Macushla

You've been nourished by hand and i've waited on you,

Polished cutlery candle

Heart table fruit

Covered in sugared biscuit

I'm home for the celebration of Santy and birth

Of Jaysus

And last year I was in the same confounded net

Caught swimming in the same water

But you're

Mother material

A golden haired ride

Baby skinned and

Well shaped

But what am I but a hungry barfly

An early ossified riser, bus taker, seeker of cures

And roasted nuts

A chancer. A man.

No less than others. No more than others.

A man with balls and cock that small in the chill

A man of housepets

A man of vin de table and the doghouse

A man defeated by the unresponsive,

The eager to tease

A man taunted and haunted

By past, present and future girlfriends

And wives and mothers with uncut nails

Wet gowls and closets

Fulls of shoes closets full of stories 'bout past

Lovers with polished cars and ties,

Millionaire da's, snow teeth .

And what am I? What?Wha?

Irish. Child of divorce. Single.

Shaped out. Booze hound. Childless.

Dogless, Not wordless.

À quoi penses-tu ?

Tail end trip ticket

My return to family maisons

I yawned through Monopoly

Passed out postprandial

Gave search for marks or updates

Hints and tips

Keep it going

Pen on paper

A pair of workboots

Stop the grub

What you're doing

Cop on

Get to the four coasts

Of France

What you think is a problem

Can be solved through indications

All over and in
Eager women

Job movements

Trips abroad

NYC with your salt beef

And hot dogs,

Los Angeles and your variety

Of babes and hollywood history

There's no need for cheats

You and determination

You and effort

You and support.

Will pay off.

I have a hand like a foot

4.50 for my premier pint
In the castle lounge
An accustomed palace
Visited almost each homecoming

Welcome home son

Chips, cold and uneaten scattered outside a Baggot Street building
A beggar fat, thinning hair, not much showing of her past femininity
But enlarged tits,
Giant grinning leprechaun's
Waving at us - the shoppers and drifters

Happy christmas
Help
Help me

More hands out on Duke St, Kildare St, Merrion Row
Than I can recall being back on this land

How has Dublin changed? Only in matter, in the almost,
The quiet morning. How've I myself changed? In matter,
almost, in mourning.

Leaving here as a child of a split, a soured relationship
Has had me take neither this city or my residence as one
or the other. Does a young life belong to a soil?

Summer's slagging, a few bate's, hot cod at the chippers
Filling me bags with boo ks and fil ms
Whole working weeks waiting for me da to finish

These are Irish parts of my decay, the trinty gardens,
Bray's head, televisionless in wicklow

Going from nana to nana, riding girls,
A picture posed with that true first Guinness,
Wet August's, Glendalough, against the rocks
fuckin' wasps at a picnic

Pieces of heritage - the church grounds in Artane,
Granda jack's funeral, the walk down Grafton St on the eve
Of Christmas, seeing D in nativity plays,
Filling up with choke and tear
Trying to rip myself in two

I've kept my name and passport
Although my years of absence
Are greater then the years present
In my birthplace
It is my honor and need to call her home.

Ireland, my mother.
Ireland, my father.

Dublin, my home.

The surrounding cold sea
My garden.

Is the tassle worth the hassle?

...and what you're getting wrong mesdames

Is we're an age when chasing you around a table

Or across a park after midnight

Doesn't pay off

And to be frank isn't worth

The stinging sweat on our ballsacks

We work punishing hours and don't get nearly enough rest

To be hassling you on lunch break

On the walk to tube stations

While you shop for negligee

You should try pressing those digits

Letting your name flash

So we can answer and say

"I'm too busy" "Call me later"

Or, a favourite

Let it ring off

It is not that you're not pretty or sexy

You are, in actual fact both mesdames

You're both and more - hence why we've made a move

Not too bold and asked you for drinks

Or invited you

To a house party

But what's it for if you're not to reply

Not to acknowledge

Leave us unanswerable

Put that shoe on the other foot

You'd be put off too

Like seeing how kebab's are made

Or catching a clip of birth

Two or three days after you'll waltz past

And forget to mention anything 'bout the call

And we ask, in formality, "How are you?"

You chirp but don't dare reverse the question

Maybe scared we'll answer in truth

But girls, ladies, women, mesdames

We're a gentle bunch and not hunting

This is not a safari

We want to know

How compatible we are

And get memorable moments

Before the bus takes you

Under the covers

In New Forest

Sniffing At the Barmaid's Apron

A merry Christmas this December to a lot of folks I don't remember

Slipped in for a sly one and got another bought for me
Before I'd gulped the remaining
Stout familiar Stout of home
Same again


And two of those down the hatch
All preprandial all worth while


To your health!


Moved to a booth where we all knew
What we'd know after


And raised glass
Polished and branded
To our mother's and our mother's mouth's


The time was sliced
Staff of life buttered and rife
Almost all night I'd seen hints
From S
As she wiped dry


From rested view
They exited out the entrance
Into covered streets


I passed into room
Without light where S's apron roused me
With a view of breast that time
And we took to bed


Goodnight

The Fitting

Misfits, no matter where miss clothes
Fittings, facial ticks, body hairs

Missfits, ginger mullets and handlebars
Drinking gin and coke

Misfits, leather coats and runners,
smoking those thin women cigarettes

Missfit scarfs of beige, salad lunches
No girlfriends

Missfits eating junk and more, forgetting dental
Agreements, sending christmas cards
Their ma's dry cleaning

Missfits only piss in the cubicle
Fall asleep in cinema's
Play with toys

Misfits masturbating too much
With expensive phones
Fantasising 'bout cartoon cunts and breasts

In pubs on Saturday morning
Dirty nails, cheap and holey jumpers
White shoes

Misfits looking at the ground
Adding friends on Facebook
Avoiding bathtubs and shaving cream

Misfits hate fruit and veg
Sweat in bed
Borrow money from uncle's

Misfits fit in their own hole.

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 still childless
30 without a supporting wife
30 no driver's licence
Or savings
Or donated organs

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 shying from crack

Still pining

30 and sleeping
As the crowds shop on
Icy high streets

30 eating solo

30 and as foul mouthed
As before

30 and renting a cheap room
In Haringay

30 still scared of hoosegow
And warm milk

30 and still doing this

Forward

For E.A - all the best brother.

So tomorrow you'll be
Back on home soil

Not here
Where you learnt
A language

Not here
Where your love
Had holes

Take this movement
As a foot forward

It'll lead to what you can't know
It'll lead to knowing what you
Have achieved in this romance
Dried city

Pay mind to each step

Keep Brooding B

Dedicated to Broodo- A good man with good luck. G.S

For sticking with bi polar
Hourly wages

For putting trust in an unstable
Yet reliable animal

With fangs
And a cunt shaped mouth

With a temper
For crushing boxes

The boss
Of overused self and
Aimed deprecation

Imcomprehensible orders

Is
Not a leader
But one of you

Passing through clock hands
Waiting to hand in the key

And get back to what we do.

