Soap Banana Condoms

The skeleton pear
Two matches 69
An abandoned list (soap banana condoms)
Tainted Pastilles
Top bottles
Lost Anandin (Extra)
A festive Robin
Rods Cones Double Cones
Dim light dollar
The strap snap
Names of staff

Bulb

I guess I have to do this
My sexless bed
Incompatibility

Is like
Balloons we let loose
As kids.

They go up
And they’re gone
And as the crescent held place

I decided to go
Silent lighting
Cigarettes instead of bulbs or a lamp

Problems seem ineffective
When no one’s in
And it’s church mouse quiet.

Smoke trails
Mouthfuls of
Plum Brandy.

Top Of My Head

Liquid limo wrong turn
Blocked in and backed concern
A pale driver
Empty passenger seat
Uncorked bottles thrown
On Broadway
A street

Away

Two clowns
Rice and noodles
Go after la belle
Lisa
And la belle Normande
In penury
In plaintive breaths
They pick at a carcass
Discarded in season

It is seasoned

They come
From dark to
Flick and get me
Outta bed and
Putting the brandy back
Carry a black sac
Hot water scrub
Pulled out of my mother

Relived bloated childhood.

You Masturbated Me?

Squeesed nose pose
Pacific monolithic
Adam's apple pie
Sliced twice

Turned out turn
No feet on the ground
A flat road opening

Head of rain
Bow tie season
Parades of air
Raid the ark
The paired animals
The lone gun jogger
Before black sea biscuit
Breakfast

Why is this uncooked lobster
Now a telephone?

Saline plain sailing
They talk of my drinking
But not my thirst
And tongue town
This just turned woman
Pale and vowed asks
'You masturbated me?'
From futon lottery
Back to missing 25
Of a £££££££££

The seahorse comes up to boil
Rolling in Manray's yellow yolks.

Albumen Afternoon

A surprise albumen afternoon
During large glassed Czech beers
Served by a tan in the banana basement
And through online id and ego
Keyboard depersonalisation

It's easier now to ignore
Without a horse
Or doors on the car.

Deck

Chocolate melted
Like her son
On my shirt

'We are the parents.'

She doesn’t believe
In monogamy
I do

But she says love
Is stronger
Than a ship
And it’s a bus which
I’m on the top deck

At the traffic lights.

Nike Tongues

Samo sprayed in n y c
The Coke cans with pull tops
And fat black cops
With patches of bald skin
See through afro
Invisible hands
In dive bars

Indivisible plans
On crack and
Guns emptied in
Chests down nyc

The Factory and monsters
The robots in leather
Central park before Chapman
A corner store stick up
Cornered asian clerk
White boy cap back
Spilt milk duds
Thud thud thud
Nike tongues

Twirl Through Traffic

In wrong attire
Sink sky and me in
Hunting shorts
And bukowski t

Down Broadway in daylight
Eating banh mi with Dan
And you in the queue:
Leopard Hat, Coleman’s dress,
Unlaced red brogues

Sat on a covered seat
And proceded
And after a cold
and after a hot coffee
We walked through the back streets
Of Hackney and dropped him
At the Field

As we moved back to Mare St
The crowds came forward
And we opposite
In the setting and settling in
There was Guinness and prosecco
A champage bottle
And your foot knocked my leg

At a toilet break
I sat on your side
And we dived out
And hit the Dolphin


All the coins we scraped for
A cash only bar
To sit in the garden
Surrounded by kittens and bar backs

On again
This time as we went north
You stopped put my tongue in

For the final drinks
I dared you to dance
We took a 254 and stuffed
My Eccles cake
And interrupted the dick’s dinner

In mine you sized up
Where my head comes from
And I stuffed ‘Burning in Water’
Into your handbag

You got out of bed and danced off
Twirling past traffic.

Tomb

They (I mean us)
Have shades on in bars
And in Roucherhouart
And Inglewood

Visiting lasts
Without restricitions

And here is a replica
A cloned coned out clone
With tye die bullshit
Chops and front pocket tabs

I sit on a pile of hangovers
Causes lost
In perdu
Translation:
Beaucoup de perdu

A weeping woman
Or gallons of women
Grooming to horseride
Around where they stuffed
You

In a tomb.

