"enema" poems
Listening to the song ‘daddy, super daddy’,
Worried and sad thinking about the father long gone,
While reading the news of a father who killed his girl child by hitting her against the wall
To some fathers and children
A father and son didn't feel anything more than that.
Remember uploading in Facebook, the news of the soaring price of tapioca in five star hotels
The tsunami of saliva which the tender yellow tapioca Crowned by curry leaves and red chilly created, is in the throat.
Today noon,
After lots of news
I am cooking tapioca raw
A green bottle is nearby
When the smell of cooking tapioca with salt hit the olfactory senses
Father came
You don’t have to be the Son of God to resurrect the dead
Told Jesus that just the smell of cooking tapioca is enough
Compound divided into patches, ashes, manure,
Properly cut tapioca plants
Mother rushing to get the rice gruel
Between play and squabbles
A lad is walking around with torn trousers, shirtless
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
For sleeping, eating, hunger
Faith,
Tapioca, tapioca
phoo
For rice gruel, mid noon
At twilight when hunger develops faith
For last supper,
Dried tapioca
Lucky that one who was born after an enema
Was not named ‘black sheep’
With a green chilly, raw
In the shade of the green bottle
When I touch the tapioca,
Daddy is dancing
Daddy
Super daddy.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
(from a song)
Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.
Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was?
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,
these days,
and see a drunken rat avert her eyes?
Do I not feel the hunger so acutely
that I would rather die than look
into its face?
I kneel once more,
in case mercy should come
in the nick of time.
4.8k
When in Bohemia, she screams about
Her pastures green, but not too loud
So never have I known, that the world listens too
As a comedian, I see she belongs
But never conforms, to the song of
This nomad world, I'm glad she found it too
So run! She wants to run again
You vagabond, you're well-spent
Bohemian tendencies says, “you can't stay long”
“These kinds of commons, you won't ever get along”
Armenian, it’s such a release
Materialistic animosity
The speed of life has no value, like dollar signs
I loved an alien, who dabbled in art
Of all visage, enema of the heart
Wanderer, she's spent so much but there's that bliss in the air
So smile! It's all sorts of worthwhile
To see a world and not fret so much
Bohemian tendencies says, “be spectacular
Before the nebula men steal your fur”
In the Caribbean, you dream a kite
As your taxi, you can't walk all the time
Travel hills of puce-mauve sands, the world in trance
A true deviant, the thinking of
All dreaming thoughts, and loves begot
Tinkerer, what will we do when our brains run dry?
Oh, no! Don't think about the end
To love a life in due pretence
Bohemian tendencies says, “think fair, live now”
“The world is watching with distaste of time in doubt”
As a chameleon, should she go alone?
The world is cold, except for times in colour
Her world in dance, she'll do without me
When in Bohemian, the first I've seen
Of pastel stencils through her happi-
Ness-tled in her loft home of the wind
There she goes! Ain’t she a lovely wing?
I hope she finds a world that sings
Bohemian tendencies says, “to love and to hold
But to let go, for treasures can mold”
There she goes
There she goes
There she goes
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
my life is beautiful, not realistic.
yesterday, i arrived on neptune
wearing big boots and dignity
the horizon was a nightmare of question marks
and gloomy witches;
i escaped from the religious enema and
pegged a choir boy on my way out.
i am no longer a pygmy goat on a foolish leash,
i take my paranoia seriously.
my journals guide me to a ruptured corpse,
never censored.
i have the ability to be given away on a whim,
but i am becoming a famous soldier, an intoxicating
ghost of dogma.
my dreams are beautiful, not realistic.
hallelujah, the hobos are wearing bathrobes,
the ****** pillheads are anointed with ****** and sewer cleaners.
i see a goblin grave advertised by
luscious lips and fishlike shoulders.
the texture of my dream is kaleidoscope and silver,
haunted by a fat sherriff who cuts the throat of the jukebox queen.
i have a personal god, and on her i bestow this passionate kiss,
i have a favorite enemy, with no goals and without ambition.
im sorry, i don't know any happy songs,
only the movement of her young sensitive thighs and
a nymph with an hourly rate.
i am a buffoon with a blugeoned harmonica and
weapons of sugar.
my life is beautiful, not realistic.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
Number 7 in the ORLOK series and one of the best
O how I relish the taste of blood
****** out from the devastated jugular
But there is more, much more
When the victim is a nubile ****
From a Transylvanian village
Where ****** morality
Is quite ******* thin on the ground;
And that is how I met my fate.
