THE CURIOUS TALE OF WALTER COLLINS.

That curious Collins child
replaced with the face
of a child with less grace
and honour.
Your honour I swear
I never touched a hair
on that young chaps head
and now you say he is dead.
I axe you,
what man could I be
to destroy the innocence
and peace
of an angelic child?
Children are wild.
They should be penned up
like chickens, and hens
and I pen this lack of confession.
For you see I'm on a misson
to save this neck from the rope.
He was scooped up and cooped up
to tame him and frame him
and his curious, curious life.
I axe you.
Why would I take the life
of such an angelic child
with wings wild and in need of clips?
You could say he flew away
only to be replaced
with the face of a child
who had less grace.
Your honour I swear
I never touched a hair
on that young chaps head
and now you say he is dead.
I axe you.

PEA GREEN QUEEN.

The rocking boat
the pea green stance
the violin
the vials dance
and trickle down wet worn skin
into water
diluting sin.

The crooked boat
the poets play
the oars on both sides
now in affray
bashing hard and beating water
to save me from
wandering from her.

Closer closer closer still
with withered hope and free will
the crooked boat
its drifting dew
to end its wanders
and doubts for new.

The poet sits
and writes some lines
but the letters translate
into vines
the water trickles
onto words
they are not needed
to cure these hurts.

The poet sits
its all thats needed
for this crooked boat
so poorly treated.
With passion and fire
it has been heated
and with wary haste
the two are greeted.

A united front
in shy smiled haste
this boat and poet
full of grace
take to the lake
to find new parts
of themselves
and of their hearts.

These beating, bashing oars on blue
thus keep me from wandring from you.
The reign holds me in,
the warmth of my queen
who drifted lonely
as a boat pea green.

CATERPILLAR BOY.

There was a caterpillar boy
whos refusal to sleep would annoy
his rather startled, brutal mother
"to have a child i shant have bothered!"
she snorted with a horrid glee
for little grubs she had a greed
to eat them all with Father Pa
a butter bean with battered car.
Theyd drive caterpillar boy round town
and take him to cafes then drown
him in a waterfall of salt
then before they dined theyd buy a malt
liquer then lick their confused son
who theyd try to roll into a bun.
This gave the poor lad a phobic stance
to being trapped so he would dance
and dodge and skip
avoiding his fathers liqourice whip
and trip of the tongue as he would leer
and tell the boy hed taste best in a year.
The parents held back on their meal
he'd be best at christmas they did feel
but by that time it was too late
and they did suffer an empty plate
for caterpillar boy faced his night frights
and slept in a tomb that grew skin tight
until he broke out and burst anew
into butterfly boy and flew
far and wide for he was free
from those who were so full of greed.

SPACE ODDITY.

The girl knew the moon was made of cheese,
she took a bite. It cratered a wheeze.
How she choked and how she sneezed!
She forgot she had bad allergies.

ANARCHY.

I deform and desecrate the crown
to cause a frown of confusion
as a fuse explodes
or a river expands into a great lake.
Crash, bang, splash, kerrang.
It is the melon dragged from soil
by fingers that stumble and toil.
It is a smashed bulb in darkness,
a test tube, used, bruised and renewed
in a place of ideas and fears.
This hierarchy tears itself apart.
Graced by a need to hide
from undesired short backs
and sides.

PRAY.

My face: A coin
with a date.
It scrapes against rocks
until it is a brown circle,
a metal inedible
chocolate button.

Without identity
there can be no real consequence.

My stomach:
A ricocheted fork
pranging and praying
for stillness
as reverberation
is a gospel singing reverend
who won't quit.
Lest we forget
the lungs that sweat
a folding,
raining
hallelujah.

Who knew each breath could cry?

My heart:
The loud clapping of hands
believing all they hear
from the bible of my brain.
My psalms are clammy
and tight fisted.
Trying for another moist breath
is too much of a cross
to bare.

The hope is in healing.
To grant faith in the unknown.
To allow the coin to save face,
to stop panic reigning down on lungs
and for the fork to remain still
through lack of impact
against me.
For thine is the divine,
the power
and the glory.

Amen.

SILICONE BABY.

An orange Mother
at the gym
worked out hard
to keep slim.

She went on sun beds,
had face peels,
pampered her feet
and wore heels.

One day she saw
she'd put on weight
so to the surgeon
she set a date.

"Doctor rid me
of this weight.
All I have is salad
on a plate!
I go to the gym
I work out hard
and now obesity
is on the cards."

The doctor looked
and stood quite still,
"My darling girl
are you on the pill?"

The woman opened
her full lipped mouth
and thought hard
which caused a pout.

She took a test
and got a plus.
The woman scowled
and then did cuss.

"A baby now
is on its way
and this now means
I'll put on more weight!
I shall get marks
and large veins
and on my arm pits
I'll get stains.
I shall start now
I shall prepare
with botox
and new underwear."

The woman went off,
brought some youth
then went to the gym
and spread her news.
She did some yoga
and the splits
all with gravity
defying tits.

Nine months later
she called triple nine
and kept a frozen face
the whole time.