Malade Comme Un Chien

I am not the ginger Tomcat marking territory in her bedroom
Nor the railway Nazi
Or boozy Bardolph's bookkeeper

I am not a donor (blood sperm)
Related to royalty
Adverse to perversions

I am not typing in a Cuba
Renting a decent apartment
Or a capricious dog owner (though I was)

I am not spilling off milk
Moving to Copacabana
Penetrating virgins in their 20's

I'm not a dab hand
Or silver bullet

Not accelerating behind the wheel
Of a Porsche Carrera
Blasting 'the Chronic' behind tinted windows

I am not roped into open fallopian tubes
Drinking in daytime (I lie)

I am not on lists of possible targets
Afraid to hitchhike or
Jump into an 18ft deep swimming pool (I lie again)

I'm not there
I respond through mots
Not calls

I'm not that or being eaten by stomach worms
I'm not eligible or legible

I'm not brazen or standing at the gates
Of my sisters school
I am not an idol
Model in a role or near pole
Position

I'm not residing in my birthplace
Or a picture or number
Or my medical histoire

I'm not fluent but truant.

Easy Come

My muse hasn’t been used

She sees friends at weekends

She eats a house

The size of a mouse


My muse is out

And not a Queen

Her legs have to be daily shaved

Sometimes

She skips showers

And twirls like an amateur

Ballerina with salmonella


Her fingernails are the size

Of boat sails

Though her age says she’s experienced

(Are you?) she doesn’t let me

Do that thing


My muse has a short attention fuse

That blows

And from three floors high

She jumps off the ledge

Into a hollybush

When her widow mother calls

The phone rings off

And I hold one hand

That she tries to slip out of


My muse’s bare shoulders

My muse’s blancmange and

The puncture

She rides at one speed

Her stained panties

The head clouds

My muse and a run down

Battery

Her topless photo’s in my sock drawer

My muse off the leash

The stick in the wheel

My muse spells spelling with one l

And is the doppelganger of her mother’s mother

(The picture’s hanging in the living room)

She wears socks and loses lighters

My muse has used an old toilet

At Le Rubis in Paris

She has chalk hands and movie teeth


I can’t say her postcard

Maybe it’s an arrondissement

Or Borough


I met her on a beach as it rained

I met her eating a rare hamburger

I saw her first in Our Lady of Consolation, Dublin

In a car parked on a yellow line

Leaning out a window on Loz Feliz Boulevard

Getting a stick of butter

Throwing peanuts at monkeys

Wearing a tank top in a communist bar

She begs her way out of the bag

Of fines and queues

She can scrape by on un peu de l’argent

My muse goes in the out door

Runs through green men

Grazes on seeds and cold soup

She jumps rails and gets supplies

From supporting parents.

Status

Is the pursuit of poems being pissed out my urethra
Are the pursued at least sure of their
Pervert pursuer
All and many more

The rung out cell phones
Delivered orchids

These are baby steps
Into an adult store
Growning pains
In Pigalle l’appartaments

I have a status
Not read
I’m a letter in delivery dumps


It’s guaranteed to be full

Glukel

In childhood
I didn't enjoy much food
I hated livers fried in schmaltz
Gefilte fish and Challah

I smoked from 10
Sometimes I snuck a sip
Of Blessed wine

Then the Fuhrer and his Nazi's
Took us out of our homes
And caged us
Turned us to bone ash
Lampshades

As I starved
All that grub I turned down
At family meals
The stews, mothers bread, pastrami
I escaped through this

My brothers Dovid, Saul, Mattithyahu and Abraham
And sisters Batel and Kayla
Got chewed up
Without a bite

They had more flesh
But went quicker

My parents
(almost dead before)
Went in shock
Their hearts tied together
Using the same drum sticks
Holding hands in Olam Ha-Ba
Their blood mixed
Their d.n.a split
In their brood
And I Glukel
Escaped.

Romantic No Go

You've have been fooled
Thinking it easier to desaparecer

And leave it to me
To see you back
With your ma in a Madrid

Tipping borrachera in a sink
Or the tub
Launching just opened bottles
Out onto Calle de los

Did you get yourself
In the espejo retrovisor
In fifth
On roto roads

You packed up there to meet bums
Like me
In the worlds
Romantic no go

But from there again
Put your lentes para leer on

I am here
Frith St
With a bicicletta
Brooding on you

There isn't any wonder

And I wash it down
And order one to you
And another for ride.

