Happy Birthday from your Stalker.

I know it’s your birthday today

But I know you don’t want me to call

So I took your last text message you sent me

And changed the meaning so all

The lines are opposite:

Thank you for your gift

It was very thoughtful.

It all turned out just as you hoped

I want us to be together forever

It was the perfect gift at the perfect time

I’m so alone without you 

Please keep sending me love letters.

Happy Birthday

I didn’t mean to turn love into

Stalking.



Happy Birthday from your Stalker.

I know it’s your birthday today

But I know you don’t want me to call

So I took your last text message you sent me

And changed the meaning so all

The lines are opposite:

Thank you for your gift

It was very thoughtful.

It all turned out just as you hoped

I want us to be together forever

It was the perfect gift at the perfect time

I’m so alone without you 

Please keep sending me love letters.

Happy Birthday

I didn’t mean to turn love into

Stalking.


I remember


I MISTILY remember my very first

Plunge. Wrapped close in vodka’s sweet, warm blanket

I stumbled with my giggling Aphrodite.

She was, to me, the entirely beaut-

Iful, but so drunk was I, a moist fruit

  –

With cored-nook, more than Heaven (even bru-

Ised) would have been. But her eager wet-

Ness, warmed with woman’s flush, began that night

Of febrile fumblings, synthetic starts and

The weakened will of Desire’s wanton wand.

  –

At last, with volcanic idleness, Influ-

Enced by dawn’s golden glimmer, dormant yet

No longer. Life’s spray captured in her tight-

Ness. My vigorous fountain pooled then, in

Nature’s flawless chalice. Then sheath to bin.

Untitled 2.


IMPERFECTIONS yet superior still

To Circe’s substance. An empty fickle

Heart yet more intense still than scorching, brill-

Iant Sol, scalding, past Time’s sickle,

My withered shuck; shackled by Memory’s

Insidious, insipid influence.

With a late lapping longing I barely

Breathe without recalling still her sens-

Ual soul. I seek oblivion from

This ever flowering, chaotic obses-

Sion. No respite can I detect; no brom-

Ide seclusion from this one weakness.

Life’s Simple Designations.


I am much my own emotion’s victim.

Its smooth sheened sphere helplessly hangs, hover-

Ing expectantly, waiting for some glim-

Mering error. Some glimpsed lapse to take her

Inevitable vengeance for my im-

Possible failing. Sleep seems much better.

Smoothly blue.


Smoothly blue.

wuntu, wuntuthreephor…                     Aaaaaaaaaaah…

                                                                crazee… diggit down, reelmellow down, yeah;

                                                ooooooohhh

                                                                                sha

                                                                                                                sha sha

                                                                                la la la                                                                    lala

ooooooooowwwweeeeeeeeaaaarrrrrrrrr   oh yeah

yeah;                                                                                                                      yorragonnaluvvittt, hmmmm.

                                                                                man…

gidown                   huh                         gidown                   baby,

                                                                                aaahh                    ahhhh.

thankuverymuchladeesngenlemen…

                                                                                                                                                    ur2kynd, 2kynd.

Untitled 1.


THE WORDS melted wetly together

Slickly sliding across the page.

I was dubious; unsure whether

I could, should, would control my rage.

Confined to this fibrous vehicle

The seeping slowed gracefully like

Honeyed thought. Soothed by the treacle

Glow of newly found delight.

Then it’s liquid limitations

Congeal, curdle; all thickened.

Each wet syllable, parched then, shines

With a light, cloyingly hardened.

Drunken Whinin’.


Oh now help me dear Lord,

What am I gonna do?

I’m so very drunk-tired,

Gotta hole in-ma left shoe.

*

Been wanderin’ since…

Been wanderin’ since…

Been wanderin’ since…

Since you threw me out,

Out of your heart,

Your barbed-wire heart.

*

Temples pulsate with off-

Ended remorse. Whiskey

Guilt’s a-flowin’ and I’m gettin’ me a cough.

Think I’m gonna rest down under that ragged tree;

*

It’s old and twisted, cracked and rough,

Just like me.

I lean back on some creaking bough,

Sinking then into dreams free-

Dom:

*

While the Cocytus flows into Acher-

On’s course; Interlaced in abhorrent em-

Brace, dithered along their fractious borders.

*

Nothing proven remains true.

Time’s initial casu-

Alty, grasping, hopeless love.

*

In her was contained all perfection.

There’s no doubt, she gave me an erection.

Touched.


                 MANIC depression,

                                                            Anarchic aggression;

                                                                         Deep-felt obsession:

                           Meandering digression,

                                                  (Auto-suppression)

                                                                                        Nullified oppression.

Snap-shot.


*

When the sky, for brief moments, stops.

Leaves no longer rustle as, briefly

Everything ceases. Drops

Of molten reality, unceasingly serene,

Drip, in shimmering uncertainty,

Sluggishly down like some surreal stream.

*

He drinks in that empty moment.

Savouring it as some trans-

Ient truth he knows must melt. Penitent

Yet, despite the gloating ignorance

Of the Hollow Ones, with their tidy, superfluous

Charm. That icicle spear glance

*

Shatters the moon-pool calm,

Like dreams twisting the empty ill-

Usions of a drenched emerald balm.

Now, creaking Time, casually recommence

In your random, untidy precision, kill-

Ing with every division all sense.

11. Me without you.


A diver without an aqualung,

A paedophile without the young.

A camel with no hump,

A boxer with no thump.

A clown without any fun,

An American without a gun.

Strawberries without cream,

The BFG without a dream.

Communism without Marx,

An underwater adventure without sharks.

Christianity without the philosophy of Greeks,

The Welsh stereotype without leeks.

A monk without a cowl,

An archaeologist without a trowel.

