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Monthly Archives: October 2011

are you dead or are you sleeping, i sure hope you are dead

he sat drinking at the corner table
how long has he sat there
have his seven wives all left him
has his car run out of petrol

they may have killed that mad dictator
i would have taken all their passports
she hid that sorrow blindly
but her scars were made of paper

he was marching round the building
he was marching to an order
that the scars were made of paper
frozen bars held up the windows

but i drank that message with a bottle
threw my hands up in defiance
so many problems with the family
as they shot them from the towers

she was fucking that guess over
like she knew the spies were friendly
but he always kept a record
of the freezer burns he gave her

they just kicked his head in with their trainers
though his wicked eyes were silent
people waiting at the cross roads
would not make a space to keep him

dear lord look after my nightmare
make my demons sleep over easy
and if they challenge all her actions
may she cover them with blindness

can i stay over tonight
can i make my way in silence
can you give me one more bottle
as my car's run out of petrol?

a very merry birthday present

and a very merry birthday

sweeping willow trees across the screen, the sleep is somewhere out 
there in the reflection.  draggin my feet like some petulant child 
and all the while the smiles and the betrayal battle on - never far -
 never listless - grounded in unsupervised authoritarian triangles i
 cannot begin to fathom, the brotherhood in this building. we trade hugs
 for bags, fifty buck notes, short changing the dealers, then willing 
them back. i have certainly done my penance. 
lying awake whilst the peacock struts and mates and fans his tail 
above my head, its 4am and the birds are a mother fucker.
this bastard took the back stairs to my place. my simple little space,
 where writing is attempted under heavy; sedation, cigarette burns fight
 for survival amongst the bed sheets, the dressing gown
 down on the floor. there might have been blood in the sink. 
the flat smells like sour milk, the windows are open to thieves 
and back tracking my steps is more of a muddle than 
the independent's crossword puzzle. lame is as lame does.
 zean beat me down. told me that infinite truth, sent him packing, 
buddhist beads at hand, anxiety for lack of scripts of all forms, 
the weekend looms and no doctor feel betters in sight. 
a sentence, a 15 year old sentence is the fight. 
people are embarrassed broer he told  me. 
for lack of accurate description i raitonalise laugh, drink, bang 
my way out of that room in his head. all eyes are upon us now. 
the gods, deserted - - a Sisyphean failure - to borrow a phrase, 
if emotion must skulk in the background. and still a hundred hours
to fill, another glass my friends, salute - a joint arrangement, 
bereft of escape, the long war, the fed up, the confused, the angry,
 the big stinking loss of a botched fall.
 i looked down from the top of the building 
and spit on it all.