Deal With Him

"Deal with him, Hemingway, deal with him!"
I must remain seated,
I haven't finished this glass
Of floral sweet white wine.

"Deal with him, Hemingway, deal with him!"
I have violets that need eau,
A daughter heading for the bin,
My Galway gee in need.

"Deal with him, Hemingway."
You're brawn and brain,
I'm a prick with a stick.

"Deal with him, Ernest, deal with him!"
These gobshite's don't serve stout
Or Coddle,
Melisande is watching you.

"Hemingway?"
Will you carry me?
Have you a spare candlebra?
Dîner's on me at Closerie des Lilas.

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.

Sit

Took you apart
For ART

Put you down
On a shopping list:

Apples
Ricard
Ice

Fingernails
Bitters
Pens (Black Blue Red)

Confiture

Took a stand
Here and started the melody

It starts at middle C
Top and low

Sit on this

Finger Vinegare

I'm free and almost
Near Pressed Potato

Without a call back
Or notice

Come or come not
I'll come
Or Come sooner

Later?

Auditions have now been
Cancelled

We're sorry to inform you

Cunts abound
Around Jamon finger vinegar.

A Tire

Poison air out of a tire
My head’s flat

And duck me under
Slow bubbles
Appear in the basin

Poke my rognons
With all your names

And care less

To sink in
Brouilly, Brahms
And Bread.

Histoire

Debussy; Ravel's Bolero; three teens share a dildo.
Premiership news; log in.
Outdoor finger fuck; director's Twitter Feed.
Timeline masturbation hunt.
Clair de lune suitcase.
Symphony No.3 in F major catalogue.

A.D strips and sucks review
Guts and butter
Redirecting Nocture.

City guide suite bergamasque
Reach climax glass update
Bizet's menu search
Ma France and Francis Picabia.

Poete Maudit

At an engagement soiree,
The bride to be in a dress
Of silver holes joined at the loop and the groom
Ready for a snooker tournament-
Old distinguished and extinguished faces, familiar,
Large bodies, shrivelled sausages, shrink wrapped cheese,
Store bought cold quiche, dairy triangles....
Old couples ready for Noah’s ark,
And evil music.

Most of the young stood at the entrance
Glasses resting on a window ledge
Inhaling duty paid tobacco
I stood by
Holding the fort
Talking tunes of modern mentality
Speaking to a waitress in a Greek tavern;
She’s in a relationship with a friend of mine
And they’ve been together for time
They live above his work
And their relationship threatens my living:
Bed before midnight/ solo dining /sexless/
They all put me in a play /I’ve not acted in
For dog years-
They see me as a cowboy/ as a semialcoholist/
Full of nightlife and women dragging me to bathrooms
In clubs to fuck/
Blow jobs on the bus/
Public nudity (and a flagrant disregard for love)
Then there’s the bottles and the booze/
They see me as a man with a glass glued to his hand
In their eyes/I don’t sleep/
But I drink continually/
In their mind/I don’t eat apples/ or walnuts/
I don’t walk 5 km a day/
To them I’m in the bars/
Putting life in my mouth/
And in the toilet/ putting it up my nose/
And cigarettes burning in the ashtrays/
Black market Prescription pills/
Lining my pockets/
To them I’ll be the same...Infinite/
Like a film frame/
Like Dorian Gray’s attic portrait/

