Office Life

Jokes far worse than Dilbert

make my face contort like Gilbert Grape;

squinting, blinking, mouth agape.

A tape recording on repeat

the same jokes start to grate.

Office life and office people,

officially lifeless, dull bulb people.

Computer screens and squinting eyes,

tea breaks and a slow demise.

Thirty years in the same shit job

that you pretend is important

and you pretend you love.

Thirty years in the same shit job

that you pretend has meaning,

and you pretend you love.

I could repeat it forever

like you repeat every day

what you do repeatedly

for the rest of your days.

Office people, office life,

going home to your little wife.

Words to file,

words not to be seen,

words to file

that don’t mean a thing.

Words to me are like oxygen

and black print hidden for twenty years

is a waste of air.

The green house effect

to be direct is the butterfly effect.

For every book a tree loses a limb

and the death of creativity starts to begin.

Office life and office people,

officially lifeless, dull, dull people.

Office life and office people,

lose their dreams to richer people.

Thirty years in the same shit job

that you pretend has meaning,

that you pretend you love.

Thirty years in the same shit job,

that you pretend has meaning,

that you don’t really love.

Writers Block

Writers block

caused by censorship,

a swing of the hip

and a wagging of the finger.

This writers block lingers

so I let the middle finger linger

and turn it upright

for in this plain sight

is a poet

writing about anything and everything,

engraving and saving

the memory of the world

that surrounds me.

O, I love you Ali.

O, Ali I love you.

I thought I’d marry you,

be with you and care for you

but you broke my heart in two.

Why do some people say

life is better off that way?

Being alone and being gay

is harder than alone and straight.

O, I love you Ali.

O, Ali I love you.

Really thought I’d marry you

but you ripped my heart in two,

really thought I’d marry you…

Why do some people say

you’re better off alone and gay,

dirty stop outs play away

eating out new muff each day.

O, I love you Ali.

O, Ali I love you.

I love your heart and arse and boobies too.

Really thought I’d marry you

but you ripped my heart in two…

Moonlight

I’ve got a secret

I can’t tell you.

You have secret

that expels you.

I’ve got a secret

that I tell you.

You hear my secret

and I fall through.

I’m in the darkness,

’cause I told you.

You’re in the darkness

and you hide you.

I’m in the darkness,

I reach for you.

You’re in the darkness,

I can’t find you.

In normal darkness

I would hold you.

In normal darkness

I would fuck you.

In normal moonlight

I would hold you.

In normal moonlight

I would love you.

In this new moonlight

the moon’s crushed you.

In this new moonlight,

the lights burn you.

In this new moonlight

the eyes hold you.

In this new moonlight

the court’s taught you.

In this new moonlight

it expels you.

In this new moonlight

the light sees you.

In this new moonlight

I truly see you.

In this new moonlight

I truly see you.

In this new moonlight

you are just you.

In this new moonlight

I still love you.

In this new moonlight

I still love you.

Monkeys In the Back Room

Monkeys in the back room

making pastry skin,

talcing it to make it paler

and slicing in wet grins.

Monkeys in the back room

get out some currants and some grease

they slather on the ointment

and create currant S.T.D’s.

Monkeys in the back room

they created AID’S.

It’s the planet of the apes now

you monkey bummed and now you pay.

Monkeys in the back room

cooking up a nice surprise.

STD’S and foaming rabies

all add to our demise.

Monkeys in the back room

fighting a new war,

putting currants on the cocks

of the greedy and the poor.

Monkeys in the back room

gonna make us pay.

Monkeys in the back room

gonna kill us all today.

Passion

Passion,

what is passion?

To Bratz it is a passion for fashion

but for me, it’s deep.

It’s sleep,

but it’s you sleeping next to me,

being with me,

day in, day out.

It’s you, Ali.

It’s the bongo beat of her heart.

It starts,

it beats, it barks for me.

Animalistic,

I bite and it eat whole.

I slip in her skin,

I greet her soul.

It’s the beat of her heart;

we are sinners.

We are not each others firsts

but to this we’re beginners.

You’re a keeper,

you’re a winner,

you’re my nightly dinner,

not fellatio, cunnilingus,

cum on my fingers,

entrench them and drench them

in who you are and what’s inside you.

You’re you.

You’re you.

And I’m inside you.

We are circles,

flowers,

spurting and squirting,

your vagina sneezes and squeezes me.

It gives my fingers a hug

then lets go,

your heart slows,

glowing with the radiation

of post coital love.

This mini death

is not enough

so we do it again

and again.

The circle doesn’t end.

Make Tea Not War.

Houses close together,

no room for real territory,

its derogatory

in a ten storey flat

surrounded by rats.

They’re the King of your castle.

It’s a farce. All these cars

to drive short journeys to places

with smaller spaces.

You’ve got your shoes,

you’ve got your laces,

tie them and go.

Let your muscles grow,

we’re so slow,

losing control of our feet.

Of the beats within us.

Roxette said to listen to your heart,

it’s a start, our natural rhythm

is dwindling and hinders

the fire to cinders.

A fires gone out

so what’s it about?

Life.

A man walks through Waterloo

station with the patience

and honour of God’s angels.

His angle was all right.

He was healthy and slight,

he was black, all in white

and he carried a bag.

He sang.

He sang for God and Jesus

and we all thought:

Jesus he is good,

with food for thought.

He caught us in a moment

of simple joy and serenity.

Serenity and peace.

I don’t want to be a preacher

and I won’t preach to you,

beseech you

or beg of you not to pray to God

but to pray for us.

To pray for change,

for us to say “I forgive us,

let’s start again,

let’s be friends.

Let’s start with Hello’s.

We’ll take it slow.

Cold straight to hot

can be fatal.

I’m not asking for passion,

presentation and charm.

Let’s not do harm.

Nice, nice, nice,

not sugar and spice.

It’s not the 60′s any more

but darling, let’s make tea not war.

The Most Melancholy Choir.

The most melancholy,

macabre and disconcerting choir,

the sparks of the brimstone

and the sparks of the fire.

The lines glide gleaming to the next stop,

swooping and screaming, bat-like to its coop

the sparks and the screams leave little denial

of this unending choir on repeat, on a loop.

No steam trains and smoke for the glory of Gothic,

only tube trains toiling and boiling, screeching beneath

screaming and streaming, these worms through their hole

demand a voice and a hearing through gritted teeth.

The most melancholy,

macabre and disconcerting choir,

the sparks of the brimstone

and the sparks of the fire.

“The chaos is the pay off

for clanging and bangs

and for this orchestra of torture”

the choir clearly sang.

They sang for the noise,

the action and bangs

“Why do you need chaos?”

They repeatedly sang.

The train horn screamed steamy,

and the train halted in dust.

No one to get on

this train of rot and of rust.

The choir got off,

their voices grew fainter and soft

and they sang so soft and sombre

for the lives they had lost.

The choir couldn’t grow older

and grow out of the choir

and were destined for the melancholy

singing and sparks for the fire.

They turned back to the train

and re took their seats

as the record re-hooked

on its loop and the sparks did re-heat.

With their angelic screams

they took it from the top

as the train disappeared into the darkness

racing eternal to the next stop.

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah

He offered words to the birds

because their coos were too crooning.

He offered the knife and fork a small spork

because the spoons, they kept spooning

and through it all, the world,

it keeps moving;

as somebody wins somebody’s bruising.

Bruised cheek, last week,

she can not talk, she can not speak.

Black eye, don’t know why,

the only break she gets on sheets.

Get her breath back, count to ten

then it’s time to fuck again.

Aint got no love, aint got no friends,

got no Mother, it’s men, men, men.

And where is he as spoons do spoon

and little black birds groove and croon?

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,

my oh my, is the world starting to pay.

Plenty of sunshine, boiled grass looks like hay

no food to eat now, so let’s pray for rain.