Not Where but How

What gives you away is:

Marlboro's, that moleskin
And coca cola's

Pen in pocket, no wallet

Turned off mobile
Walking rue's

Coffee and chocolate toffee's

Daily beer, lunch bread,
Preprandial wine
With women

Postprandial bedding

Repeat prescriptions
Repeat descriptions

Same as before
Before it was same

Dejeuner

Sit at the bar
Start with a vodka martini

Move onto a carafe of Muscadet
For my poisson potage
La bonne soupe!

Some chicken liver parfait and quince,
Endive, blue cheese and walnut salad,
Bread and butter.

To finish a glass of Oloroso
With my buttermilk pudding

An expresso
And a faithful cigarette.

Naughty or Nice?

Hohoho
We've entered into Father Christmas's month:
Gingerbread men, women, dogs,
Snowmen and elves

And full grown adults
Of both sex put on red hats
With a white bobble
In tribute
In imitation of a Coca Cola
Marketing campaign
Hohoho

Oblivious and playground informed kids
Write and scrawl wish lists
In their toy strewn rooms

Mothers desperate for more jewels
Jewellery or overpriced handbags
Ask husbands who hope for some
Xmas pussy
Hohoho

The day looms over each human head
And not because of the real reason

The papers and advertisements countdown
Like we don't know
Like we're not aware of how much time
We have to wrap and fill those stockings
Hanging above the fireplace

Like we don't know about Rudolph's red fucking shiny nose
Or the elf slaves in Santa's North pole sweatshop
Hohoho

And do not forget to spare a shit
For Mrs Claus
She has to cook and give head
To the white bearded delivery man
The rest of the year

I'll bet my bottom $
She puts a cross through her calendar
For the night he leaves on his sleigh.
Hohoho

Merry Christmas.

G.E.S

Fame Extingusiher

This is another one written on the spot. This is what I want to write. G.S


Before journalists or bloggers
Groupies of horror
The just and almost devoted

You must smoke in shadows
All and each effort nothing
But silhouette.

And what gets the man here?
To a point where his name
Sparks interest.

Banal things e.g

The divine perfumed neck
A woman's hand in December
Blank checks

There's more:

Three course lunches
Campari and Soda
Travelling hangovers

When you open up some magazine overrun
With advertisments and models
That don't play a part in this-

The real limbo

Then make a decision
Executive bruv

To not buy into that phoney handsome
Well to do polite "Only with dinner"
Fuckshit

'Cause being known pictured reported interviewed
Isn't about the money
The moolah
And loose change

It's about the work
The pieces that fit

So go on
Do what you gonna do

If you give a shit
Someone else will

With your fingers crossed
They might have two hands
And be interested

In what makes
The man.

30 Sad Years Ago

That fat dreg
The fan of Salinger

Got his record signed
Then hung around Dakota

To pump a bullet
Into the scouse God
The Liverpudlian King

Who made millions of fuckups
And screaming ladies

Put their ears closer
To the speakers

Chapman, you dumb yank cunt
Homicide's for bank robbers
Dealers and child abusers

When you slither into hell
From Attica, NY

Not one human
Will give a single shit.

Some Free Advice

Look into the crowd
Whether human animal
Or bored

Go easy on the drink boy
Don’t slouch

Don’t expect a tumultuous applause
Make ‘em laugh
Thank 'em
They are your audience
Use decent material
Not obscure fuckbits

Don’t spill wine
When you're three sheets

Pronounce
Keep the crack tales
To yourself

Entertainment
Is for them
Use your bedroom rehearsals
As the test

Now,

Bonne Chance.

Rosealba's Snatch

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.

Do Not Disturb

We suffer emotional avalanches
And the adominable snow man
Kicks the door in just after 4.30 a.m

To see dirty peaks
In Catalonia
Chewed up faces

Dancing in spit shoes
In a Hotel stuffed
With almost breathless
Chambermaids

Ruffling sheets
Nodding pour tojours
et à jamais.

First day of Christmas

You slippery bastard
As if I wouldn't notice

You

Disappoint only yourself
When you disappear

And reappear
At the sight of a partridge
Cooking in a tree

Eat eat eat
Stuff enough
Tough the rough
Countdown

W W W

Faithful masturbation
My audience world
Women not wives

Spread and solo
Videos of life
Sucked from curled
Brown swirls

Bright pink bikini top
Rip revealing
Cash
And prize

Fingers
In two flavour pies
Swat at 'em
Flies
Circle the cheap
Home recorder
Zooming
Closer

An inch away
Closer
That's too close
Closer

To the vice

Hold Your Horses

I’m destined

Filling pages with creepy

Hints and urges

Tales of my unused prick

Hold your horses I’m not saying cunt

Starvation is only getting to me

Or full ripe lust will turn me

Inside out

But here’s some shame

The cheap stuff

That colours my fingernails

And wakes me at 5.45 a.m

On a Saturday with a hard on

Over my last one

I pulled at it

Settling down

Slowing my hunted heart

A porno projecting

On the back of my lids:

She’s bending over

To light a cigarette in rainbow

Panties she soaps up

My cock and her breasts

And puts 2 + 2 together

On her hands

Bouncing on me

Her happy ass slapping my thighs

After the frenzy

My room goes grey

And cars on Hampstead Road

Beep and honk

Sometimes the rain

Sends me back to a pitiful sleep

Or I’ll try and make

It to another X frame

But that doesn’t work

I’ve got a set of projections

That wake me

That I work with

I say her name

Out loud

And try use a 6^th

Sense to make her whip off

The covers and rub herself

That rhythmic sticky sound

Breathing and whispers

Her cunt blooms and tingles

I listen to traffic and creaky floorboards and the

Interrupting washing machine on its first cycle

On my day off.

Just Remember

For A. T

There is an abundance of sorry lost cunts
Bewildered by ineptitude,

Some have no hands and live with mummy
Daddy just wants to get through the weekend papers,

Some hibernate in boudoir boo hoo's
Floors littered with damp hope and hunger,

Pictures of assfucking, thoughts of cum soaked
tissues and jazz mag pages stuck with paste

The paste of lonely masturdators, these kids with tainted
Egos haven't pissed themselves or stubbed a cigarette
Out on their arms, haven't traded their heart with a
Woman only willing to act like a sad cow about to be
Cut into dinner sized meals

If you thought getting caught on enemy lines in a war zone
Would be a full time nightmare
Get yourself out there, go to bars and work and school
Walk in Autumn and meet a brazen feline

Pet her, buy her a three star tin of cat food, a velvet collar
With a name and number and home address
And she'll still scratch gashes on your cheeks and
Claw one of your fucking eyes out

She'll wander off and come back purring through the flap
And nuzzle against you when you have low migranes
You'll see her and hear that familiar meow
On walls around any city in the world.

First Silence

Once again Repeating

Forming Patterns

Seen before

Holding glasses

Inhaling

The same lines

Growing over

Instant marriage

Relaxed

In another seat

Doesn’t change

My heart or

The emptiness rising to new levels

My deaf heart

Opening

To be ripped

In silence

Please Read Carefully

Before you read this
Take the following questions

-Are you breastfeeding?
-Do you suffer from kidney problems?
-Are you pregnant or trying to become pregnant?
-ARE YOU TAKING ANY OTHER MEDICINES?

