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).