How Mr B almost died

New Years
Homeward bound
With a cold
In a cold train compartment

As alone
Like before

His object refused him
But Joyce’s daughter
Would do anything else

In Paris
Under his eyes and nails
In the walls
Outside café’s surroundings

Wet long streets
With rain grey faces
Blowing out
Translations of Proust

His genius picks
And steals
Mistakes in Germany

A writer needs time
To starve broke and
May and Bill don’t know
Enough angles
To see their son
Fighting silence
Among politics

Months disappear through poems
And stories
Failing to win prizes
Or publication

Inches from acclaim
He wastes

Vodka Isometrics

It started in the light
Another day
From my ochre teeth
To the bones
Connected in my feet

Some parts of night jumped
Between matter and skin

It came full circle
Once one had left
Another appeared
Laced with another
Blow or soft bite

Fractured
upstairs
Full make up
Over scars
Found again

She dries off bruises
Saying this time
Next year
These legs
These eyelashes
Will take you

Dull Bulb

Let’s see
Since I started driving
I’ve played bumper with
Dublin Horses
Metal lampposts
Church doors
A boy and girl
Playing chicken
A furniture shop’s
Glass window-

Drunk off God’s breath
Blind hands on the wheel
Shoeless feet
On the pedals
Crushed beer cans
In the boot
BANG...a Ferrari’s wingmirror
SMASH...a cruiser’s bonnet
SCREECH....

Just like a boozed and damned
Pollock
This car crash
Is my entrance

Where The Heart Was

Like the grass of Eire
And scum floating in Liffey’s
Current crushed tree bugs

The third part of my flag
Leaves in cracked teeth
On the 17th they use dye in pints
Of what should be black

And me ma has it on her 1st tattoo
I lost a striped jumper on a same
Coloured bus

A darker version of snot or cum
On pure white shit paper

Chez God

God dropped his earthwork microphone,
Took his bulldog for a brisk walk and left,
His keys on the marble kitchen counter.

God has sleep in his eyes and breath
Like old books, he forgets to feed his fish,
His kids names, birthdays, his pin code.

God's not near perfect:
Mrs God has to deal with frequent
Mood changes, cloud eating binges,
The long showers and his constant
Pessimism.

He lets missus clean and polish heaven
As the depths of hell rumble from the
Flat below.

Nothing'll cure this

Girls please, ladies, you don't know what your getting
Yourselves into saving pennies scraping together
Cash borrowed from brothers dads boyfriends
Scraping barrels to get close enough to show
Off to champagne swilling premier league
Pricks

Panacea is not a cure for your unemployment
Panacea is not going to make problems turn invisible

You used to want to be in childcare or HR
You wanted to be a leading lady or on TOTP's

How you've changed

Wraparound glitter sluts
Faces plastered powdered orange
Belt skirts riding high
Acrylic finger and toe nails

You live in hope
For hopeless men
With cunt agents and more money
Earnt a week than your parents
Put together a year

Your brothers want to be
What you want to fuck and suck
In brightly lit nightclub toilets
So you can skip uni and waste life
Wearing tracksuits in mansions
Watching numb soaps reality
Television and talking on mobile phones
To the ones in the same boat
About handbags and perfume

But you can't mask the smell of stupid
And garish clothes won't keep a man
Coming back to you and baba
When there's the next herd queuing up
Scraping together to show off more
Than you did

Hansel's Holiday

I take Sofya to Belgrade
And check into
A gingerbread hotel

The bars are still
And a gipsy with piercings
And wet mop hair
Tells me of fairy godmothers
And sisters of evil

‘This isn’t a kid’s book,’ he says.

By then hot ass Sofya had taken
The door keys and a cab
Without dinner

A red faced Hungarian driver
Offered a lift
In a large Volvo
‘Cause he’d read
My poems of topless rooms

And Sofya watching television
Without subtitles

On entering the room
The first thing I did
Was pull the rest off
Before checking the window
For man eating witches.

J

We catch up on Wednesday
At The French House
And this barwoman-
All hooped earring and
Body eye gestures
Gives off pheremones
Hot sweat sex
Stink she
Is
Alive!

I'm so sure God
Created cunt to put her
Behind bar

God did a grade A
Fucking job of teasing
The sensless shit
Out of my cum soaked sheet

She'll wash herself outdoors
In foriegn springs
And dry on cooked amber leaves

Be proud
Triumphant gold
1st place in tight jeans
And loose top
Gin based grace

Picture in a window
I'm so sure she'll fuck
Herself a bastard
Bastards que
For her
Bastards in the loo
Whisper unload lungs
In the stalls
About this prop
This melt hot mannequin

'Who's next?'
Anyone waiting?'

Le Tourists

The clichéd Americans got the last two
Tickets on Eurostar 17.55 to
Gare de Nord;
Mr Big called his daddy to say
They’d made it and were on their
European guidebook journey

He promised dad he’d call from the hotel
When they’d eaten their escargots
and frogs legs
In an overpriced bistro
And after tarte au citron and decaf coffees
They’d make it up la tour Eiffel in their
Abercrombie armour and take
Pics to send via iPhone to their
Dumb friends who couldn’t spare
A thought of even leaving State soil to traipse
Around filthy rues of pet shit and beercans
Note: Nothing like clean Cali

Big’s girl, of course,
Followed him here
(She’s three years younger and smells
Like a perfume store)
So he’d fuck her in a hotel
With shared hallway bathrooms
Where they defecate and piss out
All the rich food and wine, water and coffee

Under impressions and influence of culture française
She gives in to the almighty
Go ahead
To let him put it where
She’s been told
It is a sin
And not worth hell or the blood

Pulling off her jeans and panties she’s had on for one
And a half days
BIG loosens his designer belt
And they fumble in the end zone
With some massaged KY
He pops straight
Into her asshole
And they both wince
(she thinks this is like taking a shit backwards)
He pulls out and goes again
A familiar sexual moan emanates
Which makes him get into it and usually
He’d be almost finished by now but
That is not the case
(It must be the polluted air)
This new and soulful experience let’s him
Have second wind and a chance to speed up
And her fingers rub at her clit
It’s the first proper genital joy in her 20
Years of manual and missionary school taught
Bible sex and their orgasms
Synchronise and like train and track
Minutes and seconds
The countdown to his sperm
Leaving his ballsack
Her enlarged clit and virgin ass loose and wet
They cum and on the bed they lay
Listening to the bustle and carhorns