'Twas on an October eve
When I met plump Esmeralda
And (having fed my fill from her neck
as she slept in her hut
under filthy rags stinking of stale *****
I sank my fangs into her naked belly
Ripping into her bloated guts
With my accustomed gusto;
My tongue slurping its way
Over her twitching ****
And finally I descended joyously
To her odorous spunk-encrusted *****
For the last rites,
Before the final curtain
To her worthless life of peasantry.
But then, as my excitement mounted,
And just as I was on the verge
Of pumping out my vampiric *******
I felt an agonising, mind-blasting pain
As a major stroke swept through me,
Wrecking my synapses big time,
Turning my brain into guacamole.
And now I am a crippled ******
Just a spasticated old vampire
In my second-hand rusting wheelchair,
Courtesy of Romanian Social Services,
Drooling helplessly
Into my swollen pissy crotch,
Waiting for another enema,
My sole remaining pleasure
And a stimulus to my jaded prostate.
But, hurrah! hurrah! new hope arrives:
A miracle occurs as I read of
The new wonder pill from SuperDrug
Available only in private practise
And guaranteed to rejuvenate the jaded
Or your money back, no worries.
Orlok will fly again to pursue
The pleasures of the flesh
And especially the botty-zone.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
I think the Illuminati is real
And your body's the peel and your soul is the fruit
And they goal is to steal and control all the juice
I seen way too many pyramids, that's from from Kufu
Foofoo ****** out here snaking on the reggo
You should ask a snake where its legs go
But then again I'm smoking on the medical
Got the white owl look like an egg roll
And that was Scooby snacks, Petco
I'm a lunatic that belong inside a loony bin
I burned it down for you because I love you
Now I'm movin' in
Ooh a condominimum, ****** in ya enema
Bumpin' Kanye like it just came out
No songs with Kendrick, we just hang out
They say a smart man looks like a mad man to a dumb man
But one man... wait I'm tweakin'
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
im full of my self
a cacophony
of unsavory menacing
radiating ideation's
of the twilight
color me
darkness
when ever i see
six six six
i always think
*** *** ***
petition the church
for my exorcism
cleans me oh lord
i need an enema
purge me
of small thoughts
and big talk
perhaps
i could be good
like
nice weather
a phone number
or
a
*******
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 7:03 PM UTC
I thought it would be more romantic than this.
I thought it would strangle me with its strangeness
Walk up to me with a sword in its oriental mouth
And bump into me,
Jolting me out of my occidental seat into the stinking dust of the gutters.
I thought the Mohammed Ali mosque would wrestle me to the ground with its shocking bare immenseness.
I thought my nostrils would burn with the assault of unnamed spice.
I thought my ears would crumble with the muezzins call at noon,
When all the dogs in Cairo enter a canine Koran reading contest.
I thought the pyramids would crush me with too much history and indifference
I thought the city of the dead would turn my gut over in its emptiness and blank windows
I thought the Nile would bewitch me and turn my blue blazer to Joseph’s coat
I thought Tuten Kamens chariot would run over me
I thought so much and I thought so much
That it brought me here where I would not be except for Cairo
For Cairo was a poetic enema
And purged some foolishness from me.