I’m that Gareth/
The troubled brooder/
Full of silence and sleep/
First love/
Also peanuts and dogs/
Hater of romcoms and shit food and music/
Amateur artist on headache holidays/
Almost on a precipice/
At the lips of drowning himself/
In a bathtub or shooting himself/
Full of badly sourced heroin/
He who started acting in secondary school/
And started guitar without knowing/
What the top and bottom e’s were/
He who formed a band with his best friends/
And then disbanded/
He who wrote short stories that appeared in rags and journals/
He who lived in a house without doors/
Or doorframes/
He who had his heart broken in Dublin/
London/ Paris/
He who for a few weekends on 2001/
Made holes in Belgian beer cans/ and sucked crack/
Through the tear/
He who tries two careers at once/
He who taught himself the culinary basics/
Moved on/ moved up /and borrowed talent/
Two hands chef/ two hands/
He who looks at women like they’ll want him/
And find that they don’t/
‘cause he’s serious and his face and posture/
Says I can look after myself/
‘cause he has no one to care for or take anywhere
‘cause he’s eating the world on toast/
And not chasing them/
‘cause he wanks and wonders the eaten earth/
And wonders what is wrong with women/
And their pretty heads and fit bodies/
Women with smiles and cerebral smarts/
With fitted trousers with appetite/
WOMEN he loses himself on the simple matters/
And they lose interest in him/
‘cause he loses it on that/
‘cause he’s waiting/
Prolonging his limbo/
No intercourse for the course of....
By now he could be shooting blanks/
Could have been doing it all along/
And all they could of had but didn’t/
Found it too much and pissed away the chances/
While pissed three sheets to the wind/
And wearing clean undershorts/
Pissed and picassoed/
Pissed and putting the blade into himself/
Giving too much/
Crawling back to his real home to hibernate/
Staying safe/
So safe he leaves his keys with someone/
And his bankcards in the supermarket/
He talks it up/
But goes nowhere/
Not walking to the end/
Of the pool and jumping/
Without nose plugs/
Without goggles/
Life’s deep end-
He paddles puts his feet in/
And almost takes them out/
And sees you/
You and your army/
You and your gang/
You and your brother/
You and your kids/ and family planning/
3.99 pregnancy tests/
Fertility clinics/
Gynaecologists/
And he stays there afraid/
Positioned by his own stance/
On how he operates this.

Add

When you want the numbers
You know
Each button

Adds voice
To picture

Under An Act

I think of your legs
Your palms and knees

That school grey skirt
Hitched
To reveal

The devil that makes me
Put hot glass
On my wrist

And keeps days
Of cancer animals
Smashed mirrors
And bin fires
All under an act

So you don’t know
The flames are you

Starts Again

From memory last week,
Afternoon after Four

Some vague notion,
Worked around my skull.

Revolving, you dancing on
Spikes as if it came to me last

Year,a picture.

You stopped reading
And all bones and eyes,
Left that room,
But I
Put myself there.

Not knowing one year later
The voice I heard stop
Would start again.

Papa

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 an L.A gym instructor

Pour
Taste

Contemplate
Death

In the afternoon.

Le Film

Getting to the centre
One for'------'

Kids with soda’s the size
Of their heads (or bigger),
Bags of cow marrow
And mass produced chocolate.

I, too, used to enjoy
The movies
With my mother,
My classmates,

But now,
I see on average,
One a week,

And I smoke outside,

While the pairs and groups,
Pick prime seats.

I don’t eat
While watching,
Or talk,
Or check the time.

My phone gets switched off,

The screen's a place
To hide from outside.

Maid

Pushed up behind the bar,
Dishwasher dismantled,
Square of flesh:
A spine in a frame.

Down in the cellar,
One on a beer glass and
Another on a nip.

We suck tongues
And you want to go up

Out of here
For shots and sleep

Almost in my village
Almost under cover

Je vis seule
And when it rises

Also
Again

Life in Mots

Working out these flaws,
That’s all,
Trying to pass muster,
Perform a life as it hasn’t been
Mine.

In one pot,
Adding weed stalks to evening tea,
Working mots,
At an age much towards
Place.

Family table called,
All gathered,

And you at the head,
The sperm giver.

A father at last,
Bedded with a foreign wife,
Cellar of local wine,
Multilingual kids (beaten on occasion)
A respectable career,

In the arts
or culinary scene?

Advert For

Cattle mother
Beer animal
Steak women
Booze meat
Whore wine

Lady jar
Food intercourse
Aperitif repas sex
Femme glass
Plate model

Full dizzy satisfied
Scrape to dinner
Dead picole pussy
Born to death liver
Pickled Tits shit

Cum pass away
Baby hangover
Indigestion moan
Get fat /forget/ get fucked

Break up slaughter.