And the black’s don’t have souls until ’76,

and the towers, they crumble, like fallen twix.

Have a break, have a kit kat as you kill the world

and the rainforest dwindles, palm oil is like pearls.

The world is our oyster and we suck it dry

and get more fat on our backs from eating food fried.

As we get fat arses and doubled double chins

we chuck it all in one bag, fuck recycling bins.

He offers words to the birds

and a buzz for the bees

but where are the crutches

for that whore on her knees.

People get trafficked

and there are millions missing,

for Him to find them

would be like going fishing.

He sits with a line

that is hooked and the sunk

in this Hades realm of lost souls

that are drugged up or drunk.

They can’t grab His line

because it’s not even there,

invisible and hidden

they think nobody cares.

To bite onto His bait

would be like a mouth full of cock

and these poor little choir boys

are sick of having that shock.

Whose to blame for these paedophiles

that can run amock

and throw women in prisons

and keep them locked up?

It’s the Jews,

it’s the gays,

it’s anyone but themselves.

What does He think when he sees this?

Religions in bad health.

In fact it is dying, critical, comatose.

It’s been dying since Chaucer

with the priest whose nose grows.

Not literal, but cynical,

they are all lying c*nts.

Anything to get money,

they pull stupid stunts

like saying “to get into Heaven

you must pay your way.

There’s an entrance fee on the door

or down you go with the gays.”

I’m sick of this fear

and I’m sick of their lies,

Catholicism and cynicism

hold hands in the night.

Do you think that priest prays for your soul

as he counts up those riches?

Does he fuck! He’s a pimp,

and you’re all his bitches.

So Zip-a-dee-doo-dah,

zip-a-dee-fucking-day,

let’s pay the bigots

and let’s hang the gays.

Let’s say Jews killed Jew Jesus

and the Roman’s saved the day,

let’s say the Holocaust never happened

and in a holiday camp they stayed.

“Yeah, they’re a bit skinny,

but that’s just their race.

Too fucking tight to buy food

and put it on plates.”

And that’s what sticks in my throat

and makes me choke,

that these issues of seriousness

are a big fucking joke.

And the people that matter,

the victims,

the dead,

they are forgotten and scorned

and put in their beds.

Shooed like a child

with wild thoughts and nightmares;

“Darling, Auschwitz never existed

now get up those stairs.”

How can our children

learn empathy and love

if we won’t learn from our mistakes?

Instead we are innocent, Gov.

We can’t teach children the past

if it is emotive and sad

but we let them play violent computer games

and question behaviour bad.

And what does He think

when He sees the ghosts of the dead

who lost their lives for nothing

and for Him they were led.

Does He feel guilty

as he croons with the birds

when for those lost and missing

He can’t give them the words,

or the chance to jump out and escape

like a Jack in the box?

Instead they are winded back in again

and the door is then locked.

To Him I do ask,

do we learn and get better?

Or do we keep repeating

the same mistakes forever?

I listen, no answer,

what do I expect?

I’m just a fish in the water,

hungry and vexed.

Swimming for answers

and diving for truths

but these truths are old

and so is this news.

“Zip-a-dee-doo-dah”

God softly croons

as the birds twitter and tweet

and the poppy’s do bloom.

One day we’ll get answers,

maybe one day soon

but for now the birds sing

and the whores sit alone in their rooms.

Talos

Bronzed and beautiful,

sleeping like a baby;

your stance in eternal preparation

for the battle beneath.

A coma of the toes,

you are rudely awakened

by cramp

and a handsome hands on thief

rifling through your tomb.

You turn your stiffened neck,

frowning in confusion

and cold, avenging anger.

Your one vein heats up,

hotter than the Sardinians

placed in a sardine tin

of your boiled embrace.

He notices you

and the terror that graces his face

is in respect to your raw brawn

that brandishes itself

on your taut, iron body.

All you wanted was a decent nights kip

and instead you are forced

to attack these argonauts of arrogance.

They run,

ants racing for shelter and escape.