A Catholic without the guilt,

A Scotsman without his kilt.

A gun without a bullet,

An 80’s pop star without a mullet.

Sex without any sweat,

Rolf Harris without a vet.

Santa without a reindeer,

A pervert without a leer.

A war without deaths,

A tramp without meths.

The Psyche without the Self

A ninja without stealth.

A widow without a shroud,

A mushroom without a cloud.

Four horsemen without an apocalypse,

The Queen Mother without broken hips.

Jack without Daniel,

An aristocrat without a spaniel.

Hercules without tasks,

Balls without masques.

The police without crime,

Coleridge without a Rime.

Muslims without jihad,

Addicts without rehab.

Gaffers without grips,

Fish without chips.

Roman Emperors without insanity,

Fair without the Vanity.

Haunting without a ghost,

Sunday without a roast.

Christmas with no suicide,

A playground without a slide.

Meals with no eating,

The Olympics with no cheating.

Pull without a Force,

Death without a horse.

A storm without the rain,

Fisting without any pain.

Silence without peace,

Pain without release.

An Italian without a scooter,

A six-gun without a shooter.

Depression minus the manic,

Start of the century without the Titanic.

A sniffer without glue,

Is like me without you.

A foot without a shoe,

Is like me without you.

Caged animals without a zoo,

Is like me without you.

Treading Pitch-Black Paths.


Speeding like a freight train,

Running from the great pain,

Ending with a jarring strain,

On Time’s last sand grain.

Sticking to the path,

Sticking to the path,

Sticking to the pitch-black path

Of His soul.

Tearing at the last Fiend

As the Devil’s scream

Echoes…

As it echoes…

As it echoes…

As it echoes…

As He echoes

In my head, in my mind

Searching for a freedom;

A freedom I can’t find.

Old Man Bone-bag.


“I live between the cracks of a mountain’s

Soul”, The old man said. His great time-carved arms

Stretched in knotted leather strength; his skin, tan

With Nature’s bruising intensity. Charms

Hung from his gnarled neck in casual

Superstition, shaking with his calm drawl.

“I tread the blanketed paths of your long

Forgotten past” he continued. “I seep

With the Memory’s flow from the Lost Song.”

I left Old Man Bone-bag, for he was mad.

Toast-Footed God Monster.


Semolina sperm boy eating

A dated doughnut porn ring.

Do you cry in your acid tears

Bitch child? Whip-crack shifting gears

Accelerate’s the corporate worm

To a feverish wet-squirm.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Bitch.


…Creeping                                       septic:                       acid bath

on a first [time] dive… to the end(?)

Of a (hermetic happiness) hearth

That      cannot succour… the rend-

Ing real [dragging insanity]…        garnered from… the crazy. Pointless

Whimpering of;      God’s worst guess…

Dreaming peacefully.


She’s Weeping in a piercing hopeless pain

At smiling, sharp boned anorexics cut-

Ting the air with their razor-edge framework.

A treacle leaking wound smears the dark drain

With slick wickedness as you stretch idly. But

For her crouching apathy she would leave lurk-

Ing for a fleshy existence; without this strain.

As it is she remains here, strut-

Ting like a toxic, bobbing cork.

Subterranean Thoughts


Prodding dreamily at the space under

My chin. The space where the shotgun would fit

Snugly in. Thoughts that vaguely meander

As I rest under this gnarled tree’s bough. It

Seems that it would be no trouble at all

If I was to fall from this place and rest-

Lessly crawl on through. I just need to call

On that one moment’s decision; a guest

In no time of neck-snapping Death who yet,

As my host, ushers me beyond.

What remains; a whip lashed marionette,

Shattered and twitching, that will not respond.  

Twitching Rigid


A moist fuck

In the temple of taboo.

Siamese duck

Made into stew.

Suck drenched wet cunt

As, after dinner, grandparents

Ruttingly grunt

In their political tents.

The Marxist Ferret


Frying pan clam-shut cat

Drives me, distancing future from that

Future I planned on my vernal mat.

Torpor conquers my feverish terror

In a rigid battle to close the door.

Leaves


The leaves are bronzing over, as umber

Shafts of the Autumn’s sun, tent-

like, shade folly’s of a forced mortal year.

Of life’s rich liquor; mulched rot, a blotched smear

On her flawed, lawless cycle of some transient

Phase of decay. A shining veneer

On a crafted, sharply piercing, dream spear.

Grinding to the obsequious pause; lanced

Through Nature’s grim drab soul; an empty tear

From her nascent eyes drench, with a clear

Banality, the children of a spent

Future with a haggard, wasted fear.

Brevity


Drifting in the terrible scream

Of a trembling explosion. Neat

Victims seeming to shimmer in the melting heat

Before thudding crisply dead as in some padded dream.

Water’s pure rainbow sucked dry into steam

At the elemental border. Manufactured order, Great

Like an old War, its fire squandered from the grate,

Fractures as Nature’s chaotic unfettered seam

Is mined in a panoply of rising octaves.

Life craves for it’s own empty, forced continuance

With every dirt soaked breath a horrid struggle

Until that essential calm meets and greets us to our graves.

A tidy randomness that not even the web of Science

Can stave off. Just ensure the space in-between isn’t dull.

Sapling


She is standing before me in

Some wretched sharp-boned pose. Dreams shift-

Ing light pierces translucent thin,

shrink-wrapped skin. Her glorious grin

Dispossessed by fraught, frightened eyes.

Now, with thoughts obsessions first

Caress, each part of me that dies

Sees another path; the less cursed.

Stumbling in my own dark, bleak cor-

Ridors I fiercely hunt in love’s slow,

Impotent style after hope or

Hope’s trailing, tragic shadow.