"I dont want this baby
to age me.
To be calm and sage
is clearly key.
I learnt in yoga
to be wise
and after birth
I'll get new thighs."

With one big heave
there was a pop
and those who saw
needed botox.
The baby was
unnatural
and the horror
indeed factual:

With sunken cheeks
and slitted eyes,
a face pulled back:
a faux surprise.

A waste of fresh
smelled baby skin
devoid of wrinkles
with leg rolls slim.

The baby pouted
and then preened
from natural beauty
it had been weaned.

The doctor gasped
and then surmised
"through birth this
baby never cried."

"If this here baby
shed such tears
she'd know she'd age
many years

and if she were
to catch the pox
the stress indeed
would need botox."

The mother nodded
and agreed
then for perfect stitches
she was wheeled.

The baby lay
and was all calm
in her incubator
oil of olay balm.

OPERATE.

We lay together in your cold, pristine room with the street light outside shining on my face like an interrogation lamp. You always needed to know what was going on inside; my thoughts, my feelings and the fears which caused my nightmares. How was I to know this information was only desired for ammunition? The bayonet was hung up for now and you were still learning how to use it properly. How to slice into me where it would never heal. Your sheets were crisp and the bed hard, reminding me of an operating table. Soft lips pressed down hard on mine, forcing me to open up. How personal it is, to kiss. I stroked your limp hair away from your face and ran fingers down your neck. My baby.















Harsh bristles chafed against the smoothness of my skin. You lifted your head up, and although the light from outside caused shadows on your face in the darkness I could feel your almond eyes on me. "I love you." you said in the brittle voice that always seemed to be trapped inside your somewhere, like you were talking into yourself. The silence hung there like a man on the gallows waiting for the end. All I could think about was how irritating the light was in my eyes because when I looked away from it I was blind. I shifted about as I looked down and cleared my throat. Your hard, slim body tensed against mine as you lifted your arms and broke the embrace that had held us together. "Don't you love me?"

I shook my head remembering the first night we had met. How disinterested I had been and how you had pursued. Like a spoilt child eternally determined to get what you want you had told me I was stunning and had taken your breath away. Although I knew the chat up line was older than my Grandad I realised I had been single too long from being too fussy and decided it was time to have some fun. The good times didn't last long though and I soon saw the mood swings and the vindictiveness. Your venomous tongue could spit out poison and have me doubled over on my knees in minutes. Like a sculptor you would carve into me and transform me into what you wanted. "I don't know. I don't know. I don't know what you want from me." I said. My voice was small and my lips curled into a grimace. I did love you. I just didn't know if it was enough. Your body sent an electric shock to mine as you jolted from my words.

All you ever wanted was the unconditional love that you couldn't get from your family. A Father in the army who came into your room at night when he returned on leave and a Mother who turned a blind eye to it, pretended to still be asleep as her husband swapped one bed for another. It was too much for me. I was too small a crutch for your pain. You climbed off the operating table that had ripped us apart and put us back together again with plasters of apologies and bandages of poorly thought out cliché gestures. We were each others novice surgeon and didn't have a clue how to make these scars heal. You looked down on me as I lay there wounded; your face denied of any emotion. I raised my hand to yours and when it was in my grasp you shook me off, sneered, and walked away.

BROWN PAPER BAG.

And I was breathing in a way
that was illogical and strange.
It didn't take away the pain,
but made it worse like chains
that tighten round my chest.
Medications for the best,
but I like it less and less,
it makes me such a mess.
Breathing to exist,
thats the part I must have missed.
It's like im dying like I wished,
but I didnt mean it,
didn't mean it,
I dont want to go.
So I must breathe slow
and calm
because I know the panic can not kill
like it says it will.
But still my head is spinning
and my racing mind is winning.
And I say this isn't real,
this isn't real,
and repeat it through my lips
as I respire little sips.
And the room still spins.
It just wont quit,
but I get stronger bit by bit,
it's just a shame I feel like shit.

LUNARCY.

When the moon hits your eye

like a big piece of pie-

that's death on impact I reckon.

POTATOES.

Potatoes have eyes but they can't wink!
Potatoes have eyes but they can't blink!
Potatoes have eyes but they can't see
I'm gonna chop them up and have chips for tea!

NO ENTRY.

She can't welcome you in
when the doors fully bolted,
from the inside
she's in a land where she's faulted.
The memories haunt
as they dance to the rhythm
and her demons
they're screaming "There's no carpe diem."
She seizes the past
instead of the present
and thats why there's a descent
instead of an up,
and instead of being full
there's an empty cup.
Not even half full,
or a quarter,
theres nothing,
and the people in her dreams
are mocking and scoffing.
These alcoholic drinks
they're greedily quaffing.
Drink up,
keep drinking,
drink til you drown.
Suffocate on vodka
as you laugh, you fake clowns.
She laughs pretty loud,
so fake she astounds
as she takes hold of this tower
and stands at the top,
embracing the air
she gracefully flops.
Closes her eyes
and the air hits her face,
then she's kissing the ground
and there's no more space
or concept of time
in the blackness of death.
The doors fully bolted,
its time now for rest.

EDIBILITATING.