She lightened my load
And with her sister Bombay
Will always be on my cerebral medicine shelf
To take in case of cabin fever.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
*There'll come days when you'll have nothing to write
and trust me even that nothing will be enough
you'll try to embrace the hollow of deficiency
but choke in the dark fumes of attempting to put up a fight
against the void whilst you search for your efficiency
you will scratch your mind for just a word but in vain
shake you will the trees and nothing will fall,it will pain
no single leaf will, not even a dry little twig
you'll wander all over the gardens of creativity
but find no soft alluviums,not a single spot to dig
it will feel an unfair election that fate is going to rig
yet your petition will yield no fruit, not an apple,nor a fig
your fingers will itch worse than infestation by a jigger
with the enema of motivation present but meagre
you'll miss the days whence it rained rhymes
oh! how much you'll long for those flooding times
like a pauper loitering the streets hopelessly thirsty for dimes
and the bells of your emotions will ring melancholic chimes
as you remember that sweet piece that got many hailing your prowess
and like a snail, return will your abilities in
an unbearable wait, call it a steady progress
you will be an active volcano whose vent's blocked from within
forced to abide by the nonentity blank of where to begin
unlike the usual floret and bombastic sweet nothings
you'll draw the fly speck in ink of unclear etchings
to give definition to the infinity of your nullity
and the insubstantiality of the ink sprayed
will be tattered clothes that patch your mental ******
you won't be satiated, but you'll survive the monsters of obsession that hide
in the furthest corners of your psychomotor, deep inside
and you'll appreciate the philosophy, sometimes obstacle's the path
for the scratch and naught from your struggle'll bear worth
so never take shelter under the sunless tree of the writers block
the wave of emotions poets command can break any stumbling block*
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
*Even when I know they're but unfinished stories,
accepted pain and acknowledged sorrys,
virtual realities reflected from mirrors of a lost paradigm
and engineered metaphorically vocalized pantomime
even when I know that they're not the end of the road
(that there're even many more miles to walk)
or even blossoms of life within a spectral pod
but merely a beautiful view of the vast and
rough ocean from the calm of a floret mental dock
through tinted glasses in pink of perception with utmost optimism
a fairy born of refraction through a phantasmal prism
even when the universe disputes the truism of a magic wand
I still fantasize about holding your hand
and matching with you through thick and thin
for better for worse, against the torrents from foe and keen
in turbulence of rage and storms of tears till we find laughter
until the bruises of souls and hearts shattered find mending
in the enema of our blending so we can have a happy ending
even when I know forever and for always is just a true lie
and we are likely to more than anything make us cry,
I still believe in pulchritudinous endings, in happily ever after
in you and I, in the beauty of wilting roses and those in the rain
in sticking together through the pleasure and pain...
Even when I know love is just a word,
we can lend it every meaning we've ever dreamed
I still believe in real romance, in the broken being fixed
in forever being now and now being forever
in never saying never, in you and I
truth or lie, do or die... roads and bendings
long as it's with you, I believe in Happy endings...*
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 7:58 AM UTC
.
Wine, enchilada and pickle sauce,
corks and safeties,
just like The Penguin In *******
in Ronnie and Kenny's shed.
The Idiot ******* Son
sits eating the deadly Yellow Snow,
whilst Joe hums Zombie Woof
at the Poodle in his Garage.
Dinah-Moe Humm finally gets off;
in the Dangerous Kitchen,
with the Muffin Man's ***** Love,
and the Illinois Enema Bandit.
The Fine Girl and the Latex Solar Beef
bathed in The Blue Light,
shout 'Pick Me, I'm Clean',
along Inca Roads, to Find Her Finer.
Cosmik Debris exclaims Zoot Allures!
From the fat, floating, maroonish Sofa
because the Bow Tie Daddy
sings Nasal Retentive Calliope Music.
Yo Mama! there's the Disco Boy
who gets in More Trouble Every Day,
so The Torture Never Stops,
with Damp Ankles, Peaches & Regalia.
Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top
dances with Camarillo Brillo upstairs,
catching Stink-Foot once again,
like In France from the Valley Girl.
And so the Watermelon In Easter Hay
rides off with the Duke Of Prunes
to the Carolina ******** Ecstasy,
visiting Billy The Mountain, and Montana.
© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
Frank Zappa
(21st December 1940 - 4th December 1993).
Musician, Diplomat and Lyricist.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
I wander along the stores
which make the pitch dark less scary
although you never know who may pop up
and that would not be Prince Charming
who can break through his spell
with my love, so that instantly
the shop window is a marriage bed
with sky blue curtains
and we get an enema because
of the spurning the chewable tablets
to let go of the past
and to seal our future
only dressed in a crown
with the red plug in his ****
and the green one in mine
The girls from my work
escort us to the bed
which we mount under applause
Their hands lay us down
and rub us up
for the grand finale
Nov 25, 2022
Nov 25, 2022 at 3:37 AM UTC
The Artiste Carvó's "The Greatest Fartist Alive"
(Another Crummy Acrostic)
T is for **** I am attended by flies...
