" Du Kannst Mich am Arsch Licken''
'' Kiss my ***''
the 1 litre cider bottle's out
he takes a swig
then throws his old head back
simulating electric chair death
throws, silence permeates
the wary room
'' Baby....don't....go''
'' Long live Rock n' Roll''
in his thick German accent
before that he asked
'' Who is Allen Ginsberg-
really, Howl, poetry?''
someone afterwards says
'' It's like seeing the ghost
of Bukowski''
the room doesn't say much
but I feel a warmth
for him, reminding me
of my heart's home:
Berlin. Yes, the Germans
they're like this,
they don't take any ****
their hearts
are made of grit
& their drunks
are different from ours,
yes, they talk
of Nijinsky
& the *Ballet Russes
intellectuals
even when they're plastered
'' You may be my enemy
but with a drink you are my friend''
he said & echoes of the War
permeated the dark
& faded time back to the present
opening the night
to better things

Fill my glass
  of vintage
    pleasures,
  top it til the
bubbly overflows,
   as memoirs
    & recollections
    effervesce
     beyond lucid
         drunkenness,
   hungover midst
       an endless
         toasting of
            intoxicated
               sensibilities

Mustard sweaters in the Mauritshuis,
     scattered ashes at the foot of our bed.
We run, run round in circles,
     till the stars drop out of their cat's cradles and into our laps.
Empty paintings and glasses frames,
     dozing atop anarchist literature in the back alleys
of some distant treasure island.

Warm breath against the shell of your ear,
     your violet-veined eyelids fluttering.
Palms cupped full of melted gold,
     spattered ink on the pages of the book of life.
Reading Shelley on gum-dotted sidewalks,
     an oxford shoe through the lens of your binoculars.
Familiar fingers knotted into yours,
     blue bows tied around your clavicle.

Grass-stained shirt hems,
     your mother's scrawl inside your collar, faded.
Scuffed knees,
     not quite bleeding.
Too far away from home,
     swimming in your reflection in your watery cup of tea.
Ripped up notebooks,
     a writer's love ignited.
Rough wine on the banks of the canal,
     crying, laughing, tumbling still.

A dash of spluttered kisses
     come raining down on your neck.
Buried in your sandy hair,
     shining lips in the candlelight.
I don't speak your language,
     you barely speak mine,
*Ik wil jij.

Desperate kisses in a crowded room.
Murmurs of a promise into an ear.
A room full of people all moving as one,
                                            Breathing as one.
One being: hot and sweaty.
Loose minds and even looser bodies.
Trembling lips, swift hands,
Hot.
        Breathless.
                           Blurry.
Moments of reckless love.
                                                  Lust.
Not­hing to gain.
                             Everything to lose.
Nothingness. Loneliness.
The tragic weight of an empty heart.
Aching for a touch. Touches.
Lusting for strangers across a dark room.
Blind. Deaf. Mute
We wait.
                  We wait.
                                          We wait.
Finding solace in the empty gesture of lust instead of love.
      Chained to dumb hope.
                                                   Chained.
                        
                           Forever.

better to be alone than in the company of *******,
i always say.
now that i'm alone and the *****
is gone,
these walls never seemed so close.

No not stupid
You stupid
Me learned.
No not drunk.

What about more lines
Than just four?
One more?
Two more?
Change in form and
Stanza size.
What'd your English teacher say?

*******, *******,
Don't care, won't listen.
You don't mean nothin' - nowt at all.
Oh look back to four.

What do people write about?
There's a girl here wearing heels
To a relaxed creative thing.
Do I write about that?

Do I write about 'love'?
But I don't believe in it.
Go on then: green fields, pretty skies, blue-eyed boy.
Melt my heart.

Or nature: the pastoral, eh?
A green thought in a green shade.
Be conscious of the spilled blood that went into the making of the wild sky.
Sheep and cows and trees and England and dear God what is that smell?

Dr Evans said the last thing is death.
To sink into the ground and be eliminated.
Forgotten and remembered.
I should very much like that.

Well, there you have it.
A poem about poetry.
Call it postmodernism
But really I'm just bored.