Laugh it out loud
and show that youre proud of me
for being me
and being free enough
to say what I feel.
I'm real.
I'm so real
but you just make a meal
out of what I'm not,
the things I'm not so hot about.
Put me in the oven and scold me,
burn me out 'til there's charred remains
and I cant feel any more,
can't feel this pain.
Get the cutlery out,
prod at the tenderness that makes me raw.
May you thaw with age,
but by then it's too late
and there's too many memories
piled up on my plate.
I'm not hungry any more Ma
may I be excused?
'Cos my stomachs in knots
and my ego is bruised.
I'm just a confused kid
who should have hid
when dinner was served,
'cos I'm on the menu
ripped apart by these words.
They echo in my ear,
they're so clear
as I hear my dear mum
with the carving knife.
It's a sign of the times:
dissect me and see
whats on the inside.
Tear me apart
'til theres nothing but bones.
Chewed up and spat out,
my soul devoured at home.

DING DONG.

I had a ding,
I had a dong.
I had a reason
to sing along.
A spring in my step
as fresh as daisys,
the potential to maybe
feel love crazy.
Bang its over.
Now you hate me.
For your problems
you try and blame me.
Standing ground
on crushed daisys,
who else have you
fucked up lately?
With ur cynical sarcastic rating,
why do you even bother dating?
When you spend ur whole time slating,
berating
and hating.
It's not my fault
your over compensating
on terrible things
that are in ur past,
you need to let go
or nothing will last.
So fuck off.
Fuck you.
Get off ur ass.
Let it go and let it pass
who's to say
a hearts made of glass?
Who's to say it's ok to cast
down ur anger onto me
and drag it on:
this misery.
If it makes u feel better
blame it on me,
if it makes it hurt less
blame it on me,
'cos we both know
I'm not in the wrong
and we both know
this wont last long.
So get it right
or get it wrong
I'm still going,
I'm still gone.

HEROIN CHIC.

So sophistimicated

and constantly rated.

Emaciated

in fine gown sheets,

covering up bones

that hide underneath.

Lay down the pall velvet

and the warmth of the wreath,

shiny plastic beauty

is shrouded in grief.

Behind white lines

is a lack of belief,

behind flashing lights

are dirty sheets.

So ladies and gentlemen

please take ur seats

for the cat walk queen

sold souls

from their head
to their feet.

XMAS WISH LIST.

Give me the strongest wine,

Not the cheapest champagne,

A fine cigar,

Not cigarette stains.

Give me a gourmet meal:

A fine cuisine.

A toast as we coast

Through our own tragic themes.

Give me glamour

that stammers

The heart when it sees.

Give me kisses a plenty

To make me weak at the knees.

Give me memorys to smile at

When I’m worn at the knees.

I don’t want to see you:

This Mars bar, this snack.

A facless commodity,
A fish to throw back.

Give me a heart that’s a tart

That only wants me,

Blinkers on winkers

So youre all that I see.

Give me love that is pure

That is all that I see.
Give me you on a plate,
I want you in me.

ECONOMICS.

Sending the explicit,

and saving on royal mail,

aeroplanes sail across the room.

The pilots pissed but still reaches his target.

Bullseye.

Bully for you.

The scene is set.

Sitting at the back

eyes can see all.

She thinks I am too far behind,

that I am a pauper in poorer ranks

while she is the Princess

of false smiles

and banks.

I'm as common as your right arm.

All tracks lead to the heart.

They all have linear lines

from the same play.

Shakespeare wrote about it once I'm sure.

Even kaleidoscopes can see it coming

from a mile off.

This post office of Sonnets:

Pablo, Rosetti,

she throws love around like confetti.

Her finances come from
the stock market of attraction.

She puts a bit of herself

in every exchange.

Lips, hips and budding tits.

Showing potential

that never grows.

She is Queen of Country

who refuses to lose her head

while I am the young Wyatt

to her love.
The pretty words I write

make the impact of a tree

that falls when no one is around

to see or hear

a thing.

The churches eyes follow mine

as she takes advantage

of a more docile faith.

Those stained glass windows

believe you must put the ant

after your protest of innocence.

Its hard work will be true to the cloth.

An apology heals no wounds.
Another plane sails across the room.

This student always reaches her own set targets.

We are at school

and she learns nothing.

MEDUSA.

Snaky curls,
venemous tongue,
eyes that can turn to stone.
All skin. All bone.
Did you look in the mirror darling?

THE WILLOW WOMAN.

As I stared out to the lake
the willow woman wailed.
She said "My dear, oh deary me.
You must tell me your tale!"
I said "Well give me tuppence half a -"
She said "Nay! I'll give thee half a crown
to hear the sullen story behind that dead set frown."

I didnt see the point in half a crown or throne.
I didnt see the point in ruling half alone,
but sombrely I stood and regaled in baritone
the reason for my sombreness
that had thus surely grown.
I cleared my throat before confirming
in the cold harsh light of day
that those I give my heart to
just wont give theres away.

I pondered quite dumbfounded
"Just what do I do wrong?"
The woman grasped my hand and said
"They werent right all along."

STING.

Humping on top of me,
like an old hornet trying to get his sting inside.
But yours was never one
to be seen so blatantly.
In the night you are beautiful:
Eyes ringed with liner
and a mass of curls.
I dream of you still
in the darkened world
regardless of our star dying out
a long time ago.
Ambiguous.
For sometimes I still see it,
hide and seek.
It winks at me,
making me aware this creation
of the word love is never over.
It tells me in a morse code
of kisses, winks and fragile promises
that we all have a weakness
and that you are still mine.

I AM AN ANT.

I am an ant.

No, I am not your childs play thing.
I don't want to be put in
a used ice cream tub thankyou,
bored out of my fucking mind
while your kid gives me a name
like "Rosie" or "Ermentrude".

I am not Rosie.
I am not Ermentrude.
I am an ant.

I have no personality, no name,
nor a history.
I work for my Queen
and I will defend her to death
if you so much as think
of putting little sticks in our holes
on the ground.
Do not think of pouring
boiled water
over us either.
For our souls will unite in heaven
and watch as you grow
into the nations favourite serial killer.

I am an ant.
Now fuck off.
I'm busy.

PLANE OLD FASHIONED BOARDOM.

Boarding is boring.
A common conception
of noted blasphemy
from the flyers and deniers
of fuel taxes triers.

Boarding is boring.
The death of a wench.
Skeletal, cobwebbed
on a waiting room bench.

SLEEVE.

I trusted and busted
my hearts wrist and sleeve.

I'm running on empty,
and I'm running from me.

ASEXUAL UNSEXUAL.

Asexual unsexual
is prudishly conventional
give or take exuvial
like clothes but thats impossible
the prudish are exceptional
at being so conventional
asexual unsexual
unsexually asexual
excuses are so usual
if theyre married voices audial
"Not tonight" words so reliable
they are so frustratable
especially if theyre matable
but this life to which theyre liable
no sex is undeniable
an asexual desirable
its absolutely cryable
frustration is so liable
indeed they are no diable!

THE TALE OF DER VYER.

Marais Van der Vyer shot one of her farm labourers, dead. It didn't particularly matter due to the lack of work he did at the farm anyway. Why flog a dead horse when you can shoot it in the head? That was Miss Van der Vyers motto, and as far as she was concerned, a bloody good motto it was too. The farm worker had been a lazy oik with a surly attitude who had finally got what was coming to him. Not only was he surly and lazy, he had also been having his end away with the ravishingly good looking Larissa Van Pom Strumpet. With her flaming red hair and cool, knowing, flirtatious eyes she had caused scandal at the farm with her low cut tops and minuscule shorts. As the men concurred, they liked short shorts, and they all liked Larissa, frequently.



Marais was a jealous soul, of short stature with skin as dark as her nature. Being of good stock, it was bizarre she turned out so bad. Her family were of aristocracy, as rich as they were greedy and Marais wanted for nothing, except true love. It was difficult for her to be looked up at only in the sense of her wealth and class, as opposed to her beauty and charm (and height). This was why she killed. To be fair, she did give the farm workers a chance, a chance to work hard, and a chance to win her heart. If they did the first but showed no interest in her, she would let them live (albeit make sure they got the ghastly jobs) but if they did the latter too, well gosh, that indeed, was curtains. Larissa was lucky she worked as hard as she played and as much as Marais prayed Larissa would slacken, she never gave Marais the satisfaction of putting a bullet in her head.

The other farm hands were becoming increasingly suspicious of the disappearances of their work mates and found the reasons behind the disappearances a tad odd and unbelievable. John had won the lottery and ran away to Spain with a young and nubile model called Syndi. Dave had fallen into a ditch then awoken to believe he should go help starving kids in Africa. Carlos had tripped over his shoe lace and broken his head and could apparently be found shuffling about three towns down shouting about Jesus. Yet who were they to think too hard? They had work to do and money to earn so they toiled then embroiled in dalliances of the sexy kind.

Marais was aware that the more men who said no to her was helping her get closer to her eventual yes. This caused her to become more pernickity about the men's standards of work. If a flower had been trodden on the gun would be out of her suspenders quicker than Linford Christie racing from the Klu Klux Klan. New men would arrive, then leave in a bin bag. No one was right for Marais. This caused her much sadness. Was she really, truly so bad? Was being with her truly a fate worse than death? Her realisation that she actually wasn't came in the epitimonious form of a small chap going by the name of Storly. No one had ever heard of the name before, and probably never would again, due to the fact his parents were eccentric and made the name up. Storly was a bourgeois man with a heart, who knew his money was not his own, knew that he was privileged and knew that if he worked, he too could hand over money to others and make them slightly privileged too. Marais Van der Vyer liked Storly's morals, his hard, tanned body that knew a hard days work, and his care free easy manner. Marais threw her gun away and stopped buying bin bags.Over the milked cows, they knew it was love.

THE ONION CURSE.

I was walking with an onion,
we were walking down the street.
We came across the secret place
where the tears and knives do meet.
I asked "Why do you always live for tears?"
They replied "Just too much on our plate!
We try to find out what's inside
but our ducts they flow so great
so here we sit, we drown our woes,
the onion victims congregate."

The knives were sharp and witty
yet reeked of anothers raw and husky 'fume
they could never keep a lover
because things would be assumed.
"See the mess you make you clown?
We are prisoners of your stench,
You've created a smear campaign upon me
and these cuffs, their tightness is immense.
My wife, she ran and left me
for some fork tongued spiky schmo,
I pushed her out the door enraged
but I still can't let her go.
You've ruined me.
You've ruined me.
I'm the last picked in the drawer,
I try to change, keep a clean slate
but you're always back for more.
Get off this street. We're victims
to this onions sick parade.
The crunch you make you say is health
but the mess you leave behind is great.
You say you are so good for us
but you're bad with your stenchful boast.
You say tear ducts need excercise,
well we'll excorcise this ghost.
Get out, be gone you leecher,
you've devoured our last hopes
of being free of your vile smell,
these tears, they can not cope.
Everytime we see you
we just break down and cry.
Get out, vamoos, you monster
we need your kind no more,
you bitter, stinging monster
who reeks rotten to the core."

The onion stunned at all he heard
weeped and himself apart he tore
A brutal and aggressive act
that was seen in his parts one, two, three, and four.
The smell was on all once again,
they never could be freed.
Their life was lived through onions
who turned it all to tragedy.
The onion wanted to be saved,
"Peel me, find my good."
Time and time again they tried
but the onion was never understood.

GILBERT

My intention for convention
may seem somewhat naive
but surely I must mention
this trick inside my sleeve.

MISCARRIAGE

Squashed blackberrys in August,
blood spots on cotton or lace.
Doctors say its normal
when it looks so out of place.
The eggs expand so sweetly
like a soft round pink balloon,
a pin prick of dots and pain in shots
is this a creation or a tomb?

God paces the floor, a Father
awaiting news he already knows.
He knew the choices and roads taken
He knew how this garden would grow.
The buds of the flowers are sleeping
as their life slips back into the mud,
their time with the stork indeed fleeting
but Jesus says "In life there is blood."

QUESTION.

Action,
Bang,
The choir sang:

"Why do you need chaos?"

"Why do you need chaos?"

HOOKED.

Mrs Smith’s man was no fisherman by hobby,
more a horse of nature
in the blood that lead to his cock,
soft and grey on the slab.

His mouth.
That rubber lipped mouth.
He never brushed those Big Ed teeth.
At least she got paid for that honour.

This stallion sat in his boat
and was hooked by mutual bait.
It came in the form of a pariah piranha,
Hall and Oates knew what they were singing about.

He died on the flesh
of the already dead.

Her mouth.
That blood red mouth.
She sucked the life out of him
and spat the bones into the sea.

Shergar, the enigma of his kind,
the kind who disappears without trace,
leaving an empty taste
like that of a question mark on the tongue.

Those mouths.
Those dirty, lustful mouths.
Mr Smiths track runs to the whores
whose entry signs lead out to Hades Sea.
This horse’s hobby was whores.
He'll fuck forever, never more.

TRUTH = BEAUTY = LOVE.

True to yourself,
you gotta be true to yourself.
Not blue in yourself.
Not left on the shelf.
Because there's a wealth of responsibility
in a world that's ever shrinking,
and I'm thinking:
How can I know where morals lie
in a world full of angels who stumble yet try?
In a world full of lost souls
its my goal to be brave
and be true to you.
And to care
and to worry
and to talk things through.
Cause if things kept inside
fly to the moon
its over.
We're over.
We gave up too soon.
And the reminiscing stars
would see we tried,
and the rain would fall,
the tears we cried.
The wind would blow
to symbolise sighs,
and the moon would waste away
like how we as "us" died.

ODE TO MY SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD FUCKED UP SELF.

Peace of mind is the tease,
with the eyes with the tears,
and the lies and the crys
and the why's, wanna die,
suicide.
Dead, in the head,
on your bed legs like lead.
Can't move cos the lead
makes your head feel so dead.
Pushing, all the pushing,
and the knowing and the going.
And the drugs,
need the drugs for the bugs
to go away everyday.
Depressions the bug,
that sure sucks.
Need the love,
who needs the love?
take the pill stop being ill,
takes a while to make a smile,
no suicide.
Amitriptyline,
fluexotane,
takes the pain,
makes you lame,
go to sleep everyday,
feel so fucking drained.
Eyes to the sky,
no need to cry,
tear ducts dry
you can not go,
you can not die,
no suicide.
You can not go,
you can not die,
you can not leave,
you can not cry.
No suicide.
Don't wanna die.
No suicide.

UP, UP AND AWAY.

"Up, up and away!"
I said as the blind man
felt for his ticket
so he wasn't towed away.

"Up, up and away!"
said the blind man,
said as he found it,
found it on the front seat
that crisp winter day.

We wanted to go away.

I didn't know where to go,
He didn't know where he was going,
so up, up and away!
because it was impossible to stay.

MARKET GOODS.

