#drunkenness
blood
blood patter and splash
leads us concrete toward
tracing back til the scene
i’ve flashing thoughts of the brutality
the violence that must of cussed
between persons
in fear fray and inebriation
down the steps
my four year old child and I go
the greasing bleed in bronze putters
growing and leadening
on stone labours
glowing citrus the refrigeration
of the underpass
‘flips the bird' at the summer blaze
grey dead coral bricks of urination
seasoned in deep beading now cold
the broke up weapon
candy slates of brittle teeth
glass / bottle / beer /brown
the neck its' hilt
and the main mud of the bleeding
the flies are the thing
that bothers my ‘little nipper’
usually a flapper of queries on repetition
no other queries are raised
just eager for the vibration
of train carriages gatling over our heads
i stopper any words i may have on the matter
he holds my hand with his hot hand
we progress under a port arms
procession of caged floodlights
and walled in by fresh graffiti
fingers dripping retching for the guttering
Dec 22, 2023
Dec 22, 2023 at 3:05 PM UTC
Once I drink it all,
and can drink some more.
Then just a cup or two,
and I'm jabbering like a fool.
Yesterday, a swirl and a whiff,
and my tongue's a pen and I sing in fifths.
Today, the spirit’s overflowing,
and I'll do anything on a prayer and a wing.
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 9:16 AM UTC
Debauched nights, destruction waning,
There is a twisted pull to the underbelly.
Chaos is **** like silk stockings and
Bonnie an Clyde.
I can smell it a mile away,
like a dog in heat.
It lures me from the
safety of my sweet calm life.
There is an existence beyond
the bridge, but it's boring and soulless.
I want to ****** the light, and
the routine. Dredge the marrow
from the bone
Feb 1, 2020
Feb 1, 2020 at 8:23 AM UTC
It's been one of those days,
Where I don't quite feel
Human.
Those days where my brain is elsewhere.
Like it's in the supermarket,
And my bodies woken up in the car
Almost sure where it is.
Like I've just sat down,
And my brain's not sure where to sit.
Like I've lost track of how many drinks I've had,
But I can tell you I've been drunk 4 nights this week.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
Outside lying on his back
In a pool of his own ****
Up to his shoulder blades,
His whiskers slobbering spit,
***** pooling in his lap,
Leather stomacher exposed,
His belly spilling out a gap.
Rolling side to side,
Screaming obscenities,
Flailing hog stuck in muddy sty,
Cursing desperately for help,
Screaming to anyone, to God,
Up in a wheeling, blurry sky.
Too much to drink that day,
Too much for 40 years,
Too much whiskey every day
Led to his booze-filled fears...
Stumbled him; tumbled him away.
We boys had headed to the bar
For burgers before a game;
Saw Charlie rolling on his back,
Fighting no one in the street,
Bare ****** in his drunken sinning,
Terrified and terrorized,
Moaning and bawling and spinning
Under a sunny, small-town sky.
When Brian tried to get him up,
Old Charlie's cursing grew,
And Brian backed up laughing,
Not knowing what to do.
I stood a ways away,
Hadn't seen a thing like this before,
Until a couple men came out
And dragged old Charlie in a door.
Forty years have gone, I guess,
And Charlie's been gone twenty,
But when I stop to think of him,
I ask myself if I've had plenty,
And tell the waiter, "Two is fine;
I'm done tonight, I guess."
And pay my check while I can see
To leave a little for the rest.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
Shallow still darkness, angless shapes
move across the floor. Your teeth bite
down on my little moving parts, slip softly into comatose.
The stench from your breath is acerbic, rotten
particles of yesterday's remembrance floating in between canine,
molars, pearly whites.
I love the feeling, love the dead pan feeling. Comatose
take me to the underworld it took you.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 8:51 AM UTC
I. there is no thicker undergrowth than feeling. first to go is reason, everything
else levitates into something graver than say, one foot deep in the grave
and the other somewhere off-tangent like an offbeat adagio zigzagging
into slammed slalom.
II. the crush of oregano against mortar, and the clasping of a hand. carbon monoxide
fades into air as youth takes on momentousness. take for instance this once soft
hand like a breath of cotton in a precipitate noon: once whirling in claustrophobic
space, this slight inch of feelingfulness is dazed into the span of Maya windhovering
somewhere unseen like paramours *******
III. from the window you can feel the bluster of falsetto disintegrate at its slouched peak,
and from where you hear it, a dance thwarts itself like a cigarette ember
convulsing mid-air – that slow, repugnant twitch: that is you, when you first
broke your silence in thick shrouds of disgust over strobe-lighted simian jaw.
IV. what else is there but to take this sour ocean in front of me and decode something
the blue always means mellow but the froth of white something the tragic caprice
of tropic: some nights, they remind me of bodies careening repeatedly; some days
they just are, like you, just are, like a riot and only sound, or sleep and only
reticence, something short of wonder and terse with reply.
V. there is a cluster of harmonies flowering in my mind when the sensurround of din
starts conflagrations in the ornate dark of ear. my limbs snake in the garden
of plank, my shin bitten in sharp reiterations – my mind crossing the equinox
looking for shade, or possible, a parasol underneath the crimson of rain.
say this is the sky, this dense space when I motion both hands into a length
not an inch could ever devour. suddenly a boy made out of a man, flustered
in jangled arpeggios and unapologetic thought like a letter of debt opened,
paying no heed the mind and only what the body dictates: a smash on the
escritoire or vigorously scratching scalp, reopening scabs and watching
old blood ooze dry like a lightweight webbed impression
of a dreamy legato.
VI. the night deepens with the warmth of its black upholstery – we do not know
when to stop and bid for home. last to go is will of force and first to arrive
in the bleakness like a recalcitrant thought often straying outside with the
strut of a yuppie, fervor of old haunt. i conjure an image over the cold chair,
its steel framework thighs untouched, its four decrepit legs the foundation
of something that refuses to admit its weakness. the very base of what would
catch the anchorage of my gravity, the very heart of all, and the flattened back
with a vandal that says “Soleil was here.” the liver shattering in the trance
of everything.
VII. night is stupor. i am the lilt of words from a rambunctious machine. there seems to be an afterthought that separates
a concept of vastness and the tactility of narrow ether.
a word is uttered in extremis - something heaven eschews
with its bright, arrogant face.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
Duke Ellington's not happy
his Satin doll's not shown up
' Hey have you seen my Satin doll?'
' Look Mister, I'm not ' Lost property'
& why don't you go & sleep it off'
' What?'
' You've got Whiskey
written all over your face, Ellington'
' Gee, ok, but could you spare a few
I need money to get home'
' I'll think about it, in the meantime,
sing me a song
'' Ok. WE WILL WE WILL ROCK YOU'
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 8:03 PM UTC
" Du Kannst Mich am Arsch Licken''
'' Kiss my Ass''
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
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
***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***
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
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.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
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.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
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.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
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.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
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.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
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.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
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?
**** you, **** off,
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.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC