Beyoncé's Baby

Before Beyoncé had a baby,

Bailey bluffed Marcie,

Bud had nowhere to jack-up,

(Beat up, kicked out,

And strung-out nice,

He prayed to Bacchus,

Rocks and Ice)

Beyoncé had a baby,

Bailey found a

Hostel, Hostel,

Terrifying Hallstelz.

Marcie was cling-filming

Cider to reduce odour,

Whilst beneath his billet,

Bud noticed a white, shaking, blurry-ill

Walt Whitman, tremble in a mushroom trance,

Before Bailey undertook to say,

“You’re crushed and simple,

Emotional, desperate,

With the snakes in your stomach,” (Mexican accent)

Marcie – “…and you won’t take a stance,

I hate you Wepeel…” (Norwegian accent)

Bailey – “…but pity you, too,

For the Fate you seal…” (Dr Seuss)

And Bud thought,

“The Halls, cold Halls,

The terrible Hallstelz.”

Yes, Beyoncé bore a baby from her warm, wet, gelatinous snatch,

Or perhaps from a sharp incision it hatched.

And when she did,

Bud thought

“Yes!

Finally the chance,

To rise from this mess,

This semen-stained mattress,

With its hair and skin,

Diarrhoea, stomach cramps,

And craving sweat in.”

And Bud worked good and hard that night,

For a child was born and a star shone bright.

Clandestine Gothic

Mine eyes behind the crimson curtain fell,
To heavy chain and silent, tarnished bell,
Still marble lowered orbs as low he passed,
And followed as he rose from deck to mast.
Descending on us almost unaware,
Deceitful and despicable despair,
Past the pointed arch and ornate spire,
To the madness and seclusion of desire.
“What storm?” his eyes, “I see nor hear none now.”
“It surrounds you,” I return with humble bow.
“Suck my life, unveil thy brass and beak,
Bathe in tremors only fear can seek!”
“You mock me or perceive on different plain.”
“I’m honest and believe that you’re the same.”
“Then take up fire, poison or the steel,
Press the mortal wound so all can heal.”
When from behind the crimson curtain fell,
The heavy chain and silent, tarnished bell,
He sacrificed and bore my burden shame,
Then begged we never spoke of this again.

*           *           *

Bric-a-brac

Bric-a-brac

Boxes, boxes,
Endless boxes,
Of things and stuff,
Filling the rooms,
From floor to ceiling.

Mark the boxes,
Give them names,
Like This and That.

Look in a box,
Seal it - move it -
To another room.

One contains The Toys and Magic
And that long-forgotten face -
Keep moving the boxes.

From one to the next,
While losing the last,
Until a single circular stain appears,
Smile.

Seal it - move it -
Attend to the next.
Pray it's not the box
Which contains you.

The English Society

Little did I know that you would amount,
To a sickening social network account,
Of inane tos and fros, labels, designs,
Make-up and dress-up philosophical crimes,
Soft focus photos who seek for a beau,
Or false bravado so aching to sow,
The hollowest of hollow, no depth to sin,
The emptiest vessel promoting within,
You do not like this and you do like that,
Destined for refinement as a bureaucrat,
Retarding the century to fit your ends,
Tapping the key which lies about friends,
Associate yourself within your plans,
To climb the ladder your ambition spans,
Aspire to the same postcode as your mother,
I-Phone in one hand, dogshit in the other,
While Rochester allows me to be profane,
Say every stupid cunt to me looks the same,
The smiles wouldn’t make me feel so sick,
The haircut wouldn’t say that you’re such a prick,
If only you had something other to say,
Than what someone better said yesterday,
Work charity hour to furnish CV,
It will pay you back dividends, ultimately,
While the red brick walls that saved my sight,
House this shower of shallowest shite,
Who seek no truth that exists outwith,
But exist to assist in creation of myth,
That the greatest minds of a generation,
Are found in the institutions of nation,
Which strive to educate in more than show,
While straining under each financial blow,
Within six-hour contact time each week,
Attempts in vain to draw each to speak,
Of matters other than the colour of hair,
Or reality telly, or what they wear,
Or the latest shit music on their phone,
Or the cocktails they’ll have when they get home.

Little did I know that you would amount,
To a sickening social network account,
Whose shiny face will last but a day,
Till another pretty uploads them away,
With self-involved conceit just like the last,
And just when I thought the gag-reflex passed,
The to-ing and fro-ing all starts again,
More shiny little fuckwits, pretend, pretend,
To have an interest outside of themselves,
Or the rags on racks or bags on the shelves,
I have never laid claim to grace or piety,
But Lord how I pray for The English Society.

Impotence

      "If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is." — Charles Bukowski

Impotence.

There was a farmer had a dog,

Bastard,

Inbred,

No-good,

Gormless,

Oddball.

There was a farmer had a dog,

But she disappointed me,

In the sense that I could not save her,

Not render her predictable or,

Gain her trust,

On the issue of my intent.

There was a farmer had a dog,

Beautiful,

Independent,

Natural,

Glorious,

Oddball.

Apple Tree Bad Time

I want no more than my tree
Which froze and compelled
And paralysed me.

Silent silhouette of dead apple tree,
Complicate all, identify me.
Simplify self,
Black claws,
Sharp, black, clotted veins,
Random unpredictable incongruous,
Running unstoppable,
Like the big dirty black
One-leg-hanging-behind,
Speeding spider,
Suddenly still on my face
Rearing up, six legs behind, one hanging, dragging dead,
Compelled by fear
Like eyes on the pipe
Before the quiet crack of iron on bone simultaneous slap of skin.

Tree, hacking me in two with just enough to be seen,
Illumined comfort murdered by paralysing optical venom.
Assurance of touch lying absent from moment
And the things that crawl inside
And among it
Resuscitate, re-animate,
With pinching, nipping
Branches with no other purpose
But to suck some blood, start some itch,
Or exercise tiny jaws built to penetrate with no remorse.

I want no more than my tree
Which froze and compelled
And paralysed me.

-

Her, her

Her, Her.

Gradually, came the gradual lie,
The forceful lie forcefully.

Behind a thin margin, all
The marginal,
Exist once in existence,
As fateful eyes,
See fate full of lies,
And watch master fall,
In his masterful guise.

Special eyes which specialise,
In the puerile,
On the pure Isle,
Which cannot respond
From the watercress pond,
Where fortune ate fortunate,
And temper ate temperate.

Prime all to act primal,
With tact, lest
They should pay the tactless.
Feigning mercy, lest
They should appear merciless.

A game to urge ants,
To become insurgents.
The last few tiles in faded mosaic,
Illustrate the last futile ache, hope, loss,
To the hopeless.

Give her a wage, her,
The wager, waiting,
On mental men till,
She sees the ember go
Out on embargo.
Sees the fury - us
The furious,
We, the villain - us
The villainous.

The nerve!
Us?
Breakdown?
Gradually.
Gradually,
Came the gradual lies.

Metanonfiction

Metanonfiction.

She has blocked all pop-ups.
There is no flashing, unwanted message on her screen.
She does not advertise, or accept advertisement.
Unpack your heart, she says to me,
But I have none,
I take but have nothing to give.

She sits on her feet, black-leggined knees,
Point outwards at ninety degrees,
On the comfy chair,
A candle, acoustic,
Like she’s drunk passive content, no fear,
Her hair brushed, her eyes smile.
Don’t worry, she says to me,
Only ever in the present tense,
No make-up, barefoot,
No mobile, no telly, no traffic, appointments.
Water and sunflower seeds.
She’s waiting on me, but I’m paralyzed,
With self-doubt insecurity,
Loathing eating me from the inside out.

She can balance anything,
Even all the horror of the real-world existence.
She exists authentic while I’m a nightmare in construction.
She has nature on her side,
No itches and itching itching itching.
She blows the smoke into my mouth as I,
Breathe in as deep as I can.
Seconds, I like myself again,
Worries all gone, my adverts gone.
All soft soft lips and smooth fresh-cool pillow.
Why don’t I feel like this all the time?

Let me see you,
Smiles, soft laughs not strained, the pool,
The bucket, Marley, another epiphany,
Which will be gone by morning.
Jack and Coke,
Heavy Mouse and I need a cigarette to put the spin on,
Conscious of its dirtiness to her,
Regressed, I infect her,
Heavy Mouse and Piggy Fanny and Piggy Hardon,
Regress and regress.
Shave and regress.
But what will they say, I’m writing and longing for Heavy,
When they find out,
I’m still full of fear,
Have so many doubts,
I will have to explain it away,
Like political allegory,
Shave and regress and explain it as art,
Some excuse making it something else
And they’ll know but sure they already know, No,
I’ve no other lesson to teach,
Being dishonest,
A spurious leech,
Would glorify all these to all those I love.
Smoke and get cancer,
Stress and get an ulcer,
Create a new space and cough up the rent..
There are better ways to live,
Play on with the show,
Show why you’re sent.
Play me something,
I’ve forgotten the words,
Show me something, tell me something,
Oh God, please last forever,
Swim, food, God’s food,
Then they come in, Oh Christ!

You’re a bastard, she says while he disappears,
He could beat me, but has no interest or fears,
And I hate him for it.
Look at you!
I run my tongue along the inside of my top front teeth,
Maced eyes,
Gap, tooth, broken, gap, broken, tooth,
She looks at her,
Wake up, she says,
He’s a shithouse, look at him.
Don’t look at me, don’t see me,
And I remember the time I first met her,
Staggering, falling into tables,
In the restaurant,
Starting fights, making a scene,
With my red hair,
And I hate her for it.

A little piss comes out of me,
Look at him, with a look of disgust.
She smiles, Come on, she says, we’ll go for a walk.
Everything she does is right, except me.
In the sunshine on the grass
Oh God, please let this last forever,
Thank God it doesn’t.

Instant Fix Insecurity Old Man Betrayal Distraction

Instant Fix Insecurity Old Man Betrayal Distraction.

Nine kids laughing at me,
Not my kids, kids that are nineteen.
Nine nice kids, nine nonchalant faces laughing at me.
Prettier than me.
Not so oddly put together.
Me, the bumbling oaf, in Sesame Street,
Saying everything sin-appropriate.

And I want to speak;
And the overpowering urge to speak conquers
And I look at the girl to the left of me
And she’s beautiful, truly beautiful
And she has beautiful eyes and a beautiful smile
And I’m thinking, “Oh my God, you are so beautiful I just have to hold you.”
And then I remember I’m not drunk
And it’s the middle of the day
And I’m there with my big stupid face,
Saying tiny stupid things,
With my big stupid nose.

And I only wanted a hug,
Like Lenniewithnailrain Manwiththechildinhiseyes,
Who must apologise to his wife,
For being a constant fuck-up,
And always letting his desires,
Precede his thoughts.

Sorry.
Everyone.
Sony.

Whatever Happened

Whatever Happened.

He’s crying and he’s coming
To lots of conclusions.
He’s crying and coming
To believe the illusions.
He’s crying and he’s coming
To lose all control.
Picking up fragments at random of soul.

Grasping at God where before there was none,
Sliced through the heart when he should have been numb,
Healed by a prayer when terror erases
The sceptical mind and the painful embraces.

Through vast, empty corridors sand blows away,
Which only existed in there for a day.
It should never have been there, too fine to exist
In the cavernous halls with the wind to resist.

The flashbacks get shorter and far more intense,
He sees between third and fourth poles of the fence,
Carved in the timber which crumbles away,
His life is a scar. He lies back to pray.

Before fence the guns lie, sticks in the mud,
Before guns a tooth and the taste of the blood,
Before tooth, serenely floating, suspended in bliss,
Before countdown commences with innocent kiss.
Before formed, a gene in his parents and theirs,
A fraction of cell which was caught unawares,
By theory detached from existence by form,
Of electrical impulse, a piece of the storm.

As I cry and I come
With your daughter today,
I shall try to forget all the things that you say,
And all that’s apparent, the cuts and contusions,
The pain and the fear and self-serving illusions.

Fatherhood

Fatherhood.

That’s what she said to me,
Giving me a gentle sleepy kiss.
“Just believe,” and she smiled.

“Believe in what?”
“Just believe.”
“Go to bed now, I believe.”

But wait, “Believe in what?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Something. Anything. Something greater than yourself.”

“Oh, yes, I was seven once,
And I remember believing.”
“What was it you believed in?”

“I can’t remember,
But I believe in you.”
“That’s a nice thing to say.
I believe in you, too.”

