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.