Half (Poem)

Creativity is the amoeba concept
splitting yourself in half
producing
something
new.
You have to be vulnerable
splitting yourself in half
trying
anything
different.
The past isn’t optional
splitting yourself in half
making
nothing
unalike.

‘An Introduction at Parties’ (Poem)

Narcissist. Nihilist. Problematic anarchist.
Self-destructive alienator.
Pauper. God perverter. Danger.
Does not work well with others.
Instigator. Stirrer. Fraudster. Cheat.
Gangster. Liar. Thief. Cunt.
Perpetrator. Thick skinned alligator torturer.
Tyrant. Tedious. Denial. Vomit. Bile.
“Escape Artist”. Necrophile.
Meanwhile, excuses. Useless. Unemployable.
Clueless. Through with this.
Shambles. Electric shock. Gambler.
Alcoholic. Addict.
Unoriginal. Sick. Pained.
Rejected prick.
Abandoned. Fearful.
No hope for the cheerful.

 

Night Out (Poem)

It’s late night cradling the cool cannister in my palm
arch breathing to a nordic wind
sing song nights, full of lust, long.
Have you seen the skies darken to a cool blue dawn?
Clouds thicken, cigarette black knight, marching along
hard paved streets to candlelit windows, muscular men
and physical love, red lips parting disaster on my tongue.
Fuck, I want to write a love song but there are
diseases killing me mysteriously,
so I fill my torn stomach with viking drink and vaginal fluid
easily. Worthless envy led me here, parasitic, alive
in the guttural landscape, in demise, at the hands
of Spanish women and paranoia.
“Hallelujah” screams the Professor of Genetics and he hands me
a bottle of wine. “Boy, I like your outlook on life.”
Creeping around downtown hardpressed looking for Goddesses
in red dresses, hip swinging, sodomites.
Running now, dancing in a club with lowlifes
breeding ground, out loud, animal sounds, everyone
looking around for the baby farms.
Find them here, night out, proud of the romance
dribble hanging from your mouth.

 

Vortexing (Poem)

I’m tired
of always being of wired
and getting fired
for thievery and non-compliance.
I have a reputation for
always lying, denial and spiralling
like a vortex.
There is some
importance in noting that
I’ll likely choke under pressure
and ruin the project.
Whether opportunities are blown,
or not, my seeds are sown
anyway, anyhow,
I’m still alone
and tired
of always being wired.

‘Forty’ (Poem)

It’s here, and there is colour
and movement and smoke
and cotton and fingers
and lips and characters
and breathing and trumpets
and intervals and moving…
again –
and background laughter
and shaky legs and flutes
and tiny little heads and wine bottles
and private acts and moaning
and total confusion
and then there is nothing
and it is gone.

OXY (Poem)

LOSS OF OXYGEN PANIC BUTTON APOCALYPSE FOUR WALLS BLOOD ROCKS BITCH BLIND CRUCIFIX COCK BLOCK FATHER I’M GETTING OLDER PRESSURE ON MY SHOULDERS CRIPPLING IT’S A DISASTER NO DISCIPLINE I’VE TOLD HER I LIKE MY RITALIN, I LIKE LIVING FASTER, I’VE BEEN CHEWING MY TEETH FOR HOURS, WHERE ARE MY FLOWERS? IN JET BLACK VASES IN DEATH CRACK HOUSES, SPOOKY VOODOO MAGIC HINDU POWERS, WHO BE YOU I COWER BEFORE NO MAN I’M AN ALPHA PAPA PAIN FAGGOT JUST INSPIRED BY ILLMATIC NECRO-SEXUALLY TRANSCENDING RESURRECTING MY MANTLE AS THE BLACKEST KING OF THE JUNGLE.