Paris

I gaze through the window wistfully.
I’m in Paris, smell of tobacco burning, coffee and light smog,
A little heavy-headed on red wine
In the afternoon
With an interesting Irishman named Doolan.

Distant shouting of children,
No pressure, no sense of responsibility,
Sonnets and coffee in the afternoon,
No screaming kidnap victims,
Just fine patisseries, relaxed conversation
And enough beer to feel like a man.

Cold water,
Confident women,
No red brick council housing
With blue slate gardens and tracksuits and phoneheads
Who hate me and everything I stand for.
And all know I’m a coward,
And I’ve never been to Paris.

Bastardised Villanelle About Drugs, Domestic Violence and Mum.

She’s settled for second best,
Nng.

Start. …I’m really sorry “Bark!” got broke TV,
Can you send some cash. I don’t like to ask,
But we’ll be back on our feet soon, you see… Stop.

Start. …I’m so sorry “Bark!” I know I was free.
Can you bail me out? I don’t like to ask,
But we’ll be back on our feet soon, you see… Stop.

Second best, the sapling she got left with.

Start. …Bark, I’m sorry “Bark!” it’s still only me.
I swear to God that I removed the masque.
It’s over in a week, at the most three… Stop.

Start. …I’m so sorry “Bark!” it’s not me you see.
If I can manage to complete this task,
Then there will be no need for me to flee… Stop.

Start. …please send help “Bark!” it’s all gone wrong for me.
I got ripped off, I’m embarrassed to ask,
It’s not as if I’m on a shopping spree… Stop.

Nng. She tells me my bark stinks, I’m infected. Nng.

Start. …I’m really sorry but you can’t blame me.
You can’t break the cycle that easily.
Anyway, there’s no need for you to ask.
Just send the money, set both of us free… Stop. Nng.

The Garden

The garden brims with delights.
The sparrow sings
With the intensity and irrelevance of first love.
All the jobs I have to do stare back at me
And I think that we are the spastics of nature,
But that I must remind myself not to write that down
Because it might be offensive to someone.

Bumble bees have always been one of my favourites,
Hovering over the damp, cut grass in the sunshine.
I feel silly saying it,
As they bumble around until someone squashes them,
Or they get hit by a car,
Or put in a jar,
And I’m sure the others don’t even notice
Much less acknowledge
The sudden death of such a great number of their colleagues
Under such tragic circumstances.

Sonnet to Bukowski

I hide, covered in a blanket of snow,
Settle in a gentle rocking motion.
I sail on high seas and through doldrums slow,
And pass the dead on the wine dark ocean.
No bird visits me, no creatures are seen,
Until the swarm of black blocks out the light.
All the darkness the same since age thirteen,
A hand encompasses my head each night.
I never escape, never shift in time,
Bats and crows bodies are scattered on deck
While the mariner chants his spiteful rhyme,
And by the time it’s over, I’m a wreck.
So I’ll join you Bukowski, drink with you.
I have shit stains in my underwear, too.

Celebrity Love Poem Trilogy

Tulisa completes the trilogy of celebrity love poems:

Tulisa

I like Tulisa and her sad, sad face,

And Tulisa likes me, in my sad, sad place,

We’d get over the video and stay in the flat,

I’d get drunk and she’d get fat,

But we’d love one another till’t end of time,

Fat and drunk in the towers - but still sublime,

Until that big lad came back on the scene,

Then everything would disintegrate,

Due to my uncontrollable and all-consuming jealousy.

Helen (I've Gone Off Colleen)

I like Helen on her teacher’s chair,

And she’d like me with my affro hair,

We’d ride to Vegas on our Palomino,

Sniffing ether and drinking vino,

All would be bliss until the next day,

When she’d find God and I’d go grey,

She’d slap my face, I would vomit,

We’d laugh, make up,

And go back to discussing Descartes in the sand.

Colleen

I like Colleen in her blue bikini,

And she’d like me in my stripy beanie,

We'd have to keep our mouths shut tight,

In Andalucia all Saturday night,

Still all would be bliss until the next day,

When I'd demean her verbally,

The most horrible way,

She’d throw a plate,

I would duck,

We’d laugh,

Make up,

And go back to discussing Socratic method on the lawn.