Tuesday, 21 February 2012


After Dark- Version

It fades. The discolouration.
Grazed skin heals, cream and powder help

The blows tend to fall in different places
In patchwork pattern.

But sometimes, when bruised skin
Is struck again, the clenched fist is exquisite

Repetition comforts in nihilistic sedation
A supine acquiescence to specious predation

Anaesthetising the ache of savage fate
Dull thud

Of impossible horizons and crushed hopes
Swept by an ebb tide.


If you close your eyes
You are not there
The air can smell sweet
Drawn by puffed lungs

Dreams can unpick locked doors
And scale the highest fences
You stroll unnoticed along empty beaches
Consumed by a hazy horizon

Smouldering kisses, not rage, unleashed
In desperate embrace

With lids tightly shut
Bare glare is lost
Struggle won

Sunk, hunched and broken
In limp despair
If you close your eyes
You are not there

Reverie- Version

If you close your eyes
The air can smell sweet
Drawn by puffed lungs

Dreams can unpick locked doors
In unfettered abandon
You stroll unnoticed along empty beaches
Consumed by a hazy horizon

Smouldering kisses, not rage, unleashed
In desperate embrace
With lids tightly shut
Bare glare is lost

Sunk, hunched, in silent prayer

If you close your eyes
You are not there

Cafe Ort

Where ink once mixed in chemical alchemy
Folk and ideas now flow
They come and go
In babbling chatter
Of this and that
Of what does and doesn’t matter

Some talk of Plato
Others of Descartes
Or come just to think
But not of ink, anymore

To pontificate, about who or what they rated
Whilst hunger and thirst are satisfyingly sated
Did the Sexy Weirdos live up to their name last night?
Was Johnny Kowalski a bit of alright?

Or did he pass beyond vanishing point?


Let me tiptoe on the spray of swollen surf
Or bake in the momentary imprint of soft sand
As it cradles my inert corpse

May circling gulls swoop to peck my glazed eye balls
Whilst nimble crabs nibble loose flesh
Salted by a whispering breeze

Drawing my exhaled breath beyond
So that it may touch far off shores
Before being absorbed into oblivion

As the incoming tide bites ever closer
Tenderly tickling before full embrace
May it bear my spent frame easily

That limp limbs should not snag
Nor matted hair drag
During my journey on the ebb

May my bones be stripped
Before they are engulfed
In sedimentary permanence.

At Home With God

Inspired by Richard Frost

“How many times do I have to tell you lot to stop that fighting?
Can’t you sort your own problems without dragging Me into it
And, expecting Me to take sides?
If I have to come down there again, I’ll smite the lot of you!”
And It won’t be a messenger, this time, it will be the real thing

And Mankind answered unto the Father:
“God – It’s so unfair!, He started it!, I didn’t ask to be born!”
Some, with real existential angst, said
“You can’t tell us what to do, You’re not even our real dad!”
And there was much wailing, and gnashing of teeth.
And mighty was the wrath of the Lord
“As long as you live under My roof, You’ll do as you’re told!
When you’ve got your own place you can do as you bloody well like!
And while we’re at it, stop treating this place like a hotel
Making a mess everywhere and ruining things
Organising floods, earthquakes and famine, is a real pain
I’m not a miracle worker, you know.”

And, muttering something under his breath
About how they’d all be better off without him,
God went out into his potting shed
Where he could have some peace.
And the Almighty contemplated unto Himself:
Okay, He wasn’t perfect. He never seemed to be around when they needed Him,
But hey ,He worked a six day week
And He couldn’t be everywhere at once.
Besides, He had other things to think about:
He still hadn’t got round to fixing that hole in the roof
And now He had to figure out what to do with all the polar bears~
When the ice caps melted,
Then there was loss of habitat for Panda’s,
Edinburgh zoo was no solution.
Christmas is always mad, especially at midnight, Easter is 72 hours non-stop, and what other business would offer an eternal forgiveness service on demand? And , for the record, I find transubstantiation a little spooky.
So he switched his mobile to the messaging service
Whilst Man looked in disbelief, at all the grief, and turmoil in the world;
The anguish of families torn apart by war,
Children suffering through famine and disease, but what for?
When all they wanted to do was please
And such was their despair
They fell onto their knees
And turned to prayer, calling out to God
“Lord, are you there watching over us,
Where are you when disaster strikes?
Do you really care? Are you still there?
And this was God’s message:
Your call is being held in a queue.
Please hold and salvation will be with you as soon as possible.
However, if you require approval for wars, please press one
If you want forgiveness for something I told you not to do in the first place, press two, if you want to make a payment, of a goat or virgin , press three, if you are thinking of leaving the Faith, please wait.

But Mankind couldn’t wait
Lord, we’ve held on for long enough;
We look on helplessly ,and see,
Those who have more than they need
Taking from those who cannot even feed ~
The regimes of tyrants, oppressing the weak
Cannot be, what you seek,
Whilst the poor fight for the wealthy.
What can be done to free us from this slavery?

And this was God’s message:
Your plight is important to us.
Please continue to hold
And your prayers will be answered ~
As soon as an angel is available.
Mankind wailed: Lord hear our pleas”
And this was God’s message:
Due to overwhelming demand at this time
We are experiencing a high level of calls.
You may wish to try again later,
Or continue to hope.

Dead Pop Stars

It has come to my attention that the calibre of dead pop stars,
And their deaths,
Are not what they once were.
I just thought that I should mention
That it is my intention to point out that
Whitney was not the greatest
Or rather that her greatest was in fact Dolly Parton’s.
If greatness is measured by a capacity to consume alcohol, crystal meth, cocaine and downers – then she is of course up there
Yet that is overlooked by record company execs, who expect
To increase product prices,
And ignore all the vices ,
Of the deceased
To keep them in alcohol, crystal meth, downers and cocaine
Just the same – ironic isn’t it?
Or was that Alanis Morrissette?

Taking waiting to exhale just a little too seriously,
A life slipped by as it sank beneath the cooling bath waters of a Beverley hills suite
As if being baptised into a holy sect for those for whom a premature death is the ultimate encore

Amy Winehouse lived her surname , rather than the dream and just two albums into a career,
Dusty Springfield would have turned that out in a year,
She is now feted becuae she has been “lated”
Why? Because of her great output? No
Because she did it, the rock n roll suicide which we loved to watch,
But not participate in, or die of, we stop short
For celebrity death is a spectator sport

Michael Jackson’s doctor is now in jail just for giving his fans what they wanted, fifty shows in London from a body too frail to cope, too riddled with dope
The greatest black dancer ever, apart from Sammy Davis Jnr, the greatest black singer apart from Marvin Gaye, the greatest performer apart from James Brown, the greatest entertainer, apart from Nat king Cole even in death they cannot live up to the standards we set them in life

Because rock n roll death is not what it used to be,
When it came, Buddy Holly had to be brought down in a plane,
John Lennon gunned down to stop them,
But hey both won fame, for what they had achieved

Jim Morrision completed a life’s work in a summer,
Three decades it took Joe Strummer
Before checking out
Jimi Hendrix defined an instrument, no doubt,
Bbefore saying “beat that” not “beat it” – forty years on no-one has

We expect too much, and accept too little
From departed lips coated with drying spittle
Not a purple coloured haze, just a purple coloured hearse
An ignominious demise which confirms the worst
Aspects of dead pop stars bad taste
Proof beyond the grave of talent laid waste
And that in your quest for immortality
You’ll need more than your funeral played on MTV.

Undeleted Texts

They scroll, falling as tears
There is no GPS tag
But I can remember my location
Each time my phone pulsed

Tantalising snippets
Of what once was
My replies remembered
But unrecorded

Saved to my soul
Not just my memory
I reread, searching
For a nuance, unnoticed

Neatly date ordered
They can be summoned
At the press of a key
In perpetuity

You can edit them
If you want
Reconsider a reply
Be wise after the event

And abbreviation
Can mislead

You can press send
But never recall
You can read
Or just delete

But never again
Will my heart
Miss a beat
At that bleep