Please read carefully
Keep this safe
You may need to read it again

It is yours
Do not show it to others

It may
Cause
Problems
Even
If they are suffering from the same
As you

Paranoid Arachnoid

Spiders in churches

& hospital corridors

Children’s bedrooms

Kitchen cupboards

Behind removable mirrors

Under damp cardboard boxes

Down plugholes

Hanging out their legs

They have tapdanced in your Mouth

Their eyes have spied you shower

Up in corner's safe & free

They stay

Vodka Isometrics

It started in the light

Another day

From my ochre teeth

To 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 dried off bruises

Saying this time

Next year

These legs

And eyelashes

Will take you

Side of the table

From the other end
It looks and sounds
Easy to take

One year or more
Before roads and rooms
You knew

Move into

Rooms and roads with
Different walls
Paint signs

And sounds

I put my old hands and head
Into all of this
And recollect
A kissed mouth
I’m dry without

It’s that tongue
I’m trying to find

In one hand...out the other.

Let me know when the party's over
Let me know about deaths brush
And certain handfuls

Tell me of punishing hangovers
Tales of Benedictine and Brandy
Blue Agave and Ginger Beer
Cockroaches
Trips to Golgotha

Call me an insensate bastard
Bruised and overdue
I'm still above ground
With straight
Answers

Close shaves not of where
But how I'm full
Of concupiscence
And little to show for

Rife Rumours

Since Elvis has left the building
For good
He’s been seen on Mars
In a Michigan Supermarket
At a dive bar in East Hollywood
Running on a Vegas treadmill
Chowing down at Beef and Liberty
And Four Flames.

Some say he’s grown a grizzly beard
And lives on the left bank
Or he’s slimmed down
And started dog breeding

They’ve seen him sing Karaoke
And in priest clothes.

Surprise

Passed into middle age verses of smoke
Twisting in a soap shower
Pulling at what could of been white wings
Ingrown

Possibly this whole facade dies in a spotlight
Of Suburban cancer
(It's in our inheritance)
Possibly oven baked suicide

For what you'll make of it
I still decide
To pass on soft offers
I keep pushing shields
To protect a future present

Keep guessing

Missed Rehearsal

To the honeymooners

V and J pull it off
To see
Between skulls either Greek
Swiss or
Irish does fill
The eyes

Some petals he spread
On proposal
Dry on marble
And inside a bag
Their love’s undoubtable

Mine's a piss stain
Chipped glass outdated
Newspapers
A punctured tire

Will this bruised brain
Still stutter
On careful conversation
In Quarters?

The Invented

On a balcony’s mouth
I told you about a change

But how unoriginal
I’m stuck with same
Insufficient cajonas
And a weak guard

There’s much fucking worse
On your rue’s
Than my soft curse

Crowd’s booed Bizet when he
Ripped out Carmen
Animals got gutted
And bashed at Porte de la Villette

Beckett was shanked
By a pimp

In comparison
I’ve just invented
My letdowns.

Fat Chance

Checking my payload
And getting the bus from Old St
To the crossroads to fall
Asleep and end up
Past wood green
To some suburban stop

And I remember some young
Chick whose brother had been shanked
Showed us her tits and then bummed
A smoke off me as I sat at the bar
Of the Hoxton Hotel limning
On truth and beer on tab

Stuffed of hot beef
And slow cooked eggs
I ran away from morning breaking
Shaved and showered
And now....

Storage

I preserve dark pets in
Sterilised bottles and jars

Next to marmalade and damson
Are guilty night jam
Sex hangover extracts

Once opened use within
Six weeks and refrigerate

Pillow Talk

Tattooed toes blue
Birthmarks in tribute
To Crawford

What I’d give
To push
My face
Against wet net
Knickers

This floating mind

Maître d' on my wishful d
What a mother dream

Easy come, easy go.

This particular broad
Had the wholesome look
Spaghetti thick hair
Clear water skin
Bodacious boobs.

Powerful fatless legs
A cunt with the smell
Of baked bread.

She was born to model lingerie
Or swimwear

Not to hang with an insensate
Irish bollocks
Not to support a talent
No one has patience for.

Stunt Cunt

A lady’s hand finds my proud
Cock in darkness without
A pause the balls stop
Sagging she presses tongue tip
Oh my
On my
Open eye practice
Is known to make perfect
And boy We practice
Dress rehearsal run throughs
Script readings but
Not after lunch or
During menu planning
In tradition:

Kids asleep, door closed,
Washed and curtains drawn.

She Did/Did She

My dog Argus sniffs and snuffs
Upstairs by this thin door

She can't believe I don't have curtains
And we keep the window open

Hearing my name being called

Bear and drunk
Constant in a goal
We squeak bedsprings
As my maternal figure

Smokes asleep
As if there was someone

Paying tame regard
To soap
Drama

Who Did You See?

The picturesque lunatic
Scratching his balls and still finding
It hard
To spell Naomi

Is in a bad way

Not clitoral ablation or
Nasal septum deviation


While working the forehand
And serve
He saw Hitler buying a book
In Northern France

And Bobby Fischer drinking
Cans of Dr Brown’s Cel Ray Soda
In NYC

The Magic of the Internet

Your Google homepage
Search engine bar blank
Easy instant
And free

Porn tiny boxes
Flashes of videoed panties on
Off fingers tongue
A new arrival
Nude panties on again
And the arrow glides over
One suitable by
Now your ballbags tightened up
Cock is pointing play
You watch and tug she’s
Rubbing her cunt against a mirror
There’s no music or magic
Just the reverberation of a blue
Set
Wait,
maybe it’s her house

The ubiquitous dildo
Appears in almost all these
Clips usually pink
Metal or see through
And with one halfway in her butt
She grimaces and reminds you of
Someone real but let get away so
You try tidy up
Both working
Towards finishing the past and
To come

They Say

I was in the room
Standing

Straining to catch
Conversation
They say your ears burn
When someone talks about you

My left ear to the wall
My hands pressed with balance

It hurt
To hear this name being
Fucked &
Pissed on

It hurt
To hear her say...

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

Then and There

You move to Paris
With a suitcase of shirts
And trousers one winter coat
Socks and undershorts
Another case of hardbacks and notebooks
You spend Juin Juillet and Août
Parading strolling and in
A café off Blvd des Batignolles
Where the waitress knows
Your order
Late one night after buttered roast chicken
Stuffed with rosemary breadcrumbs
And a baguette you go to
The café for a nightcap and she has
Finished work and sits on a table
With her thin hand she calls you
Over and pours you un verre de vin rouge
Your first conversation lasts till closing
Leads to you
Walking to her apartment and you
Don’t try grab her ass or
Kiss her you ask her if she
Wants to have dinner the next night
And on her arrival
Just after you’ve taken her
Coat she kisses you

Her English is impeccable
(Childhood summers spent in Oxford with her Aunt)
Throughout the meal you reveal why you
Came to La Ville-Lumière
A plan of opening a book stall
At a Marché – you’ve got books
Knowledge but you need
A bookseller