Counterphobic

a squeeze between the legs
should i keep
saying it

i who got born
in a barn
(get it)

choked in the negative
slumped in the sink

a repose
a pause

this is a certain response

Off Heat

Thread stage - wet fingers in cold water
Ball Stage - prolong
Crack Stage - dip index finger into syrup

Off heat

My coat hanging off the wardrobe
Grows a head
The shoes under the bed
Move without feet

The paintings murmurmoan
The postcards turn into portals

Bottles unscrew and pour
and stumble slur and piss on the floor

The wash basket nibbles
At my toes
As the radiator makes maudlin music

The door opens halfway
Then bang
Its closed

My ex x x x's
Try and fuck me

As I go to bed
With monsters

S.J.

Tattooed toes, blue birthmarks-
In tribute to Crawford.

What I’d give to push my face
Against wet net knickers
Of the maitre d'.

A mother headdream.

Predict Prescription

They'd forecast showers
And I hadn't wiped the prints
Or worn a jacket

It was not raining sweat
patches on the underarms
of tops

Cats hid where they knew
And other pets choked
The windows up

Dying weather is a lottery.

Meteo aujourd'hui:
épouvantables.

Je Cherche

I started this on a bench
By Square d'Estienne d'Orves

There's a clock above
These traffic lights
You strain to see

The drivers have
Elbows out the window

And où est-tu?

The Tail Is Wagging The Dog

There was a silhouette,
On her chest,
And we unwound almost,
Similar,
Her south of Bilbao,
And me in dear dirty Dublin,
But almost as predicted,
By my eager offering,
You decided I'd probably,
Take your heart and throw it,
Against a shop front window with handless
Mannequins, and lure you,
Into a faithful relationship,
Where you’d become tied up in knots,
At an ironing board,
And a sink, while I burped,
Commands and forced you,
Into going against GODS wishes.

Women, have this unfortunate gift,
Where they know what foot,
You’ll put forward, before you do,
And when they’re smart enough,
Or maybe they’ve suffered as much
As they can, they pick up on gestures and
Body language, and calculate whether it’ll be worth
The hassle, of letting some fuckhead,
Show 'em around a city, or have a bite,
With a desperate knowledge, that she can chow
As much as she wants, and he’ll be paying.

Not ‘cause he thinks she’ll bone him or
Suck his joint in a hip bar's restroom,
But because of decency
And keeping up with passed on and traditional chivalry.

And all the things she misconstrues
As signs, pointing to his money or agenda
Somehow equate,
To her as he wants her,
Pulling apart her asscheeks,
Or making the mussed bed

And that’s just feminist brainwashing,
Stupid, diseased, half formed, ideas.

They reject the willing man.

The one who’d stroll the Seine,
And sip vin chaud on the left bank in Winter.

The one who would walk them to the bus stop,
And be excited by a quick tongue-lashing,
Before the doors closed.

For a more predictable cunt.

A wild, faithless, wife beater,
With a well paying ,stable job, who harbours,
No arty desires.

Who is self contained with
Television, and the same set of friends,
Since his puberty.

And then as they change nappies
And pick up dry cleaning,
They think back to that one
Shifty looking bug eyed
Gimp with the notebooks
And the pockmarks,
With the inebriated gait

And wonder


Who did he marry?

Blow Gold

The heeled whore called me
Bad Boy.

But leave this capital and
You’ll soon forget the perverts
sodomisers and bad tips.

A stable job
Where you don’t get jizzed in,
Or on,
Is better than sucking,
A variety of cocks.

That Was Then

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

Not gangrene or punctures


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

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

That was then

Now he's scuffed
Almost at the precipice.

Artists with Gloves

Miro and Hemingway, fresh leather gloves,
shorts, (no headguards),
In the 16 x 24 ring.

Footwork, left jabs,
An uppercut,
A rope mark on Miro's flat back,

No cuts, kidney shots,Puffy eyes,
Sweat drops, hook,
Straight right.

Drop.

This One

Is like others
And has me
Eating in fast-food joints
And walking the wet

At a west bus stop
Lip synching to Sinatra
She puts her hands
Under my coat

This one is perfect
Like a tuned guitar string
A £50 note
A key change

This one
Has the word

We talk
In cabs
At tables
On sofa's

She's a small town
In South Africa
A mammal

She's a Buddhist demon
A Romanian river

A song
A tribe in India
A dental appliance

Tonight

My mantra.

Qu'est-ce que tu racontes?

