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.