She doesn’t stay that night or
Get in bed but she quits
The café and moves in each night
The both
Of you read and you share information
About authors and their lives
In a few months you get the stall and like
You’d imagined with a pretty
Madame on the stall you cover all your costs and
Pay yourselves within a year
There’s the engagement and you move from the
Stall to a small shop near the café
You met in business gets better and more
Parisians start reading in English
You marry in her hometown church
And on the wedding night
Conceive the first child who will grow up
To be un écrivan

Fair's Fair

Laces tied up
Pits and toes
Powdered
Tan tights
First time panties
Trimmed pubes
Matching bra
Perfumed neck
Dusted t-zone
Lashes licked black
And long
Nails cured and varnished
Pouting and puffed
Rehearsed smile
Pulled and combed
Sprayed and shampooed
The dress she pulls over
As her date dies

L'additon

It's the eating
Not the ordering

The answers
Not the questions

Autumn daylight savings
Pints in Mulligan's
Paris Birthdays

An afternoon snooze
Gaga playing piano
With her toes

Tax returns
Shared laughs
The day after sex

Chimpanzees picking
Fleas

Exciting comforts

Clean pillows
Full fridges
Christmas in Ireland

Being a flâneur
Dishing out advice
Scrambling eggs

Coffee and toast
Knowing I've made
A difference
To someone

Special souls
Can count on
My support
And voice

Mother's who've escaped
Poisoned men
Siblings getting the grades

These tiny things
Add up

A Handful

Phonebook whores
Bra strap interruptions
Scratchcard necklaces
Pig leg tennis rackets
Singapore stopwatch
La vida es sueño
Ornery brother
Night dream
Hangover house

Overdue?

Renowned Tanners

Xenarchus told us in the 1st
Whores would strip and bathe

In 10th century Britain
Pale showed you could afford
To stay at home and not out

Niels Finsen, the benifactor of the coveted
Nobel Prize for the benifit
of sunlight bathing

A tan is a sign
Of health and welath

Coco C circa 1923
Had been on her yacht
In summer

The look caught on
and since
We have 'em all year round

But not in Iran
Women can't do it there

Posing

They shake their dusty rugs
Out of 7th floor apartments
Off Avenue de New York

And as the Eiffel tower sneezes
I hide in passage souterrain

Up on the surface
There's an explosion of tourists
Fat and similar

One with a bad t-shirt takes holiday
Snaps of his son
Holding a smoking cigarette
By his lips and an expresso
In his right hand

By Pont de Bir Hakeim
Brando's ghost
Follows another

They wave dirty rugs
Out of apartment
Windows

De Attrait

Down Metro Louvre-Rivoli
There's glass benches
And up there on hot rue's
Topless drunks
Misogynist cabine's
Morrison's expatriate hangout
Ghost writers drinking from haunted
Cocktail glasses at Pont Royal
Algerian socks
Eyes bar
Styrofoam snails
The Baci marche where P.P
Bought still life apples
Beef cheeks lettuce heads and
snacks
L'hotel where Wilde popped
And passed
On Mouffetard
Hem got wrecked and wrote about men
Without women

Passer De Travers

Seeing your sacred heart
and cars
Coming the wrong way

Caused comfort
And joy
To choke

At the city
And it's magie naturelle

Bumps and Lumps

Sitting opposite the 3 Euro Shiatsu Master
Oh, Nostalgia
Close those legs
Sober up our familiar lives

Remove comfort
Rub out lust

You have a remarkable
C u n t

Getting Some

It holds form but lift the lid
Take a look

It’s like under a rock
Or a redneck garden

It smells of old milk and meat
But soldier’s, gym instructors,
Full-blown artists possessed by
Caprice egos

They find it and know
It’s not theirs

It’s just timing
And sentences
It’s walking and doing things
You don’t want to

See those widows
That repeat the same day
Those deformities

See the poor with their kids
They’ve got it

See the diseased, the fatties,
The misogynists
They’ve got it

The unhygienic
Sexually promiscuous
The beasts

Them too

Isn't it nice

Rue d'enfer, hell to some
Historically
lost enfants
Starved of le lait
De sa maman

Isn't it nice to know you
're still alive well
Still interested in
Livin'
possibilities
Endless

Out of town

The heeled whore called me
Bad Boy

But leave this
Capital
For another and
You’ll forget perverts
And sodomisers

A stable job
Where you don’t get
Jizzed in
Or on
Is better than sucking
A variety of cocks
And using mouthwash

Swap dirty money
To be legit

Left, right and centre

There's wedding anniversaries
And birthdays and other stuff
9/11 and 7/7

Then there's the 10 year celebration
Of a fine album of rock n' roll
Rated R by Q.O.T.S.A

In tribute to that time
I'm turning the clock back
I am not living now
This is the year 2000
And we play the album
and drink
Laugh and practice rhythms
Light up
Leave beer cans on the table
Pop x on trains and dance
With some guys girlfriend

Monsters in your parasol
Fading
Summer
Lost arts living
Legs
Chemistry
Quick and to
head lightning

Someone lost a headache

Play this
Repeat and feed it
To the the hungry

Out of the bag

A rainbow in Bourgogne
Lost white sock Carwash
Leprechaun's chewing PK gum
Ubiquitous
cock grafitti empty
Seats on a bus to Naples
Dinner on the moon
Lit terrace toast
Thrown out a 3rd floor window
Cumstained hotel
Bedsheets
Battered mothers
Repressed and bi polar artists
Walking in thunderstorms in the south
of France football fans
Sleeping at the airport
American women living in Argentina
Open mouths catching flies
Couples in sunglasses
Arguing outside a fast food restaurant clouds
In the shape of brains and bibles dropping
off a New York Skyscraper
T-shirts from heaven
The guy who forgot
To turn off
The gas mosquito
Bites on ankles and elbows
Remade retake cover version
Who'd play you in the movie?

Girls with the names of donuts
Prison husbands
With their hands on plastic glass
The serial killers get more visitors
Than you'd expect
Their mother's still write
Kids play cards and slap the table
I just threw a pen at a wall
and I miss you when I leave fatty
Tourists with wild wallets
Little girls show their knickers
Like drunken barwhores
Wet on the way
to Work
The diamond Burton
Bought had been stolen from Vera Krupp
Collecting cigarette butts
In Piccadilly Circus
Miller and Satre lived in the Louisiane
On Rue De Seine
They cut it into fourteen quaters

