Wednesday, 30 March 2011

A Singer

With round lenses,

Opens a Las Vegas Hotel window,

Pulls in toxic snips

Of unconservative


An untreatable cancer

Starts in his throat,

Makes it through

Stomach thunderclaps,

To come out,

A cushioned reservoir.


No more


Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Must See

Polished shoes in a puddle

Back street blowjob

Half of out

My arthead disposal


Another Negroni

Stable commitment

A banister

Tinker talk champagne cinema

Dinner and huitres

A dressage chick

With lips thick

And sore

Knees white/

bra black panties

Bent over bet

Hiding the myth.

Sunday, 27 March 2011

It started with a pack
Missing off the split
Legs apart and thick table

That all passed
Goin' forward
A second turnt out

4 in the morning
To a vendor selling Anadin

A bunch left
Down a club sofa

It was an inch
And still

Thursday, 24 March 2011

On Paper

Fuck, I found this one too. G.E.S

Dame Taylor, first you let Hilton Jr

Rip your dress and have you for a year,

Straight after Michael slipped a ring

On you, Mike Todd was next and got a kiss

Each night of ’57, Mr. Fisher got a go,

Then came Burton, you kept him

For ten, split and then did it again.

J Warner wowed you till the early 80’s

And for nearly a decade you stayed free,

Then this fucking mullet construction

Guy Fortensky took over

But that concluded in ’96.

Is Winters next?

The Foot In it (For Liz)

I wrote this over a year ago about the papparazi bastard Ron Galella and his fondness for Taylor's bust. G.E.S

Ron snapped you in L.A
Circa 1970

Lindsay looks a lot like
But with less tit

They all bullied poor Ron
The hungry eye
Wearing a football helmet

His defense was
'It's my job.'

Brando knocked out
His teeth

Burton's Boys kicked
His ribs in

And Elizabeth you smiled
Like a sharp blade
and almost popped


Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Drawing Room B

Tell these readers of lost roman d'amour,

Poems only read in wax bedrooms

Scented with the faithful act of a harmonious hetero couple

Feed these famished readers with meals

Cooked slow in one pot and a Burgandy,

Conversations of a lifelong marriage and

The child who lives in the clouds

Quoting the holy book

The act of contrition

Kissing in the countryside

Bird song concert

Tall grass and breeze

Without marshmallows

Under the sheet

Preparing a picnic for the afternoon

Cheese and Bread

Apples and Grapes

One rose

Renting a row boat

Out to the Islands eye

On the beach

Footprints finished by the tide

Hands held in the throngs

Of impossible circumstance

A complete equal

Like the sign =

No + or –

Life on verdant earth

Evermore verdant

One shared and digested

Not so full

That we can’t get up

And not too little that we don’t have

Go for a tango

Or discussion about Chaucer

Or a quick skinny dip

In a cold bay.

Monday, 21 March 2011

There’s A Hole In The Atlantic Where All the Letters

Of cafĂ© names and restaurants are, there’s car keys, condoms,

Drug money, birth certificates, bottle tops, pens, packs

Of chewing gum, umbrellas, wedding rings, prosthetics,

Make up, socks, an assortment of cards, teddy bears, dolls,

Soothers, passports, cigarettes, love notes, envelopes

Of cut up junk, notebooks, pieces of paper with brilliant information,

Hand cream, sketches, timetables, children, men with families,

Chocolate bars, tickets, photos taken in Beijing.

Thursday, 17 March 2011

The Whole Thing

This was found in an abandoned notebook from 2009/10/? ?

Last week

She brought me a bottle
Last week

And we took lunch
Some white
Some Oloroso

Last week
Watched music
Hit the Plum Brandy

Last week

I paid for her blue smock

And Lazarus rose
Last week

She took ‘em off
And I covered

Last week
Morning came too soon
Last week

The whole thing

Wet hair
Bra’s hanging
Off the bedpost

Last week

Monday, 14 March 2011


My drawn out bitter commute
Is all forgotten as soon as
We skip dinner and root
Under an Ikea duvet

You knickerless
Me without a suit shirt

My rabid mouth
At the sweet strap
Like a sewer rat

It almost frays
But impatient you
Rip, pull and hurl it away
Towards the dresser

You shed the last detail
In post dinner freedom

Sucking for salt whimpers
The sour echo simmers

It grows
And all the tadpole babies
Itching in my balls flow
To the Ovary Office in the sweet

Sometimes umami

Snatch of Rosealba's.

Sunday, 13 March 2011

The Answers After

Prepare yourselves G.E.S

This set up test

By clairvoyance

I know

There’s no need

For the posted results

Or revision

If it was multiple choice

Or I’d paid

For the answers

Apologies would still


If you’d have just shown

A smear

Running here

Would finish me.

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

Ladies Man

I’m not

‘cause I sleep on buses,

And curse at street sellers,

‘cause I shower at two a.m,

And eat Chocolate Bars for Breakfast,

‘cause I masturbate to women,

Spreading their entertainment,

‘cause my heroes are deadbeats,

Obese actors and moody chefs,

‘cause my heads shaved,

And no one has what I ask for,

‘cause the box you get me in,

Is wet,

And broken,

My nerves have been chewed,

By guilt and domestic violence,

‘cause I’ll be thirty,

And this takes up my conscious and,


‘cause my sleep revolves around last year,

My skin wrinkles,

‘cause women see the word Friend,

In my dog eyes,

‘cause I spend weekends,

With words,

And weekdays with food,

‘cause my flat is a suitcase,

And I eat in bed,

‘cause last Sunday,

I watched three games,

‘cause I go to the British Museum,

Because there’s a hot cunt assistant,

‘cause I think of next week,

‘cause I don’t like speaking on the phone,

‘cause I still take x,

‘cause I don’t drive,

Because poetry’s not what it used

Sunday, 6 March 2011

Remember Anhedonia

Beer on the walk

Home, venison

Offal and beetroot

Six missed call windows


However, I haven’t jerked

Off, there has been speculation

Between 11 & 7,

Table salt and articles,

Recipes and close ups

Of young European whores,

If there’s more I’m

Not listing letters of rare love

And forgotten filth,

One concern is why it

Hasn’t ended,


I’m not sticking it

Into others

I parade

I perform

I practice,

To no avail,

Either my balls will dry out

Or I’ll step down,

Throw in the towel

And punish someone

Who deserves stones

And French perfume.

Thursday, 3 March 2011

We're Out There

There are herds of us in b.o. boudoirs

We’re on the wrong side of our 20’s

We blew chances for long-term relationships

By necking beers, getting car crash pissed

And wanking over glossy and outrageously posed

Underpaid eastern European models

‘Dates’ ‘Girlfriends’ ‘Wives’

Don’t want to stick fingers in their cunts

And show pink-

They hide their assholes-

They don’t want you to hear farts

Or smell their shit-

They try and hide when they have periods

‘Dates’ ‘girlfriends’ ‘wives’

Don’t shave it bald

Or let men blow junk over their

Mouth and chin

They don’t do double penetration

Or golden showers

They don’t lick or suck dildo’s that have been inside them

Shit, these decent marriable babes

Don’t even like a finger near the shithole

But us, the dumb driven cattle

We didn’t clue up or catch it-

Chewing the cud

In open fields

Waiting for lightning

Or an aged oak

Struck by lightning to crush

And squish our simple skulls

The mist of our brains settling

Into the green blades

For the next self eating group

To come and chew

Mooo chews



Tuesday, 1 March 2011

Greatest Hits

I cloud out

Clear force sellable reality

Kidney shots

From my SK

Kicking the door off the hinges

My SK hurls a wine glass

Out the window

She cruises and curses

To where it murmurs

SK butts me

Nose split

Squint eyes

She roars

Head kicks my jowl

Handclaps my cold ears

I come around and she’s

Got a lighter to the hair

Of my nuts

I’m then stripped and shoved

In cold bathwater

While she holds a plugged in

Radio above my head.

I get dunked

Head sink splutter under

Gasp air suck

And to top it off

Pulled out wet

And onto a vintage crucifix

Nails palms and feet

And a 12 inch through the forehead

Tap tap TAP.