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