The interstice

Lord Knows

Bricks tied to your
Ankles tongue

Pulled out eyeballs
In some tramp's coat

Pocket kidney's sold
To a millionaire


Your left ear's a keyring
Stray dogs chew the fingers

Cut by pliers
Brain in brine


They dipped your penis
In gold and

Threw your balls
To Trafalgar Square

Pidgeons
On a Saturday

Breakfast on Blvd Haussman

I just stopped by Marcel's
For a chat
Over oeufs
à la creme
And croissants

Comme d'habitude
He ate in bed
And didn't get up
Once

His servante let me out
When he gave in to
Relentless fatigue

I can see his curtains
From a bench
In Square Louis XVI

Where Marcel and I
Used to smoke

Flying Colours

This été
Was well managed
A decent mood
Prevailed

The atmosphere
Kept constant
Consistant

My last shot

The 20's
Ended heir
In your city

And with these notes
Scribbled on
Familiar rue's

Thank you

Dog House

Temporary lovers sneered at my past

Achievements

They poked fun

Pissed on my merits

My distinctions

It is only what they were used to

That their judgement was measured

Those bare women

Laughed when another gave me

A number

They spat when they

Smelt other perfumes

On the bedsheets

They deleted my texts

Threw their poems out

The window when it was

Wet and windy

Gave my albums away

To charity

Pretended they didn't smear

Their lipstick on

My stick

Acted like they never

Danced with me and learnt

Fuck all 'bout movies and food

Almost

As if I didn't exist

Links

Note = Read this out loud G.S

Think and drink

Pour, sip, refill

Frozen water

Clink glass stained lung

Spit out

Bathroom sink

Stinks

Vomit crusted bowl

Rinse, gargle, pink

Veins in the whites

Of your eyes

Wait

One other kink

You stopped popping gink o

Biloba and got pissed at the ice rink

She slid over

Our blades clinked

High C

Cutting the sleeve

Of her shrink mothers mink

Just a thin slice

Open on her arm

Weeping warm zinc

That's the link

In my ink

Wax Fruit Pool Party

Blow jobbing bimbos
Arrive once the topless DJ
Throws worrying shapes
From his poolside pulpit

Sunday afternoon
In Geneva and this fuck is mixing
As if he's on a Spanish Island
At climax

No one here is pilling or buzzed
Yet he dances to the soundtrack
As we drink kirs à la pêche

There's a tempting fruit bowl
On the table next to popcorn
Salad leaves and Ice Tea

Girls of all ages and women
Change into swimwear and I
Eat seedless grapes

T-shirtless dudes with tanned abs
And low body fat
Throw frisbees and push each other
Into the cool pool

Before the Dick Jockey plays
His next mistake
A grape from my hand
Hits the back of his throat
And the arms he waved to tunes
Lower
As he tries to cough
It out

The song ends
And another one doesn't start
'till another amateur sunkissed
Brainless DJ takes over

Vagina Mind

On $ale at 9 a.m tomorrow
Tickets for Vagina Mind's
Spectacular magical
Contracting
Wet walls

Circus blood

Also featuring : The invisible clitoris,
Hidden orgasms and
Titties bigger than beanbags

Roll up
Roll up

Get your gold ticket
To Bartholin's glands river

Play in the Pubic Jardin

Throw hoops at the hood
And win cash prizes

The Vagina Mind
Running for one week only

For Nate

Your name is Nathaniel and in twenty
You'll be shaving and dicking women

At house parties you'll start conversations
And stay awake 'till the end
Strangers will warm to you

Nathaniel, you'll be raised
In harmonious settings
And be educated in language

You'll cook and box
Give spare time to charities
And help your grandparents
With the herb garden

Your body will be shaped
By vitamins, a variated diet
And a refusal of the three sins:
Class A's, booze and fags

Your name is Nathaniel
And I'm the one
Who gave you life

Dinner Time

Here the lapin jumps over
Pots of boiling vegetables

Bites a vein on a chef's arm
And darts through the service door

He pisses on a waiter's shoe
And passes sous la table
Where the president enjoys tête de veau

This skinned rabbit
Looks up the first lady's skirt
While nibbling at crumbs

Some customers who've finished their coffee
And paid l'addition
Get up from their seats

And the man who trades as a lawyer
But paints his dead daughters portrait
Each week
Holds the door
For those he's just lunched with

The cold rabbit surges out the door
Onto Rue de Beaujolais and joins

A dozen snails, half a cow's head
And several frogs on their way
To a safe haven

Fade...about

White and sandaled
Some Greek treasure
Not yet

Picked and pruned
Still to be
Ruined

That'll come enough
To be called
Soon

When you least expect it

It can come any time
A hot iron up the ass
A belly stuffed of Lamprey’s

Ruptured bladder
A fuck up transfusion
A tennis ball

Poison poured in the ear
A chicken
Eaten
Before the juices run clear

Getting lost in a forest
Decapitation
Unearthed microphones

Watch yourself
It can come at any time

Young 'un

Mothers salt and foremilk
The first born boy
Sucks

Cartilige and membranes
Form and glue
In nature's
Mold

The crosseyed flamenco guitarist Vargas
Only picked the thing up and sang
After fighting
With his Gitano girlfriend

These women know how to
Frustrate
Know
What to cut with

They read Lorca's Romancero Gitano
They bite and squeese

As Vargas tried to play the fandango
She'd tap a Zambra
And throw roasted corn
At his strings

La mañana

Mornings in Spain are good for empty headed men with notebooks.

With a chocolate milk cure
and a smoke
On Calle de Atocha

This polka dot dress belleza
Eyed me at the parada
De autobús

She walked over and asked
For one

I pulled out the pack
Dropped my pen
Then my sunglasses

And mentioned
'No habla Español'

She lit and with ease
And that dress she smiled
and said
'Enjoy your breakfast.'

I did.

Is it?

Written a few weeks ago in Parque del Buen Retiro: "The lungs of Madrid".

A capital bear chasing a fish
Giant fingernails and a waistcoat
A beer glass
Toilet roll

Mickey Mouse eating a banana
A miami wig
Scissors
Ice cubes

A heeled shoe
An oven glove
Pig's legs
A lunch tongue

Sesos with teethmarks
Decapitated cabeza's
A bottom lip
Three tits

A baseball bat
A sausage gun
A hand with three digits

Such As

Dedicated to you know who



Nature has a dumb gift
But suceeds in dissolute beauties
Such as you

Chemistry of mind and body
Baffle this battered
and bewildered

Prick with a pen

Shucked and Fucked

You pull the curtain
And stand

Sand in your back
Pockets

Staring at the Dakota...

Another cancelled dinner
Another mother sharing
That stark life

And I write to you

About women of type
Starving me of light

Backwash

Maybe if I try
And keep this between
The lines
And my legs

You’ll call

Maybe if I don’t pay
Or remember
You’ll put me in
Your prayers

Maybe if I look at the lampshade
Or the cleavage
Of other diners

And fuck you
On a Monday afternoon

You’ll want it
Again

The Drugs

Busted breakfast rapist
Facedown
Dogs piss against dustbins

Hose down bone
Ground
Whores parade around
This secret

Headless statues of Jesus
Dumped
Behind restaurant dumpsters

Just off of Olvera
Crackheads pick at scabs
And beg for change

The soapy nightmare
Postcard towns

Greetings

Gracias Pour Su Visita

There's two women at the fountain
Of Plaza de Puerta de Moros

Engaged in subremesa

Both wear thigh high white dresses
and eat Hojaldritos de Gueso

They throw some to a city pigeon
And one for me

How they keep so tight
I'll explain another day

Enormous Wish

Hanging off la tour Eiffel,
Shot outside Grauman’s
On the Boulevard,
Brain surgery in the back
Of a convertible,
Choking on a toothpick
In Catalonia’s Roses,
Kneecapped in Victoria Park,
Raped in the toilets of the Metropolitan,
Jumping off the sandals of Mrs. Liberty,
Pissing on the leaning tower,
Stripped and beaten with a bike chain
In Manchester’s Canal,
Hair pulling in the Royal Academy
Of Arts,
Buried alive on your birthday,
Pushed into a German Gas Oven.