You defend your home,

your belongings

and your honour

as you smite them with rocks

that rip through skin and bone.

You stand alone.

One brave, bronzed soldier

with a chip on his shoulder

and a bolt on his boot:

A slowly smoting bolt from Zeus,

rusting from the fire of his faith

that your destiny is his.

The man with one sandal

sneaks behind you,

with no need to stab you in the back

when he can go for the jugular of your ankle.

The cork pops

and out spurts the bubbles of your life force.

The metallic in your mouth

is the dried rusted blood of your demise.

You roar, you fall, you die;

and for Talos no man cries.

Thirst.

Thirst.

Some people thirst for romance,

like a cherry ghost,

wanting and waiting to be popped.

It is a weasel

that’s been pawned

for a bevvie in the bar;

a different thirst:

a thirst for social acceptance

or an alcoholic need.

It is the unquenchable desire

for success,

and money

over family and love.

It is a thirst for knowledge,

for change,

for the acceptable to become

unacceptable,

to become extinct.

It is a thirst for escape,

as the key locks

and they wonder

just what they did wrong

as the nuns

reign down,

heavy and powerful

with their tiny rocks of fists.

It is a thirst for justice.

For a queer religion

to not fear women

or hate them

for their beauty,

naivete,

and youth.

It is that thirst

for forgiveness.

For the all powerful priests

to bathe their bodies

in the Holy water;

to let them dance in it,

free and wild,

bathing in their love of God.

Drinking Him.

Devouring Him.

Forgiving Him

for a religion that dooms them

at birth.

They wish to throw the water

up high into the air,

watching as it falls

like gravity’s tears.

Earth Hour.

Don’t get me wrong,

I like a panda as much as

the next person,

and those little monkeys

hopping and swinging about

with their big red bums out

give me much amusement

at a zoo.

Don’t get me wrong,

it’s a shame the lions

are dying out

and that the seas are rising

and the fish are diminishing;

but really,

I’m just one bloke

whose meant to be turning his lights off

on a night that the footy’s on.

It’s only a few lights on and the T.V

(cranked up loud for added effect),

so what’s the big deal?

Yeah, so, two football pitches

worth of rainforest

is being destroyed

every five seconds

(or some ridiculously

small amount of time like that)

but we all like a good Kit Kat

don’t we?

I just wish this world

would get off its bloody high horse

and leave me with my beers,

my T.V and my football team to cheer.

You all carry on with your little candles,

your little prayers,

and your silly little websites

that are asking for support.

We are all fucked in 2012 anyway.

I Am A Wasp.

I am a wasp.

An eternal, painful memory

in most children’s childhoods,

along with stinging nettles

and the death of their first pet.

I am a wasp.

A rebel without

a cause,

a wild eyed,

slim-ringed loner

with no friends,

or a need for them.

I am a wasp.

I will chase you

when you try to enjoy

your sunny BBQ.

I will sense your fear

as it quenches my thirst for more

as I sit on the rim

of your coca cola can.

I am a wasp,

a layabout,

with no job and no purpose.

Those dumbass drone bees

should be more like me:

Powerful,

Independent,

Slim,

Manly.

My sting does not pull out

after one virginal penetration

into the flesh.

I can do what I want.

Sting who I want.

Whenever I want.

Those bees have nothing on my kind,

with their constant obsessive worry

that if they don’t do

their pathetic,

shitty,

menial job

the world will end.

So what if it does?

They buzz around,

buzzing away

like busy little bees

that are busy saving the world.

Maybe it was that stress and pressure

that made them so fucking fat.

I am a wasp.

Now fuck off

before I sting you.

I Am A T. Rex.

I am a T. Rex.

The most feared creature

and tyrant of all time.

I am also extinct,

which makes the probabilty

of me writing this poem

slim to none.

I am a T. Rex.

I can not do push ups,

but I can rip anything and

everything apart

with my tremendous teeth;

in particular I like vegetarians

because the irony amuses me.