Cacao melted
Like her daughter
On my shirt.

'WE are the parents.'
She doesn't believe
In monogamy or mind breaths.

Truck tires and magic
Mushrooms sizzling

She says it's amour propre
That ships on a bus

At traffic lights

I hold show them a frame
On my camera kiss
And ask

'Have you seen this woman?'

Jump

We film on pause
a bachelor's single thought
through cinematic dîner
under table myth
The ambivilant companion
With her heels off
Hanging off the banister
Paper steps
Looking through stair sticks
Lips on the handrail

Kid Icarus
And the eggplant.

The Nine Hear Them

From Pascale Petit's Poetry From Art Course

Think of blossoming. There’s the closed bride door
and no escape when you cast shadows –
a locked canon. I don’t love you

appears costumed in a Greek toga.
The true Milky Way floats
between their soul-tongues and uniform.

We hunt for a bottle of Benedictine
but it’s still love three times three,
at different angles with the lights on in the cemetery.

Petite's Spring Triangle

Streaming poem Started at dawn running and noon rise first asparagus season and ghee parfait shrimps and Guinness Moved across Waterloo to eat Clementine Granita prozzie's white and black (one holding a child) And cidre Breton from Jerry's we went to St Anne's Where Blake prayed in death mask Boozed and snoozed two petite teens with thongs riding both holes Played with a beach ball When we took to Soho square flooded With cans and then shade Hunger mounted and we queued with Negroni's And watching a tattoed waitress with a comb in the ass pocket of her jeans Postprandial I lit up and gave one up To a bugeyed dealer who offered free lines Crack in a car park He exchanged note for refined sugar And sucked smoked his hand made pipe All this as we watched We laughed.

Crucified Risen and Exalted

I cloud out clear

Forced sellable reality

Kidney shots

My SK

Kicks the door off the hinges

Hurls a wine glass at me

It goes out the window

She cruises and curses

To where it murmurs

She butts me-

Nose split squint

She roars

And head kicks my jowl

Handclaps my ears

I come around and she's got

A lighter to the hair of my nuts

Then i'm stripped and shoved

Into cold bathwater-

She holds a plugged in radio

Above me

And then dunks me-

Sink splutter under

Gasp air suck

And to top it off

Pulled out wet

And straight on a

Vintage crucifix

Nails palms feet

And a 12 inch through the forehead

Tap

Tap

TAP.

What Eliot Said

Eliot said a poem distinguishes

What one really feels

And what one

Would like to feel.

And this evening stinking up

Streets of dogshit and

Public relief

I drink agua con gas

And bitter Kas

By a fountain

Later at Casa Labra,

I'll be served Oloroso

By a elderly waiter

As lovers leave

Their mouths open

By Catedral de la Almudena.

Her Skin

Shakes a rhythm

For me invisible and stoned

You would know

I wanted casserole conversation

And then to push you over

And fuck this memory

Of you

She asked in a hiss

Off this road

Are you going home

Pisshead?

These dulled bites

On my back

Told her monsters

To hold on.

p h q 9

Over the last two weeks

How often have you been bothered

By any of the following problems?

(Use x to indictate your answer)

Holes in your head mouth

Coitus d' real dre ams

Lack of dining companions

Giant toothbrushes

Nickle beers and lemonade

People staring ugly

Old socks

Empty prescriptions

Increasing inches

Fidgets

Norman Rockwell terrors

Lack of eau de vie

Upturned tables

Bad bread

Herb names

The Grey suit

Clean ashtrays

A woman (or women).

A Singer

With round lenses,

Opens a Las Vegas Hotel window,

Pulls in toxic snips

Of unconservative

Conversation,

An untreatable cancer

Starts in his throat,

Makes it through

Stomach thunderclaps,

To come out,

A cushioned reservoir.

Elementary?

No more

Integumentary.

Must See

Polished shoes in a puddle

Back street blowjob

Half of out

My arthead disposal

Headnotes

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.

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

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
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.

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.

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

Of café 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.

The Whole Thing

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

Here
Last week

She brought me a bottle
Here
Last week

And we took lunch
Some white
Some Oloroso

Here
Last week
Watched music
Hit the Plum Brandy

Last week

I paid for her blue smock
Here

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
Periods

Last week

Rosealba

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.