Milk and Murder

Around Plaza de Jacinto Benavente
There's murder and split Colacao

Don't cry

A young Mexican barman
In one of the ubiquitous Paddy bars

Stabbed a fat tourist
Sticky blood
Spots dotted

On his tennis shoes
He ran through Mayor
To his casa

Lady in the Dark

I swear she's
Almost better

Than me

And you'll leave empty
Headed

Thirsty for rooftop aperitifs
And front pages

Those special fingers
Take the edge off
The Gaza strip
And genocide

Rest assured
The nameless woman
Without lights on

Is worth a weeks wages
And not caining beers

I've given up my shopping list
Of appauling vices

For the hands of
The lady
In the dark

Give Over

They turned Museo Chicote
On Gran Via
Into a dick bar

That's where Sinatra
With a JD bottle
Brought his girls

Dali snorted Absinthe off
The zink counter

Orson 'Citizen Kane' Welles
Knocked back Cuba Libres
And smoked fatties

And now
Men with their nipples out
and five o'clock shadows

Tinkle glasses and fuck
In the cublicles.

A particularly beautiful woman is a source of terror. As a rule, a beautiful woman is a terrible disappointment.

More chewy frustrations and a mattress where the springs dig into the flesh.
For a minute there was complete belief.
But through the absolute glory of the heart and libido
and disappointment

You (the collective) put the cold water down
Proved with esteem
Our echo doesn't sound like what you
Retold over eggs benedict

Saying what others want
Flatters not even my lower half

Right now I'm slicing through
Earth's fruit and clear sweet juice
Covers my hands like a sticky tattoo

Simple Things

An espresso after a crème caramel
A home win
Fresh bedsheets

Successful operations
Bread and butter
A drink on the house

A woman playing the piano
With her toes
Sleeping through an earthquake

Tax returns
Buckley’s sigh
Daylight savings

A day without rain
A pint in Mulligan’s
A full on rock

Getting published
Peanut butter

And Grapefruit juice.

A message from the dead

No one who chooses to build a life in this can pull the curtains back enough to bore themselves. Satisfaction may be a perfect basil pesto or a belt high enough on a woman that it acccentuates the mammaries. There's a slow perversion guiding me throughout- the jean skirt discarded on the floor, the tampons and perfume, toast with lemon curd, voices leaking into reveries, another new menu.

Opportunity Knocks (But I Don't Hear)

Working my way
Down glass

There's boundless
Opportunties
Of fruit dropping

And flies stuck
On jars of jam

That literary vineyard
Gets us
Tied and typed up

Does this spill
Stain others?

Sloppy Letters

It’s been part of
Setting off on the wrong foot

You’d think it would be a little
Less of an ordeal

But no

I’m still scraping the barrel
And finding fuck all

Opportunities not knocking
On this thin door

A welcome pattern and some half
Baked self

Keep these letters slipping
Out like greasy shits

Shoot!

First
He took a picture
of himself
With a clear plastic skull
on his
Shoulder


In '71
Michael Netter filmed
him
and Bowie
Whispering


He paid Velvet for their studio time
Some said
they were his
rock group

He paraded at premieres
And hip global openings

Sticky finger painter nightmares
masturbating
To Duran Duran videos

There was a fight
critics wouldn't watch underneath
Open shirts and under dresses

Clean entertainment
with a fright wig

Concentrate

Contemplating a Mc Donald’s Milkshake,
A summer term in Connecticut, table dancers.

Contemplating a suicide bath, Natalie Portman’s mouth,
A theatre’s back door.

Contemplating the definition of friendship, the Guernica
And Transsexual’s on Charring Cross.

Contemplating must and brave yanks, the tenacious,
A bowl of cornflakes.

Contemplating my wardrobe and cold coffee,
The decline of conquest, Christmas in bed.

Contemplating following up wishes, blowing bubbles,
Buying a fishing rod.

Contemplating a woman’s presence and concern,
Le negative, digging up coins in Slough.

Contemplating dental bills, how the solar system works
And why I put this down

While lost women without shadows lay on large beach towels
Waiting for poets.

The Man

You don’t cuss or steal wallets
Don’t eat dessert after each meal

You make your wife laugh
Take your kids fishing
And eat Duck eggs
(Boiled and free range)

You take your 90-year-old mother
To Dorset
Wash dishes and have your name
Stitched into jumpers and t-shirts

You’re a generous tipper
And have greens with every meal

You drink diet Coca Cola
Have insurance (home and life)

You’ll most likely die in your sleep
Or a skiing accident

Beyond Mother of Pearl

Beyond cold shoulders, beyond Demerara sugar
And the first beer.

Beyond her earring lost
In a boite de nuit.

Beyond brogues and dry hands.
Beyond these tourists.

Beyond a dad begging, clean bathrooms,
A journalist who wears
Ladies undergarments.

Beyond morning glory
And Campari hangovers.

Crossing

On Galata Bridge a boy bbq’s small fish,
Gene Sprague’s ghost walks Golden Gate
North to south and back;
You can’t do that on le Viandue de Millau.

In Prague, I let two women take snaps
Of my penis on the Karlu Most,
Down the Florida keys the seven mile
Connects Knight’s to Little Duck,
The Anichkov has horse statues and
Was used in Dostoevsky,

Tourists - don’t confuse Tower with London,
And in Dublin call it ha’penny

No one says Liffey.

Two Bodies

Is this how a slow pervert
Rocks off
Bi polar fantasies

I pull your crop top
Over your head
Throw and lick

I stuff my hand into
The front of your leggings
Work up and shove

This isn’t in the Karma Sutra

You push me out
And kneel
You press
And paw yourself

To get there
Before me

Fresh outta fuck

I pop aspirin in a cup
And think of arenas
Full of hysterical women,
A beef patty being stood on
In Piccadilly,
The wings of a pigeon,
Confiture stained t-shirts.

The tablets fizz and I burp olives
And tiramisu,
To avoid new year sales I buy an Irish paper,
A bottle of water and two flavours of chewing gum.

As I drink, they show porno
On a giant screen in Moscow,
And a woman in Florida touches a 33 year old
Snowball.

Roots

There’s no wonder at
Going back to your roots
Again

All the ground
You were born
Into remains

Built around
A man who’s own tree
Has been chewed
And hacked

Whose given son
Is let come
To set up
And move the rooms

Wrapping

Covered in pearl or hot sauce.
Covered in butter or blue ink.
Covered in lace or fine powder.
Covered in shit or glue.
Covered in bird seed or wool.
Covered in a map of Malaysia,
Studded leather, tomato sauce.

Covered in foreign stamps, candle wax,
Dots, cigar ash.

Covered in river stones, loose teeth, leaches.
Covered in Passport photos, bubble wrap, horse hair,
Paper.

Punch Power

Dedicated to Valero

From the Venezuelan barrio's
There's so many tough kids
And their dad's go out
Sucking other ladies tits and clits

Their relegious mothers give out
Backhands and prayers

Southpaw Valero and his channeled
Aggression got to 27-0 before stabbing
His trophy wife in a Valencia hotel

Tears on his tattooed chest
He hung himself
In a damp cell
With his sweat pants.

