of my fingers on the keys.
my floor transformed into a cliche of scattered paper,
rejected thoughts, flat, flavourless.
my throat burned with whisky and cigarettes,
my armpits and forehead dripping.
my words needed to kill.
to hurt you.
but all they did was frustrate me.
i wanted to tell you that you'd failed me
for you to know how rejection felt.
but i never rejected you. nobody did.
the keys tired of my effort, refusing to carry any power.
i wanted to break your smile and tear your laughter
to shreds.
but they wouldn't share the workload.
so i asked them.
what gave you the right to be so damn happy?


room for one.


darkness lives
behind the smiles and
informal acceptance of strangers.
it breeds,
on silence
at dinner tables
or in front of a t.v,
on a policy of ignorance.
its world surroundes
my candle flame and bourbon glass
and the glow
of my 3am cigarette.
but when the world
is dark, my mind
is free,
and fed by darkness
it contemplates
the idea
of light.


seeking a following.


men want love
as much as they can swallow.
they want it in flesh and open
minded obedience.
ready to serve them and be worshiped by others.
men want to be envied,
and free
but loved
and adored.
a woman to worship
sometimes.
who turns her cheek in the face of guilt.
they want love
unconditional.


searching for the past now.


the world got boring on me
when the drunk faded
and those who had spent time
with a clear mind
had found a way
and had made it.
it was catch up time,
drinking had become social,
possessions, not knowledge, critical.
i wondered where the thinkers were,
the dreamers, with thick morning heads
and starved bellies.
a wave of creation has swept up
and left me amongst the sand
of adults.
although the drinkers and dreamers
poets, painters and readers
and friends had spread,
there was still her
with voice and opinion
and flesh and values.
she gives me these words
and a reason
i don't think i deserve.


soul varnish.


he drank beer until it left him swollen
full of slurred wisdom and affection for strangers
he would try to lure into flesh only.
through cigarette smoke and belting choruses
from songs past their prime he gathered any
who found him worthy of their glazed attention
short lived as tunes burst from his lungs.
still buried under the primal calls and garbled
conversation of weekends.
as the night closed and we staggered away
to a painfull morning
he sat alone until ejected by those with clear heads,


tenth day in june.


days
sweaty, like a
film covering
my body. fingers
covered
in salt, which
i lick.
nothing is cold
enough
not beer
not ice,
my cigaretes taste
like dust
no matter
i'll quit
tomorrow.
today i'll stick to things
and read
and eat cake, until
the sun makes my
head
hurt.


the bedroom window.


outside of her i have failed.
outside there exists that guy that
just will not die.
he mocks me,
with less than perfect teeth
and no motive for breathing anymore.
that guy who does not question why he wakes
daily, to drag his feet through life.
a slow burial in a mound of meaningless
paper surrounded by worn carpet
and strangers on first name terms.
witnessess to an existence i wish to reject.
outside of her i am not warm to the touch,
my voice unable to wrap itself around jokes
or common courtesy.
outside there are no white lillies or chocolates
to share.
no twos on cigarettes
or cold bottles of beer against the warmth
of her belly.
i wrap myself in her again and forget
one more reason to go outside.


twisting the wheel.


i scream out though fiery breath
for anyone.
the one i picked out dancing earlier.
her hips and ass moving for me, not music.
as i drown in bourbon and beer and become
wrapped in dancing marlboro smoke. i call to her
with lustfull, red eyes.
willing her to return my call with her own.
i memorise her movement, her hair, her smile,
for later use.


work wounds.


work is a greyness
that weeps from its
nine to five wounds
infecting the day
surrounding it.
each one building toward
the promise of a
break.
a lie in
a duvet shared
with naked contact.
but the more you
enjoy your morning belly flesh
the more grey
seeps into that next
working day.