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

Slip

If you’d have just shown

A smear

Running here

Would finish me.

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,

Unconscious,

‘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

Remember Anhedonia

Beer on the walk

Home, venison

Offal and beetroot

Six missed call windows

Closed

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,

Why

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.

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

Moooo

Chew

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.

Whores and Oars

After a Sunday service,

I, a man of no anchor and leftovers

Stood out on the bridge, looking at tide

And ships.

You, with a name that hears like a summer month,

Beer in hand, nicotined lips, dared me down

By another wet bar I got you first

And crushed shards of glass.

From the deck, you rang me so we could meet

The week I wasn’t whored up in paid hours.

I gave you a lemon pig and you kneecapped him

And snapped an ankle so his unwaxed belly

Hit the floor. The clove eyes got yanked and

Flicked at new misery.

Almost a full day had vanished

When my letter reached your door

And you, maybe ‘cause of fear, pouted

And put your foot against the letterbox

And slept there

Curled and blocking the sea.

Four days after. A decision was giving me

The plank. I walked out,

Got to the edge, saw the sharks

With blank stares and the scraps from another

And your phone was ring ring

RINGING

I jumped.

Saudade

Left my home

Town now I’m

Back to a city

Where I work

It isn’t home

And where

I shower and sleep

Isn’t either

Here there

Is no family

Maison

Of comfort

Familiar spooks

Where I close

The door open

This world splitting

Time between

Here and where

Life started before

Drunks and girls

Before wheels

Fell off and my first

Spoonful of *saudade.

*Portuguese for a strong longing.

Free

Your Google homepage-

Search engine bar blank-

Easy instant

And free.

Tiny porn boxes,

Flashes of videoed panties on,

Off fingers tongue,

A new arrival,

Nude 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,

Maybe it’s her house?

And her dildo?

A 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 a woman,

You dated but let get away.

So you try tidy up,

Both working,

Towards finishing the past ,

To come.

Out Of The Question

Polished shoes in a puddle

Back street blowjob

All my art, my head disposal-

Headnotes

What’s out of the question

A negroni? Stable commitment?

A telephone call from G.O.D?

Nah, tinker talk, champagne and huitres

A dressage chick

With thick lips

And sore red knees

White bra, black panties

Bent over bet...

You asked for

This.

Open and Shut

In typical fashion

Wondering around a gallery

‘Bout high society

I notice this hot one

Come out of a screening

Of a man playing cards

On acid

She stands next to me

Reading the information

For this room

And I follow her

Pretending to take the info in

As she leads her way to the exit

I’m footsteps behind

When I notice

This sign

‘Tell Us About Your Drug Experience’

I sit down and knock out a couple of

Paragraphs on my last trip

Then leave and she’s not there

Not in the gift shop or cafe

Not outside the main entrance

No, not even at the closest tube station

She’s gone

Like the others.

The Easiest Prey

Dining on

Twice removed relationships

Metacognitive beheadings

I saunter out en hiver

Sit down for a Pastis

And feast on cris de coeur

In slivers

I drink from a narrow neck carafe

And a glass of water

With baking soda

Finished

All chambers cleared

I venture on to my prospective barmaid

Who puffs as she reigns ’em in

And snuffs it with a turned heel

Her hair goes curly

In the rain

As she taps her watch

To say I’m too early

I stand on this curb

Across from where she calls

Who’s waiting

To thirsty beggars

Across from where she stopped

To meet me on the stairs down

And worked a whole weekend

With my semen

Dried on a skirt

Bought to ensnare

The easiest prey.

A Year Older

It's Suitcase Poems anniversary today. 14/2/11

Did she choose tongues or chitterlings

To start

Braised rabbit for main

A half dozen madeleines

To finish?

My wild two handed gypsy

Knocks 'em back

So I hope you kept her

Well oiled

A bottle of Bollinger

La grande annee,

Les Mal Aimes

Minervois,

Sherry to end.

Did she wear her hair down

And that cocktail dress

My present for a birthday

When our hands were dovetailed

And we Soho slumbered

Was her hair down

And washed with the same

Shampoo

I only

Associate that

And her parfum

With dizziness.