The Appearance of Compact Discs

Remember music on cassette
Rewinding
Stop
Clunk
Play

In my cartoon pajamas
Waiting for songs

Record
Clunk
Play

My ma paid me for drying
And tidying Matt’s toys
Stop

The money bought tapes

Once a month
There was a fiver
For cleaning Teb’s Astra

More music
Stop

Clunk

Cooler than cassette CD’s
Arrived and my tapes
Were sold off or put in a box

The box is gone
And now compact discs
Are becoming as useless
As a set of keys
to a unlocked door.

Ordeal

I’ll fuck a new hole in ya
You’re all fur
No frilly
Knickers

The thrill’s lost
Just like that
It stopped
No fun
No tongue
Twister

Squeezing grapes
Sticky tape

Procrastination delayed
Recalcitrant display

Did you not read
The inlay?


We went at it
Me on top
You lay
Car wash wet
And had to say

Pull it out
Make my day
Bubblegum

Hairy coats
Conceal

Mouths only
For adults

Ups and Downs

You still think about what I’m thinking
While menstruating women ruin
Afternoons and dessert choice

They travel backwards
Leaving us with style magazines
And scented sanitary towels

Now this
Suitcase room
Has your aftertaste

All I’ve worked at
Is giving the two
Of us

A possibility
Of remnants
And a lasting coincidence

For a combination
I could believe

A push
Into remarkable gold pieces

Arm’s Length

During my underdevelopment
Teacher’s in scuffed shoes
Puffed on bags
Of Californian weed

A fortune of small failure’s
Tied in with pubic envy
Stuffed this cheating chest
And addled mouth

Winded daily by girls
At arm’s length
In rooms of uncooked houses
And nude places.

Wrong room

There’s a bathtub full of tour guides
And girl scout cookies

A kitchen cupboard
With maps of France
And Russia

A medicine cabinet of
Vibrators and butt plugs

A yeast smelling
Queen sized bed in Windsor

Lights that turn themselves on
Small dogs in hats and scarf’s
Kids who make scrambled eggs
And coffee

A bookshelf of jams and curd
A chest of drawers in the shape Cleopatra
A shoebox of English cheese

Attics of washing powder and toilet
Cleaner

Fridges of perfume

A notebook of portmanteaus

Deathbed Breadcrumbs

Death is now available in many forms
It’s been hording and taking main roads

The obese woman in the wheelchair
The dusty 56 year old priest
Picking butts from his flowerbed
A child kicking a Coke can.

Death’s got a shopping list and car trouble
He takes the bus
And enjoys earl gray tea, new pillow covers
And staring out windows.

He learns German, dresses well
And does sets of 25 press ups.

He smokes Marlboro, listens to Bowie,
Strolls supermarket isles
And believes in first impressions.

He’s got a loud voice
And a pugilist’s battered mug.

He writes poetry.

Jack

He put his hard cock
In a passive plastic doll

An innocent fairground prize

Without daddy issues
Without high demands

She had no watch
No voice
And was unfussy

About him pissing
With the door open
Or drinking
From the milk carton

She was perfect

Yet
He threw her at walls
Fisted and chewed
Her legs and he wouldn’t
Say goodnight.

Papa's

Papa was the first to order
Death in the afternoon

In tribute
In imitation

I pop the champagne cork

Pour and add
3cl of Pastis

You can try this
Maybe

Pull out
Your notebook

Squint
Contemplate

The sheer boredom
Of being a Russian whore

Or L.A gym instructor's

Pour
Taste

Contemplate
Death

In the afternoon.

Double Decision

Shying from a choice of language
That dances out
Of others and you

It moves to flickering flashes
Slowed down action

I decided to engulf
To speak
Your mother’s tongue

I walked into a party nightmare

You took what I’d stupidly stored

And gave it back too soon
Turning our quarters
Into rooms

Where nothing
Had

Happened.

We exchanged
How easy the steps
Had been

Clawing at the door
My decision forced this

You have pushed me
Out there

To find difference
And a city
That hadn’t been before.

Ce Soir

Tonight I read @ kid, I wrote back
In Shoreditch,
There'll be talk of mullets, strippers,
Green sauce, not sleeping,
Smoking in the dark,
Double depression,
Cocktail del dia's
and maybe Gaga.

Out Do

You hire dumb crackers
To follow me

To Pink's in Hollywood
For a few cans of pissy beer

You kissed despotically
Kept me placed

With fresh dopamine

I give you this
A giant's middle finger
A cookie

Crumbs
As good
As they look

The trail ends

Here

Yeah,

That's where.

Je suis dans le cirage

Art alien
Semi stiff

Stuffed enough
On paper

Pre-dating
Arousal

Outercourse
Dopamine

My serve

All forehand

No return

Madrid (One Summer)

From my hotel on Gran Via
I’m burning
Prostitutes stand by
A zebra opposite
This building
Where they take
Their pay

We’ve gone down streets
To Sol, Mayor
And Malasana

We’ve eaten Madrid style
Veal tripe

Seen Goya’s various styles
Found café Gijon

The women and girls
In sleeveless tops
And shorts
Make me lame
On Plazo de Santo Domingo
Drinking Mahou

From a frozen glass
My mixed olives remain

Gareth Eoin Storey has been to Barcelona. This is a justifiable excuse for not posting. Boadas was how all bars should be. G S

A Problem with Silence

She refuses to have mains at St John,
And I pick cake crumbs
My fingers smudged with ash,

She refuses a sweet white
As torture snips at my heels,
Armies of plastic soldiers
Sink in the Boise

Spiders tie my laces together

It’s a blackout
An unused bomb
Her purple coat

And studded jeans
Suspended me

Wish

This one was written in a clothes shop while I waited to see if she liked anything she was trying on. G Storey.

Wish

Hanging off la tour Eiffel,
Shot at outside Grauman’s
On the Boulevard,
Brain surgery in the back
Of a convertible,
Choking on a toothpick
In Catalonia’s Roses,
Kneecapped in Victoria Park,
Raped in the toilets of the Metropolitan,
Jumping off the sandals of Mrs. Liberty,
Pissing on the leaning tower,
Stripped and beaten with a bike chain
In Manchester’s Canal,
Hair pulling in the Royal Academy
Of Arts,
Buried alive on your birthday,
Pushed into a German Gas Oven.

The foot In It

Ron snapped you in L.A
Circa 1970

Lindsay looks a lot like
you
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

Out.

School

On the playground we knew
Teachers
Watched us from classroom windows

And we knew
Nothing
About language
Or sport rules.

We spent money on paper
Bags of jellies
Our unblemished faces
Had no clue about
masturbating into teacups,
La Vielle Prune
Or pickpockets.

Dinner at Spago

Oh Buk
God gave you a pair

Remember Spago?

It was Montfort’s wife’s bash
You came in sweating
And called
Schwarzenegger
A little shit

Mr. Universe
Was a soft turd
From your view

Who else could you see?

