You are the cigarette I smoke,
After the needle finds my vein.
The comfort in sleep so profound,
I thought I'd never awake again.

Ice is like life you either slip or slide,
sometimes you glide on it,
Other times you fall ******* it.

It sticks for awhile and
you become use to the cold
it acts like a blanket but it inevitably goes.

But for every patch of Ice
the sun will shine through,
so forget about ice and walk into the sunset,
for the ground is dryer and easier to thread on.

I wish I could have kept that childhood wonder
where every day was something new
scary and exciting
unfolding journeys to behold
growing into eerie feelings and emotions
that weren't there before
but then adulthood comes
with responsibilities
and they smash you over the head with redundancy
shackle you with currency.
and we are abruptly awakened from all those dreams.

How about *******,
how about that?
How about eat ****
from a ***** ******.

Ohh. . .
you want drama?
Ohh. . .
you want violence?

You want entertainment
at anothers expense?

Here is more **** for your eyelids
*****, *******, and ******* kids
Let me ***** your face with drivel
Skull-****** till my ***** a shrivel

Blow my head off
leave you riddled
something soft, you can to belittle.

Let me **** and moan for you
your attention brings my **** to spew
on the lovely **** of praise
this ******* idiotic age

Am I coming off as crass?
Shove it up your ***** ***.
Have a problem?
Go on, push me
your offense makes you a *****

What more obscenity could you want?

What have I forgot?

Ohh Yeah. . .

****.

Most are only faithful
until their options improve
then theyll quickly discard you
like a worn out pair of shoes.

Sick of faceless
nameless
conquests
Im driven to the point of madness
Anonymous
mistresses
give little purpose to exist
They find no way into my chest
through the roadblocks you erected
around a heart thats left neglected.

The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face

towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover

and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration—

a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.

So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating

data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.

And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road

past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn ******, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.