If you were seen as goods
I'd buy you at the market,
see the sale price on you
and put you in my basket,
take you to the tradesman
who'd say "Cor blimey Guv,
you know, you get what you pay for
and for that you wont get love."
I'd have thought you were a bargain
and I wouldn't even haggle
but if I were a mystic
I would have for the hassle.
The trader could have dolled you up
with tassles bright and gay
but if I knew what I know now
"You're jokin'" I would say.
"A few quid to feel miserable?
I could just watch Schindlers list!
A few quid for bland interior?
Think I'll give it a miss."
I deserve better
and will go more upmarket now,
be more fussy with my window shopping
no second rate hand me downs.
Go back to your first owner
or to the bargain bin
there's more treasure than silver and gold mate
happiness comes from within.
I'd rather be alone
than insecure and unfulfilled
I'd rather be alone
than with someone of weak wills.
So next time I'll think twice before I make it to the till
am I just buying crap again
when I should save for better still.

ALCOHOL.

Repetition
and passionate discussions about biscuits,
oh how I miss it.
To be drunk
as we tank our belly's
full of yeast and fermentation:
A numbing sensation,
who cares about science anyway?
Today I got pissed
I wish you could have seen me baby.
I laughed so hard,
I was such a card and wit
and now I sit on my jack
with my back against the wall;
and the room is too thin
and the ceilings too tall.
Its caving in on me
as I try to sleep
in this heap of broken dreams
and incoherent chat.
I remember when we sat
and shared a bottle of wine.
Those were good times.
Friendly faces and poor graces,
but who cares about decorum
when we're having fun?
The music was too loud
and the neighbours complained
as it rained.
Shame it didn't wash away
the sick that stained
and the things we said
that we would never say
in a sober state.
I hate to talk about these things
that broke my wings
and made me fall,
but with drink it does call:
Honesty,
and the desire to talk and talk
and talk
as we walk to the kebab shop
for some chips
oops I let slip
so you stare with sad eyes
and I try to deny
the reasons i cry myself to sleep
but you shake your head
and questions questions
so many questions.
My heads in a whirl
and this girl wont shut up
so I smile and start singing
cos the alarm bells are ringing.
Frank Sinatra
you save me with New York New York
and the talk is over
and we're back on track
chatting about Coronation Street.
What a night
I'm beat
and the wine was too sweet.
There's this heat in my stomach
and my eyes are heavy,
legs like alphabetti spaghetti.
There's an A in my knee
and a J in my thigh
surrounded by words in legs that cant try
to move. So I decide to snooze
and I hope there's no bad dreams
to make me scream
but my heads too fuzzy
to focus on anything
but the buzzing in my ear
and the numbing of my face.
Who'd have thought
I'd end up such a mess in this place.

WEIRD ODD LITTLE BOY.

I met him on Tuesday,
he walked with a mince.
I thought he was gorgeous;
a little camp prince.
We flirted and skirted
around serious issues,
the start of a relationship
is no time for tissues.
We'd need them all later
as our hopes would come down,
our emotions and trust
lost in a sad town.
Suffocated by pain
I'm sure he did drown
and rise up so hollow
with his head hanging down.
The place that we lived
changed to a ghost town.
The demons of our pasts
they'd forever surround
and my dead eyed prince
he was throned and then crowned
as the weird odd little boy
who messed me around.
Weird odd little boy
could make me laugh
but i somehow felt
that he'd been love starved.
He'd be clingy and needy
then push me away,
confuse me
refuse me
for the rest of my days.
Next things you know
ten years have gone past
and we're surrounded by darkness
a life's curse has been cast.
As a wife i sank to my knees
scrubbing the floor
and slaving for free.
i was blacked up
and jacked up,
paid not even rubes.
i trusted,
combusted
and was broke without fees.
If love is involved
you pay with your heart
and my prides out the window
as the weird little boys cart
stands at the window;
he'll take a piece at a time
he wants me in pieces:
a jigsaw in brine.
I'm his mission in life.
To me hes assigned.
He'll rip me to shreds
then pour me rose wine.
he'll kiss me and kiss me
until we're both so entwined
then he'll shake me and wake me
and on my heart he will dine.
Weird little boy who looks like a man,
he is my biggest enemy
and my biggest fan.

MORPHINE.

Don't do this to me again.
I cant be dragged around in the tide
of lies and anagnorisis.
I know there is a crisis
but the balls not in my hand or court.
Id have thought you'd have learnt your lesson
but memories lessen from day to day
and i don't know why i cant stand up to say:
I don't want to hear this,
talk to each other
'cos my thoughts are alone
when you have got these worries and concerns
off your chest.
Its in your best interest to feel calmer
and better for getting it out
but who do i run to?
and where can i shout?
When I'm silenced by loyalty
and the need to be true to you
and i don't want the guilt.
So although in honour i stand proud
in my heart i do wilt
because the strain is too much.
The pain is too soon.
To be reminded of last year
and i still have the scars
inside and out:
On my arms there's the cuts that shut up the bad
and the desire to get mad
because i was so fucking sad you know?
i just wanted to go like Annie's little bird
'cos i was so so low
and you were too wrapped up in self indulgence to know.
I think you did care.
You were just too scared
and didn't dare look at me
and see what creation you'd made
with your selfish desire to purge
and get higher on the happiness scale.
The only way to do that entailed kicking me down
a couple of notches until i lost my grip
and fell into the fiery darkness of Hell
and i beg you i beg you:
Please.
Please
don't make me go there again.
'Cos it was so hard to get back up from rock bottom
I can't be your morphine any more
I have to save myself.