T S Eliot Called His Cat Noilly Prat

You ordered me a G and T
After my blurted compliment

The chancer took over
And followed ya to
The stalls and floor

You lost your friends
And coat
That I found under mine
On a bench

We saw them
As we left
Huddled by a shelter

And there was no bus
To Brixton but they left
To go east and we stayed
By the timetable

And let the clouds pass over
The wet moon.

Typecast

Perfect, hold it, now look
At me.
Can you do sad?
Your mother’s got bowel cancer.
Your girlfriend miscarried.
Your dad’s been convicted
For child sex crime.
Perfect, hold it.

Now look at me.
Let’s see the smile.
More teeth,
More gum,
Perfect, hold it.
Think of breakfast in St Maxime.
Driving a BMW convertible
From Rome to Sicily.
Sinatra singing at your wedding.
Perfect, hold it, hold it.

Can you do pensive?
Let me see intellectual digestion.
Perfect.
You’ve just read Finnegan’s Wake.
You’ve just slept at Picasso’s.
You wrote a new poem.
Now look at me.

Warm Ups

Men turn into wandering monsters
And women don’t turn
They’ve got it sussed
And poor us with our foul fucking language
And interest in sports tables

We’re like handbags
Or dolls
Ephemeral souvenirs
Useless for a bitch with large
Earrings and ankle boots

There’s a world full of us
Forgotten after
A few warm up fucks

Eden

In the garden Adam had it good:
Eve’s party pillows, the starfish
And her virgin cunt.

No rubbers or down payments
No phone calls or Hollywood bullshit.

But this serpent beast
With little eyes
Came out of Satan’s unwashed
Foreskin and offered Eve
A big red apple

‘Is it any good?’
She asked.

And like most creatures
Of earth
She didn’t wait for the reply.

Bow and Arrow

At the photocopier at work
In the doctor’s office

At that group meeting
As I see you but I do not follow you

In a hotel room
Buying food & drink

Cigars & morphine
Dolphins
D N A
Beer that doesn’t have a name

In your garden
At your computer

I’m here when you are there

We are in this together
But the job
But the eyes and brain

In a queue at the bar
In your car

In the doctor’s office

She asked me questions and I answered in a voice that wasn't mine

As love did fade
She found my skin

She asked of me
To sing again

From a balcony
From her en suite

For the obese
For the dead street

She watched me leave
& let me go

I slept before
A song I know

Jesus

Jesus, she coughs up caterpillars
And fashion magazines.

Jesus, she farts self portraits
And cocktail recipes.

Jesus, she sneezes on fat couples
And disabled children.

Jesus, she eats tissues, barbells,
Planks of wood.

She knows pirates,
She dances with wolves,
She’s sung to Hitler.

Jesus, she loves me.

A list of what makes G M

Behind great men are
Children choking on jellies
Dirty fingernails, bags of washing
Alcoholic fumes, extensive repression,
Cook books, a guide to Hanoi,
Stroke mags, maternal complication,
Women with male names, fridges of French mustard,
Boxes of aspirin, confused body clocks,
Auditory commands, aspirations of grandiose proportions:

‘I’ll K.O Iron Mike.’

‘Cheryl would fuck me.’

‘French is easy.’

Great men have twisted and serious addictions to
Rum and Raisin Ice Cream,
Double Cheeseburgers and Bourbon.
Bouts of silence and gambling.
Inimical dancing.

Great men are often found in single rooms or
Walking cemeteries.
Great men need great women

But where are they?

Bowling Alley Bar

I drink a Saturday night Sazerac
Without fever and all these ladies
Are dressed like its 1970
And the dumb DJ plays foul disco

The couch is made of sand
And there’s two mirrorballs

A lesbian waitress with breasts
Like cushions bites a double cheese
Burger next to me

And I raise my hard earned hand
And a black girl of short skirt
And legs of smooth muscle
Eyebrows arched
Says ‘Hold on boy.’

She puts the tumbler on top
Of my notebook and pouts
As if I hadn’t seen enough

‘What you writing?’ she asks.
‘The history of cocktail waitresses.’
She leans down so swell

Her titties are magnificent
And perfume like a dessert
Wine starts me off

‘How much have you had to drink?’
Women interrupt moments of play
With too much banality

‘Je ne me souviens pas.’

‘Vraiement, smartass.’

Hand on my thigh
She takes my blue pen and
Puts down numbers

‘I’m done at 1 and live
Two streets away but you
Can walk me home.’

‘Should I…?’

‘There’s plenty to drink at
My place, but wait ‘till then.’

In the garden Adam had it good:
Eve’s party pillows, the starfish,
her virgin cunt.

No rubbers or down payments
No phone calls or Hollywood bullshit.

But this serpent beast
With little eyes
Came out of Satan’s unwashed
Foreskin and offered Eve
A big
red
apple

‘Is it any good?’
She asked.

And like most creatures
Of earth
She didn’t wait for the reply.

Here's an excuse for not posting yesterday: Campari.

Mate

You’ve got your right hand
And both balls

You’ve got a bottle of Ricard
On the windowsill
And you can spell
Your name.

You don’t forget birthdays
And you’re at ease with
American tourists and toilet
Attendants.

They say too much

You look like Brando
In The Teahouse of August Moon

Or a critically deformed Di Caprio

But you don’t feel it
‘cause there’s no lipstick collars

No tampons in the bathroom
Cabinet

You pass out weekends
And sniff doi choi

You’re not refereed

They don’t discuss what you work on
Or Schrödinger’s cat

So slip a note into a hookers g-string
Bribe a child to nick first edition Hemingway’s
And rest your eyes on stupid murals.

Call This

Foal walking
As Paul took her on Hampstead Road
Zippers snapped
On board
A missing oyster
Puking lipstick coins


Avoiding pavement
You pulled off
Those black heeled boots
And said:
‘Don’t touch my belly.’

Serving up three original captain’s
And lowered volume

I dozed hard against your back.

Lesson

History’s not written by foul mouthed sailors
Nor Libyan dwarfs or the uneducated.

History’s colour blind and show’s favoritism.
History was tipped off.

The Bible was written by fish
With remarkable hands.
The I Ching was knocked out in a week
By a speed head.
The author of the Epic of Gilgamesh
Had seven illegitimate children.

The past can’t be written
It’s a piss stain,
A line of cut coke,
Movie reels.

Pulp

She grew up NYC
Upper west

Did burlesque to Epic
In a gay bar

While escaping canines turned
To coins

I let her rub the crown
We dropped
After school

Without wearing

We slit
Wisdom

Sniffing pets
Huffed
Into drama's door

Indonesian hookers hang out in Saritem’s alleys

Not cleaning the tulip staircase
Scratching my leg

Letting my toenails curl
With disappointed Catholic sperm

Bereft of passion
No copulation in sight

The end of my tether
Is soaked in Dubonnet

Not near wet shaved legs
Or just worn panties

They’re reserved for the clean
Lungs and red tongues

The multilingual

They don’t pick up
Dog turd or stroll
Canal St Martin

They banquet in large dining
Rooms with chandeliers

They slip through any
Sized crack

And tire of lick outs
And spooning

They don’t hide internet
Prescriptions in matchboxes
Or write poetry.