I am the thalidomide child

from a prehistoric era;

but my era is historical

because I am of course

in history

as the greatest and most fearsome

creature of all time.

I am a T. Rex.

Leader of all Lands,

and killed only by something

that came from out of space.

My machismo mass massacre ways

are seen on such films as

Jurassic Park,

Jurassic Park II

and if they bothered to do a third

I was in that too.

I am also the inspiration

behind popular characters

in this modern culture

such as Godzilla and Rex

out of Toy Story.

I am a T. Rex.

My piss-pant inducing prowess

is cartoonized in children’s

t – shirts which depict me

as small, green and cute.

Sometimes a speech bubble

will say “Rawr” in tiny letters

which is wholly unrealistic.

It is indeed fact, that I would deafen

those little toddlers,

and give them the bollocking

of their life, as they listened

in their offensive

and emasculating shirts,

then I would rip them to shreds

to teach them the importance

of respecting your prehistoric elders.

I am a T – Rex.

Now fuck off

before I make you as extinct as me.

My Heart Goes Pop.

Don’t tear my heart,

my achey break heart,

for if you do

expensive and extensive

life saving surgery

will have to happen

and it is highly likely

and completely possible

that I could die.

A million love songs later

and here I am, trying to tell you

that I have written and sang

the word “love”

Twenty two million, three hundred

and fourty eight times.

It has left me with a hoarse voice

and rheumatism in my right hand,

my writing hand.

All at the tender age of twenty-three.

I’m loving angels instead

‘cuz through it all

they remain unseen and unheard.

They do not complain

if I pick my nose and wipe it

on the carpet.

Nor do they shout at me

to do boring chores

when I could be playing X box instead

When you’re in love with a beautiful woman

you watch your eyes

as you develop a nervous twitch

in the greying bags beneath them.

This beautiful woman has cheated on you

because you are not good enough,

never will be good enough,

and don’t know how to find her clitoris

with a magnifying glass.

This crazy little party girl,

how you love her.

Particularly when she isn’t

chugging her guts up,

dancing like a spastic

and foaming at the mouth

from all those E’s.

I would do anything for love,

but I won’t do that,

you dirty bastard.

If I could turn back time

I would never have gotten with you

in the first place.

I get so emotional baby

every time I think of you.

This is because you are

selfish,

devious,

conceited,

conniving,

denying,

crocodile-crying,

and above all…

never trying.

Isn’t it shocking what love can do?

I’m leaving on a jet plane.

Goodbye forever,

I won’t be back again.

P.S Your morning breath

is like a cat’s bum hole

on a hot and humid day.

Don’t save your kisses for me

‘cuz love aint here any more.

Ode To Orange.

Orange is a colour,

is a very pretty colour,

is a very witty colour

indeed.

Orange is an orange

that is the colour orange

which is really quite bananas,

indeed.

Orange is a carrot

but not a golden carat

so there really is no connection

to see;

but gold that does spark

can help you see in the dark

like carrot helps a rabbit,

you see.

Orange is the sun

it is our only one

but it also is a paper to read.

This paper gives us tabloid news

intermingled with real truths

about the future of our planet

to read.

Orange is a colour,

is a very pretty colour,

is a very witty colour,

indeed.

Mario IIII: The Racist World.

O.K,

so,

I’m just a plumber,

I’m just a simple Italian plumber.

You know,

the sort who works on pipes

and eats lots of spaghetti

(trust me,

the stereotypes are there

for a reason).

So as I was saying,

I was hard at work

on some old boilers pipes,

giving them a good seeing to

and any other innuendoes

you can think of

that make my job of

sifting through shit

seem much cooler than

it actually is.

So,

there I was plunging away

when I get a phone call

from the King!

I mean,

the King rang me!

I said:

“Mamma-Mia!

Carbanara

with bacon bits!

Is this a joke?

Am I on Trigger Happy T.V?”

to which he replied:

“No Mr. Mario,

I am afraid this is no joke.

It is in fact

as real as real can get for you.

I’m afraid my daughter,

my darling daughter

- what a peach! -

has been kidnapped

by an demonic dragon!

We need you,

Mr. Mario

- and your slightly less popular

brother Luigi -

to help save my daughter.”

To this I laughed heartily

as one would after a lot

of spaghetti meatballs

and fine Italian wine.

The King continued,

in his sternest of stern voice:

“This is no joke Mr. Mario,

we the higher people

selected you at random

for the job.

We were hoping for someone

with S.A.S intelligence,

a ninja,

or a karate kid,

but we are no bad sports.

Mr. Mario, you have 50.5 seconds

to get on the roof

where a chopper will collect you.”

I hung up the phone

and ejaculated:

“Pepperoni pizza!

And tomato ketchup!”

before racing to the roof

of my apartment block.

In the helicopter

as we flew

to my destiny

a hard ass,

smart ass told me

what he thought of me,

an illegal immigrant

in his Amazing Country.

“We are Nintendo pal,

we don’t need no fat

little Guido’s

like you,

with your shit little

red dungarees

when you should be

making pasta and pizza

or smashing grapes

and eating and drinking

which is all you lot seem to do.

Why don’t you fuck off home

and leave us to save the princess.

She’s not your princess anyway,

guinea-pig fat boy.”

It was then that I realised

that stereotypes are there

for more than the reason

of showing our heritage

and interests proudly.

It gave guys like this

the opportunity

to get their boiled pots

off the hob

and onto plates

ready to dish out their poison

to those that don’t wish

to hear it.

And it was then

that I thumped him,

hard,

in the back of the head

and he passed out.

The helicopter went down.

We were out like two lights.

Our helicopter landed in the land

of the Yoshi’s

who, upon seeing this succulent arrival,

stuck out their long tongues

like lassoes

and swallowed us whole.

I can only assume

that my wholesome,

plump little body

was better than his bitterness.

Whispers in a Jar.

Hard, dry, crumbling ground,

quietly cracking from the explosives

hidden, breathless beneath.

Sixty years before

small, grimy, gentle little hands

in the darkness before dawn

had dug deep, with determination

to hide something within them.

It was a secret that

wouldn’t be known for six long decades.

Those children grew

into stunted, tortured, twisted bodies

that could not escape

those harsh, tense touches in the night.

Lying in bed,

they wait for the creaking crack

in the door to grow in size

and for the shadow to flirt with the ground

and the decision of whether or not

to rape a child.

Eyes surrounded by puffy wrinkles

still wait, with the covers

pulled up tight to their chins.

The home for children

was meant to be a haven

of safety and security;

but instead of colourful crayon

drawings placed proudly on the walls

there were whispered words

written in light, shaky hands.

Light enough to be almost invisible,

these children were hidden from a world

not yet ready to understand.

In that day and age such things

did not exist

and were easily missed by blind eyes,

milky with the dew of patriotism and ignorance.

Sixty years on and those brittle,

broken words are finally heard.

They escape from the cracked jars

they had been banging on,

burdened and buried under the crumbling ground.

Like a phoenix they rise

free from those lies and the perversion

of people who were meant to care.

No Average Joe.

Mighty Joe Young is on T.V,

wild and feral,

wrecking the place

due to the injustice

of his situation;

and all I can think is

“Joe, please pick up some drumsticks

and play Phil Collins.”

My sympathy for gorilla’s

has been destroyed by Cadbury’s chocolate.

Judgement Day.

A million-million millennium domes,

the year is 2010

and I am a Judge,

Father Christmas

or in the clouds.

Heat rises as the downpour

of heat

falls

causing the clouds to rise to attention

higher and higher

until they are a jury of mountains,

created by fountains.

The only leaky tap is my nose.

This unknown creature

glides over my skin,

intimate like a lover,

and looks up

with its billion eyes

staring and accusing.

So many eyes,

all with slightly different

and slightly skewered reflections

and perceptions of the truth.

The heat is on

and clouds the mirror

of the small society

created by Radox.

A wet knife can not slice away

the many miniscule details

that make Santa’s beard

but a dry pointed finger can out rule a Judge.

The plug is pulled on this court case.

I rise.

Leaves on a Tree.

It’s brought up,

that time,

in the regurgitation of your past

as it falls down the toilet bowl.

In passing comments,

brief,

like little jabs with pins

or a swift burn on the top of the oven.

You can’t cremate the past

and blow it away

with a typical blustery British wind.

A typical English family,

not the last in England

but one of them.

We cling together,

pale leaves on a tree,

whimpering and dying out,

falling one by one

onto an urban cracked ground.

You fell first,

you fell with pills in your hand

and tears in your eyes.

You fell for him

years before

and he repays you

by raping your trust

and shredding your confidence

while enjoying the heat

in the Mediteranian.

Did he ever think of us?

You keened, a wild animal,

destroyed by a sight you couldn’t forget

of young firm tits,

a smiling face

and an exotic background.

Why didn’t he take you,

try and make it work

instead of an easier,

more ego stroking option?

You can only leave him

by falling off our tree

into a soft wind

of whispers and clouds.

It wasn’t the end

and thank God for that

because I love you

and you broke my heart.

My leaf fell too,

the family split in two.

Now there is one less perfect family

in England.

Birds in the Dusk.

The soft red glow

warms a room with no windows

to the outside world.

A world that is an unwelcome distraction

to us

as we travel around

the planets that are our bodies.

I circle you,

kissing and chasing

expanses of land, hills and caves.

The island of your plump lip,

juicy and moist,

presses against mine.

I look inside your bra

and see far away birds,

little “m” shapes in an areola dusk

flying towards the pink, pointed sun.

I too reach for this dream location,

and take this vision of serenity

into my mouth.

As the birds remain static,

frozen by the dusk turning to night,

I go further south

to warmer and more welcoming climates,

our travelling quickens pace

and with urgency

and sharpened breaths

we both come to the same destination.

Saving Face

I brought a mask

from a charity shop

in Richmond;

one of those classy shops

with decent shit.

The mask was softly textured,

yet solid

and firm in its morals

which was clear

when you knocked on the wood

and also in the carvings

of its regal, native, nomad face.

Two moons later

as the sucked smartie,

derived of colour, dissipated

into the blue of morning

my wife found out

about my affair.

It wasn’t the knickers

in the

c

r

e

v

i

c

e

of my back pocket,

still stained from the action

in the back seat of my car.

It wasn’t the condom wrapper,

crisp, clinical and open

as it released the demons

from Pandora’s box.

It wasn’t even the sordid texts

over the period

of a gasping, sweating, lusting year.

It wasn’t any of these things.

No.

That mask was fucking cursed.

Scissors

You sit there

holding hands in a circle

of other little girls

that wear skirts with no knickers

and strap-ons underneath their clothes.

You make daisy chains

of dew, milking out of sacred holes

that you give too easily.

Fingers delve in,

hard and probing

but they don’t probe into you,

who you are

and what you do.

You sit in your chain,

tied to a web

based on dating sites.

Has your Gaydar gone off yet?

Like cheese left out in the open,

you will grow bluey-green

with new holes in your naked

alien body

and bruises from gone teeth.

What happened to real love?

The girl you sit next to

tells you what you want to hear

and you listen, interested

and sincere,

only for you both to turn,

a mirror image of one another,

and repeat the same Ground hog words

to the smiling, interested

and sincere girl

next to you.

I smile and listen to your tales

of arrogance,

as you talk of girls you “blew off”

for other dates

and girls who cling and cry

like they are a game in an

amusement arcade.

Insert your silver in her slot

and watch her go.

I smile,

because somewhere in the circle

two links were broken

only for them to connect to each other

and make their own circle.

Not vicious, repetitive,

cheap or cruel,

but a circle of what real sisterly love is.

We lock legs,

create an instrument that wounds

but neither of us gets hurt.