SPOON FED.

My lips were sealed
then torn from healed.
Open wide,
feed me some lies.
Here comes the aeroplane,
mmm, that's fine,
here comes the train
but its not true-true times.
Deception leaves an aftertaste,
can I spit this out?
No baby, swallow it down
'cos that's what loves about.
Dirty feeder,
I'm some poor bleeder.
Sock it to me,
go right through me,
knock me down
and turn this round,
baby taste whats in my mouth.
See what its like to feel down.
Oh now look, who's sorry now?
Keep it coming, wheres your train?
pack your guilt now for that plane.
Wheres your tales to feed me Hun?
this smoke, it chokes me, the heat is on.
Liar liar can you feel the burn?
Your pants on fire as my stomach churns.
Is this how redemption should be earnt?
Are my insides meant to hurt?
Should it cause an ache to breathe?
Digesting too much, this raw heat
it crushes down hard on my chest,
you're now smiling less and less
then you finally drop that fucking spoon.
"Honey whats wrong? You've gone blue,
take a breath get back on your seat.
Don't you know you're what you eat?

WASTED KISS.

You reimbursed a wasted curse
made it worse
so much worse
a touch a taste
a teasing kiss
massage a mouth with mine
what bliss!
what bliss is this
thats so eschewed
and made a heart
so cold and bruised
a love refused
a recycled muse
constant musings
so confused.
how can i be what u dont choose?
not the one you have renewed
just my pure feelings misconstrued
and a teasing pleasing mood
gone in minutes
alas so rude
I was so used
I was so used.
Alas,
adieu,
I wont be missed
Too much wasted on one kiss.

THE WOMAN WHO BLED.

He chose to wed
the woman who bled,
who courted and sorted
those sick in the head.

She held down no money
It went straight to the sky
to the fat cats with money.
Their paws in all pies.

He chose to marry
the one who would carry,
who could take care of those
with a heart that staggers, and slows.

They'd walk without impact
til their face hit the floor.
Their hearts so compact
but were crushed and hurt more.

Who would believe them
when they said butterflies gnawed?
But the girl who would listen
til her ears became sore.

He married her later.
(A ceremony of sorts)
He sent her love letters
but the love was cut short.

She loved him.
She loved him.
Her darling, she did.

She loved him.
Adored him.
But who could she kid?

From helping out others
her own problems she hid
and to marry another
would lift the lid.

No more other problems
to keep her quite sane.

No more other problems

to vanquish her blame.

She ran from the chapel.
She ran far away.
This woman.
This saviour.

He had her but one day.

ICONIC HAUNTS.

Haunted by the dreams of the iconic dead,
I lay awake,
morbid thoughts in my head.
Marilyn died all alone in her bed.
Nobody could help her,
yet tears we did shed.

What I imagine hinders a once peaceful sleep.
Poetic John Lennon shot in the street,
thought it was just another fan to greet
and by the millions
music lovers did weep.

I lay down and am lonesome tonight.
Poor Elvis he died with pills by his side,
innocent country boy went into the light.
Passed out in the toilet,
the end was in sight.

REALISTIC FATE.

Hey,
I think your cute,
lets go out on a date,
we'll go to the cinema
and canoodle 'til late.
Then comes the love
and marriage on a plate,
ring on finger,
periods late.
Beautiful baby girl,
move to a posh estate,
get quality jobs and
credit cards with interest rates.
Everythings so wonderful,
I still think youre great.

Why is this so hard to have
in realistic fate?

THE TALE OF ERN, THE BOY WHO COULD BURN.

On a blazing hot day a boy was born,
but he was born a red rose with one mighty big thorn.
His Mother was loving and gave him the name Ern
not realising his power was to cremate and to burn.
"Our son is a beauty, inside him a fire.
He'll be known around town, I tell truth I'm no liar."

His Mother was right. He was helpful, a trier
and on cold days especially for he'd rustle a fire
but alas in his morals there was woe for the towns liars!
They would come to Ern's Mother, full of complaint
for their bottoms and trousers ended up quite a state.

After years of good behaviour Ern did rebel,
with arson charges a-plenty his story did sell.
He was papped in the street by reporters in rags
who didn't want burns in clothes with posh tags.
Soon all over the world Ern was hot news and world known
as the bad boy burner who was aloof and alone.
Blonde haired celebritys asked for many a date
and in return they would get charred food on their plate.

Ern had no interest in dating or love
for the fire in him was more that enough.
As he grew older he mellowed with age
and gave out some wisdom that was somewhat sage:

"After all this time there was one thing to learn,
with a name like Ern I was born to burn."

COUNT FUCKULA.

How much do I love you?
Let me count the ways.
If I were to develop an obsessive compulsive disorder
that rendered me incapable of doing nothing
but talking about you twenty four seven
for multiple minutes, moments, milliseconds
of the day
everyday
it would still not be enough.
I already have an obsession, and that obsession
is you.
I like the way you taste and I like how you taste me:
Edible, incredible, I could live off these pure shores
and that smile with appealing teeth,
pearly whites with skin, soft, slick and tight against me.
I am the air between your toes and the space between those fingers
belongs to me.
To my hands and mine alone.
My compulsion is to spend time with you.
Be with you.
Hot, sweaty, gasping and grinding,
feeling you inside me.
Feeling inside you is home.
I want to reach into you, delve deeper until
we have no secrets
and we have a love more true than this.
Right now I think you are perfect.
Perfect for me.
Your face is a contortionist.
A curved naughty smile makes me ache and need,
a frown of confusion makes me melt.
I could count every animal, lamp post, bar, star and car
and still we would not have the correct number.
For an infinity you can always add one.
The only possible way to count my love
would be in breaths and heart beats.
In veins that are trained to make this machine work,
a mold that is broken and shaped anew by you.
I love you.
I love you.
We are not two but one.

WORD PLAGUE.

Your skin is soft.
Sickle cell of a soul
with a chrome dome:
A giant egg.
A plate of rhymes lead edible,
incredible, up your leg.
Words repeated and seated,
these words in lip stick.
Stuck on you.

Words are bad for the heart.

This pauper can not afford you
but applauds the efforts
of a throne placed on an old dust cart.
Sit, my Regina.

You shoulda seen her.

Even the rats let out a plague soaked tear
and drowned in the beer of camarderie.

Malarkeys with you mean the world to me.
Galavanting, sauntering and taunting,
teasing and pleasing.
Easing ourself into a love with words.
Without words we would have nothing.
Without words we would have-

LOVE, LOVE, LOVE.

Skin-tight with longing, like dangerous girls
still tight to touch but no innocent peach.
The tomatoes reel, drunk
like cinnamon kisses that taste inside the mouth,
divine from the vine.

I am burdened as the sky,
it’s a ceiling that never gets repainted,
clouds upset, buckets pour
sweat onto a face embracing love, wide open.
They varnish onto earth.

This is one way to say it,
to speak without words, one wave.
The girl gone, you left.
I loved you, all over.

And this is another.
I tasted love in places no one else has.
Last year in August I hung
myself on the rope you gave me,
my head between my knees, looked up
and saw you tugging, tighter,
flirting with the atmosphere.
Take the lead, its two to tango,
but you were here,
the sun circled the earth
and the sky had no gravity.

September will fall
on top of us
with twilights metal,
I stroke nipples with nickels,
loose change,
(penny for your thoughts?)
from a pocket. Quicker than
flash Harry you were naked.
An oar can fight water
but I can not fight temptation.
I will look up from my feet
and see the same rope and smile.
We can catch the leaves red handed,
flush faced with hot breath in shells of ears
embracing smoke.
With you I hear the sea.
Long may we drown in it.

PARIS REFUSED.

He talks to me
About Noddy hats
As he nicknames me ‘Big ears’.
Constantly obsessed
With that fucking harp,
Harping on as we dance
In the disco of his voice.
Spotlights on the floor:
Yolks of the sun.
He provokes sarcasm
By telling me I’m the world
As the floor rotates
Around us.
Does the hour glass ever change?
The salt stars never seem to fall.
The shore bitterness is tasted
At the back of the throat.
I wash it down
With a whiskey that won’t quit.
The bitterness he sees later
As this pincer nips at my fools’ pride.
Paris you lied to me.
Paris, you lied.

SAXAMAPHONE TEETH.

Some nights I sleep with my dress on. My teeth,
these teeth, they grind and writhe against one another,
I take the paracetamol and kill the pain.
I try not to buy splinters to bite me
I’d take a big piece of wood and create my own. Saves money.
Id use a telescope to spy your eyes, see your cells and soul.
Would you like to meet up and dance? You know. Soft and slow.
Don’t nuzzle in or bite.
I want a job that doesn’t blow or suck.
I’m suited and booted, raring to go. The bee’s knees dairy queen.
I hate money. I’m not to die
Give me a field below.
Mine can play a defty tune, the saxamaphone belts out my heart.
If we were to run together hand in hand
the world would curve around us, but never gain on us, we
would out race all.
The paths under my eyes are places I’ve been before
I climb them into bed to sleep.
I’m not one of those vampires, nocturnal to the moon and I’m not one
of those faces staring out at you through a window, giving a wink.
It’s full of holes.
In the morning I awake. I dream of teeth
falling out and bleeding down my nightgown.
Night fall falls all. Taste the rainbow. Red is gums,
fruit pastells are all over this palette. Get the
paints out and show me how I look inside
from a Kandinsky point of view. Everything looks
like the circus.
Roll up; roll up that spliff, joint, dooby
whatever you wanna call it. Make your choice
but don’t stick to it. Its not superglue
on a chair. Pranks from school. Mr Lever sitting on a pin,
he never burst.
Maths equations weren’t needed to teach you that,
skeleton on the inside, weak ageing flesh outside.
Its more biology but who cared about plants?
The dichotomy of a leaf similar to my brain,
One word answers desire two.
Truth be told I’m ancient and just waiting for the rocket man
to move me on to better things.