H is for Haughtiness, I am flowing through the fartist's stanks...
E is for Enema, my fine **** pollutes the very hole...
G is for Gigantic, I am the biggest ego in history...
R is for Refluxing, my fine putriditry puts artistry in ******
E is for Emetic, I truly am expelling...
A is for ******* I posses the gift of ****
T is for ****** I leave no stomach un-turned...
E is for Excrutiating, my words torture the very soul...
S is for ****** My logic is slimy....
T is for Tag-along, I truly am shadowed by all and everyone...
F is for Fatuous and Flatulence, the essence of I…
A is for Archfiend, demon am I...
R is for Revulsion, My art is abomination - My art yet *****
T is for Tedious, I have been placed here to bore people to death...
I is for Idiot, I am truly unblessed...
S is for Selfish, I place **** before I's self...
T is for Talenticide, I have killed all things of art...
A is for Asinine, I possess all lacks...
L is for Lifeless, I truly worm the artistic heart...
I is for Idolize, I worship I...
V is for Venomous, I am all that is spite and impure...
E is for Emasculated, I am indubitably impotent...
This sums up why I and I alone am the greatest fartist alive,
And I will of course do one of my great farts in time.
*Original ('The Greatest Artiste Alive') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
1.
When seeking a lost thumbtack it is best to walk barefoot in the dark.
2.
If the **** is up to your neck don't make waves.
3.
To live in mind and groupmind is like trying to dig a well with a needle.
4.
Your face is inscribed with unhappiness---wash it off.
5.
Sooner or later we all sit down to a banquet of consequences.
6.
Youre so full of **** if I gave you an enema youd fit in a matchbox afterwards.
7.
If you want to commit suicide but cant quite find the courage then spend two days in any Muslim country--that will do the trick.
8.
If its a **** don't polish it.
9.
You can always tell a Yorkshire man but you can never tell him much.
10.
if your IQ is so low that you must be watered twice a day--then pay your water bill.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Emollients are hard to come by
For this agronomy of my soil.
The hay is vague, the crops are spoiled.
I want, I toil, I quail the mail.
I'm tired, detailed, drawn as a
Pawn to the business grail.
My stool needs Emollient
My head needs painkillers.
Last nerves have got my words
My country and home
Needs a exfoliate !
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
you picked me up and brought me home to consume right away
who would've guessed you'd never listen to the things I had to say
swallowing me whole you never gave it a second thought
it's no wonder you started to choke, when in your throat I got caught
you swallowed hard till all of me was inside right and true
tossing and turning all night, how I irritated every part of you
unhappy with the parts of me you could'nt see and are having to digest
maybe leaving me where you found me would have been best
you want me out so bad, should you stick your fingers down your throat so you can hurl
or perhaps a self administered enema, you could give that a whirl
but you decide to see if things will get better on thier own, so you wait
hours later you exponge me and still you're not feeling all that great
look at what I have become after being eaten up by the likes of you
I'll never be the same as I was before no matter what I do
so now you check me out, poking at me with sticks
look a little closer and you'll see my heart it still ticks
I am more than just the bi-product of your selfish greed
I am still good enough for others and maybe just what they need
I can be recycled into something some one would love with all thier heart
everything can be renewed it's never to late for a fresh start
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 1:18 AM UTC
How can I ease the pain
when it's tons of pressure
on my brain
hard to maintain
governments officials think of us disdained
I'm hittin' intellects like snorts of *******
World was made from Blood stains
products of the devil though a rebel
so **** the law I spit raw wit it
ordained as a outlaw
had no choice too ******* to haters
get ran through
malice finds no good in the ghetto neighborhood
wish I could change everything
I see is strange makin' skins mange
breakin' through the molds of sin demons casted in
Earth since my birth
covert elite waitij' for us to retreat
but never I will got a Strong Will
Eager to **** eradicatin' Capitol Hill
battlin' stormy weather like birds flocks together we can and will.endeavor
sometimes thugs gotta cry so why lie
so what if I gotta **** .the fools in white coats
shovin' drugs down our throats
coast to coast
Ready to toast ya told ya Ebola
ain't nothing but an enema
man made disease please don't beg
**** makin' a plea to the jury
I'm guilty Cuz the courts don't feel me
it's the Nat Turner in me
reincarnation minds in gestation
from spiritual ************
sound the war even the score
reality grows sore
the closer I get to Jehovah
as long as I'm breathin' I'll
continue the struggle til the aeon is over
uhh
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
So I was made out of bed ruckus
On this day
Iheard a voice say
Its a new born king
And then i couldn't cling
Onto the ********
That troubled me before i reached the age of three
I aint lying my brain fryin'
Cuz i seen so many people dyin'
Spiritual or physical
Still im a miracle
**** the haters n spectators
Learn gamed from affilated
Street creditors
The game done change since '95
Im all the waylive
Like coolio im in ya culo
Blazin' a shot gun enema
Yo this aint no cinema
My game tight learned wrong from right
Still battlin' the fight
On my bday suit quick to shoot
Down clowns revengin' my buried historical grounds
Lately im comin' back Penetratin the
Hearts of sin
Only to find my self back where it all began???
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
*I'd shoot arrows to the sky if you were a star
I'd break into paradise if you were an Angel
I'd drown dead if you were a sea or a lake
I'd bake everyday if you were a piece of cake
I'd be a gardener if you were a Rake, I'd have no brake
if you were speed, I'd heal from every ache if you were an enema
I'd entangle a million if you were an enemy
I'd never hold my breath if you were the air
I'd endlessly love you albeit you showed me no care
I'd die of anxiety if a future with you was promised
even if I was promised just a moment with you my cherished
I'd be contented with a mere shadow if it was given
and forget the haunting past that I've hardly forgiven
if I could just have a single kiss I'd count that we broke even
with life, maybe for once I'd prefer not death to living
if you were even the longest road I'd never dust my feet
I'd never surrender if you were a price for battle
till my heart's splattered I'd never admit defeat
for a life without you is just equally fatal
I'd willingly force my way into hell if Satan took you captive
for even the blaze of my unrequited passion's equally massive
call it explosive for nothing's ever been this obsessive
if you were music, I'd probably be deaf at the moment
for your beauty's a rhythm I'd play on, recurrent
I'd touch a high voltage live wire if you were current
I'd risk a swim if you were trapped in a volatile torrent
I'd do anything for you if you had seen beyond the visible
hadn't we not turned out totally immiscible
if you had just listened to my heartbeat and heard
my soul calling out your name albeit it's scarred
I could have risked everything to share this life with you
after all loving you is among those few things I know how to do
guess it doesn't matter now for I'll never be like those
welcome to your domicile, those for whom you open for your arms and doors*
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
This poem is being edited
From all the wrongs you read
The mistakes I've made along the way
Are not for the eyes to see
There are words that lose all their meaning
Turning misspelling into an art
Or the flow don't go the way it's suppose
Because of misplaced punctuation! marks
And I too often rely on spell check
To move my poems along
Which can turn my enemy into enema
I guess that's not too far off
There's so much more to poetry these days
Than running out of thoughts and ink
And me with only half a brain
It takes twice as much time to think
So while this poem is being edited
Please sit back and relax
If you see any mistakes that I have made
Speak up now cause here's your chance
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
i keep my pride under house arrest
tied to an enema of ***** soda
that stops at the border of the premises
what a great laugh crawls from the nailed headboards
and sips from my resolve
i try not to show my subordinates the pressure points I worry about
but the maintenance staff knows too much
the maintenance staff keeps us up the most
they read the cracks in the plates
silverware scratched from being thrown around
every shard is collected
the professionals recommend 3 square meals a day
my pride is offered for breakfast
3 eggs, potatoes made one way, a dragonball shaped pancake
with 5 chocolate chips, and an apple skewered sideways
coffee is poured over top soul
my pride is offered for lunch
grilled cheese, something plain and boring, chips, something also plain and boring,
Gatorade, or overdone redemption
my pride is offered for dinner
grease, a good burrito with grease, an IPA,,,toast to mix things up, a joy ride with Cassidy, a waterbed of folk music, (zero ***** given), pesto penne, another IPA, a timeshare just south, and sometimes dessert
after yelling at the neighbors some
and a few reruns on adult swim
the ***** soda kicks in with a little extra
and puts us all to sleep
in 25 years
when the sentence is over
I don’t think it will find the same 3 square meals a day
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 1:44 PM UTC
in a dark laboratory **** hospital
blood in the mouth
**** & **** thank you
bleeding milk cow
needle kissed
love enema
for a wild ***** monster in heat
***** of love
gnosis in action an anti path
fires of existence burning Sulphur
third eye bleeds light beyond existence
the left handed path
desire
the creative gone mad
after the liberation
comes the revolution of spirit
through sexualization
of the human world
a life beyond the ritualistic gesture
dissolution into the abyss
containing all
comingling the divine
and human spheres
devolutive
i consolidate my desires in her
addiction file
smoke
drink
****
die
and thank you very much
the flesh of god
"melts with the one who
creates him"
......
In a universe created by the separation of Void and Chaos you are your Flesh – העין שמאלית
....
Q.309 is the definitive rite of exit from ritual and separation; represents the code of access to metabolic energy flows that are cognitive tools.
The atomization of the rite, the rupture of the chain of being.
The ardor of prostitution (πορνεία) is intended to solicit the dynamic contraction of the Divine.
Aug 10, 2020
Aug 10, 2020 at 9:33 AM UTC
Suddenly you've gone
Togetherness is not long
I miss you deeply my son
My only one
With your death, you've taught me all the facts
How to understand the disease called EDS
Too much complex! It presented problems no one could accept
You were bearing these on your death bed
Pain! days and nights
Your spines were not that right
Muscle spasm on your backside
So do your heart and even your eye sights
Moving slow
Enema ***** helped to pass down the flow
That is called 'diarrhoea overflow'
You've suffered all these... no one knows
I couldn't sleep till the first light
Now forty days and forty nights
These nights were the worst nights in life
I must overcome to be right
Missing you is my only right
Can't see solace on my way tonight
Thar Thar! My son!
Wakes up!
And help me to survive first
Then advise me how to live my life
To my late son Nanda Phyo Win who passed away on 1st September 2020
Dec 26, 2020
Dec 26, 2020 at 10:21 AM UTC
As I came
from the Embankment
underground station
towards Charing Cross
I saw Julie standing
looking in
a shop window
she looked thin
in the jeans
and yellow tee-shirt
her hair was drawn back
in a ponytail
she saw me
and walked towards me
thought I’d meet you here
she said
got bored waiting
in Trafalgar Square
ok
I said
good that you're here
we kissed and walked
hand in hand
up to Charing Cross
how are you?
I asked
******
she said
the doctors
have been on my case
all week
and the nurses
have been
breathing down my neck
into everything I do
can't even go
to the bog
without them
standing outside the door
in case I’m shooting up
and are you?
I asked
course not
where am I
going to get anything
to shoot up?
we came to the road
and crossed
at the lights
and into Charing Cross Road
I missed you
she said
missed you too
I said
wish I had
a photo of you
to put by my bed
can't get one
she said
the parents won't bring
a thing from home
unless you have a camera?
no I don't
have a camera
I said
shame
she said
I’m going
to a jazz concert
next week
I said
jazz? yuk
she said
I’d rather
have an enema
who are you seeing?
Charles Lloyd
jazz sax guy
but I can see you
in the day time
it's in the evening
she looked at me
we could try book
into that crazy hotel again
for a few hours
she said
get that same room
and bed
today?
I asked
no next week
she said
OK
I said
I’ll ring through tonight
she smiled
give me something
to look forward to
all week
get me through
the nonsense
with the docs and nurses
we went into
Leicester Square
and into a café
for two coffees
and a slice
of chocolate cake each
and I studied
her face
and small *******
just out of reach.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC