Hong Kong Friday

In eyeliner
Tu meurs white

Inguinal
Censured by the window

Maternal mammeries
The master shot

Raw lens flair
Film stock

A crashed cotillion
An abadoned abortion

'Who?' you say

I am a lone gunman.

Salle De Singes

I put you on fast
And split you
On a clean slate

Plangent Brandy breakfast
In a corner head gape

Some bitch
Eats my dream

In the half dark.

30

Still concerned with blemishes
T and A, devachan,

Cockteasers

And letting myself go

Criminal damage, product placement,
Wages, almshouse's

And the age

30 and childless
30 without a supporting wife
30 no savings


30 and well aware
Of my failings
Carnal knowledge
Plane bombs
Product placement

30 and a liar of white and tall
30 on the wrong bus at 2.34 a.m
30 still easing off crack

Still pining and sleeping
As crowds shop on
Icy high streets

30 and as foul mouthed
As before

30 and renting a suitcase


30 and scared of hoosegow
And warm milk

30 and still doing this

When A Man Is Tired Of London, He Is Tired Of Life. S.J

Author's Note: The Washing Machine Brain

Flipper, Benji and Skippy
In a Fiacre

Saint Denis's head
Being kicked against
Stade de France

Hot bitches
Topless
On Plage de Tahiti

Debussy smoking
Outside the cafe
Around the corner of Rue Cardinet

Rodin with a bad bi polar dream

A pied noir Chef de Plunge
With gold pockets
And a dead family


Frank Sinatra in La Tour d'Argent
Eating duck

Burton and Miss Tits
The vintage couple

And me
Nuages pesants
For eyes

Feet for hands

And butter
For brains.

On Cunt Nine

The poor fuck
She said she
Couldn't stand Paris

I'd sit till my
Throat slit
Into a river of brains

And bathtubs of
Grand Marnier

Other excess:

Pan blisters
Off pitch

Salopes and slaps
Heroin ladders

An escape:
Airport nightshade.

Just Like

Just like Jackson
Pollock
& the girls
With flat tits
So many people
Say
“Fuck Picasso”

I have often
Had women
Paint
Anything

John L said
I’m only sleeping
& he wanted to
Until
That cold thing

They never murder
People that earn it
Or any of the ones
That take away from musique

This desert fills
With anyone who
Joins
In another's song

Bonne Anniversaire

Birthdays are when you start before noon.
15 years apart.

They’re for throwing wet socks
Out the window, not flossing,
Petit dejuner at the meat market.

Birthdays have thin candles on
Cream and chocolate cake,
They’re for restaurants,
Greeting cards and footsie.

Birthdays turn you into a bluebottle,
You wait for three kings and get
Striped shirts and aftershave.

You chain smoke
And squeeze the plump cheeks
Of a milkmaid

Leave dishes in your room,
Punch a loaf of bread,
Dial long distance,
Armagnac 1888.

Birthdays aren’t about the day
You were born.

They’re an excuse to walk through
Le Jardin de Luxembourg,
Fornicate with workmates,
Set false targets.

For Kubrick, Jagger and Shaw.

Birthday’s let you down:

Mirror breaths,
Ladies on wheels,
Card’s lost in mail dumps,
Women with sagging breasts
Holding your hand.

Age eats you,
Sniffs your crotch
And barks.

It’s another one
Added to the others.