Curious be as remembered be
I, a fellow
And oh what a way to go
Flag frozen feet surrendered
as the Maine Lobster in culinary throes
hard-on steeped, Word steamed
Virus glasses spread across lap

offense may be caused so look away now
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still here? OK then

I am both ****
and philanderer, in word and deed
I once found Jesus
just so that I might **** a girl
lucky that my hypocrisy was perishable
I still smell of that earlier me than you might remember
when I was filthy in my wishfulness
the sharp torture of a tissued sceptre
left me embarrassed in a honey dipped daydream
where factional contributions turned wine into water
and revenants convened before the solvent sunset
of my eccentric heartbeat

achenial planets,
yet un-spawned,
suspended, seemingly strangled,
by an indurate umbilical bind,
sway in the breath of this nascent spring
forsaken fossilised baubles,
from a Christmas you’d rather not
be reminded of

and while their skin breathes our dirt
I write my words on their
parchment leaves and rips
of litter, to leave
scattered for the rats
who live in the shade,
to read
at their leisure

I write my words on
parchment leaves and rips
of litter, left
scattered for the rats
to read
at their leisure

we swam naked in the sea
for hours
and hours
and later
in the dunes my lips
tricked a sweet pearl
from the singly balanced cradle
deep within those oyster spilt hips
“you taste of samphire”
I gasped
“listen
could you keep a secret
while the ocean foam stings
your throat?”

nowadays they  have  to pinch the  ends

of their  cigarettes  before they  cross the  threshold no longer allowed to  herd  the  crumbling swarms of ash  across  the  gingham veldt


outside the  window, on the  pavement,    lies a  bible and  the  radio declares their  readiness  is high
seems like a  good   night to let the  smokers in and warm around a  last  embered light


on the  table I  browse  the  “priest“ they  called him

in the  centrefold, deep in the  heart,  a  flyer,

man’s  journey  into christ,

I  guess  we’ll   find out  soon enough the  veracity  of the divine



but until the  young-un  and the  white horse riders have  decided who can  ****  the  highest
leave us  to the  daily diary  and  its  tales  of

days  of ******* each  other’s  husbands and  wives



I  bought a  Dylan Thomas book one the  way  home, from the  junk  shop,
when I  got it  back  I  saw blood   on the  back cover

I  licked my  finger  to  wipe it  off but  she  said  “no!
you  fool“

sure  it  carried  the  plague of some cursed lover



I  plagiarise myself

a  drink  is most definitely in order

the  tawny  coolness tock tick toxic keen  as  the sharpest  dissection
and  then  you can  find me   not just  like everybody else but  just  like

everybody  else,  lying, hemi-hydrate,  below  the bridled  tension

of  life’s  meniscus

i) up the stairs
red scarves and tight skirts
loose slacks and grey shirts
my how the landscape has changed
I can’t say that I love to be dipped into this *** of pretty
where the lipstick liner queens supreme
and the coffee is brewed to mitigate the colostomy retch
so I try a yellowed paper backed beat
but it held nothing to the shoebox diorama
of national care
where the alphabetised gates of ingress
more or less double as departure lounge
for the broken and spent where their god
might sit them on fashionably backed chairs
for the percentile of misplace repairs
or is it me that smells of warm ****?

ii) down the travelator
a troll lives under the MRI,
moved on from the bridge by the gruffest of beards,
now working externally of the fable
beneath the table of the magnetic eye