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.