Watch It Go

Rash time gaps

A vacant house gurgles

Before breakfast

Bulbs of gradual heat tell me

Ditch this

Sing restraint

Watch it go

No one notices

No one keeps score

Of the small changes

Pockets and souls

Lift it up

Kick it under the bed

Watch it

Watching

Through the nose

Out the mouth

Floored view

Dovetailed.

2010

Last year, we'd all been robbed

Of our age and

We know there's no excuse in the book

For consistent punishing hangovers.

No excuse for ice cream breakfast

Or not having a wife.

No excuse for not having an excuse.

But we're out there

In replay.

Is this limbo?

Bad dogs

Sniffing trails in a toilet stalls

Denial on billboards too grand to laugh at.

Lost in half rêve

Flem caught in our throat

We go to town

On women

Hunted by others

And sniff the air.

Is this limbo?

Tails

They blast bass and synth, some Italiano rhymes

While like a lost child my fucking head floods

Tears of fatherless school years

Tears of crippling

Sickening missing

A complete parental education

Others were taken around in cars driven by mum and dad

They had dinner without the television on

One (if not both) at teachers meeting

Sports day plays

A ride home from birthday parties

Sleepovers church cinema

There was no figure in the hallway

Sex sounds in the bedroom

Sunday dinners

Visits to grandma

Work places

No

Dad checking homework

Mum folding clothes

Dad fixing punctures

Mum sowing buttons

Dad buying Coke

Mum buying Apple Juice

Dad tickling mum

Mum tying Dad’s tie

Dad drinking beers

Mum on G and T

Dad watching news

Mum watching soap operas

Dad reading papers

Mum reading books

Dad in the shower

Mum in the bath

Dad walking naked

Mum wearing a nightgown

Dad eating bacon and eggs

Mum just eggs

On weekends I got up early and ate breakfast crisps

Drank milk and cartoons

Sat in pyjamas with curtains closed

Stale stink from ashtrays and smudged glasses

It could have been pissing down or

Hot as hangover hell and I’d be inside

Blocked from kicking balls at walls

Throwing pebbles at street cats

Falling from trees

There was no falls or spills

No getting lost or taking money from my

Mother’s purse

Schoolkids’d call and I’d ignore the doorbell

Cartoon voices teeth unbrushed my mum

Damned in a weekend lie in

Homework would remain in my thin

Bag by the door ‘till Sunday bedtime

When I’d panic and start sums

Reading art

My weekend bath

Clean behind the ears

There ‘till the water got cold and murky

‘till the bubbles disappeared

‘till mum’s soap drama finished

Maybe once a blue month I’d get a call

From Da and he’d ask how I was

And about school and friends but when

Was fathering done over the phone?

When was fathering long distance

And through correspondence?

Kids aren’t meant to be forced into chatting

About what they’ve been up to and how they’ve missed

A parent like an arm or hand

Kids are meant to be free of emotional

Distressing upsetting situations

Such as divorce

Such as moving country

Such as longing

Such as living above a halal butchers

Such as arguments heard through bedroom walls

Such as sexual television

Such as sleeping in pubs

And I try and picture in the earliest pictures

If I could’ve known I’d be here 30 years later

In a room with curtains closed smoke infested

Clothes smudged highballs with deteriorating

Ice cubes and frozen water dripping down

My face as divorce takes its toll.

Table For....

Table for two?

No.

One.

One more

Hit wonder

One liners

Born every minute

Une nuit

Yeah, one piece

Suit for sharing

One eyed jacks

And up

In a million

One on one

One off

For all

An eye or shoe

Pair of pearls

Where's my shoe?

One pound

Of prickly pears

One egg missing

A room

One way

Cul de sac cunt

No return

1 above

Above none

You

Not some

One else

Opportunity Knocks (But I Can't Hear)

Working my way
Down glass

There's boundless
Opportunities

Fruit dropping
And flies stuck
On jars of jam

That literary vineyard
Gets us
Tied and typed up

Does this spill
Stain others?

Joining the dots

Think and drink

Pour, down, refill

Frozen water

Clink glass stained lung

Spit out

Bathroom sink

Crusted bowl

Rinse, gargle, pink

Veins in the whites

Of your eyes

Wait -

One other kink

You stopped popping gink o

Biloba and got smashed at the ice rink

She slid over

Our blades tinked

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 the ink