EVEN A FREAKING CAULDRON

i worked at the hospital
with dumb white dough men 

proud to never ever go 

into their own home kitchen

& if they knew the missus

would be out at bingo

theyd have their chicken dinner 

in the canteen here

& theyd act all smug about it 

like theyre goddamn winners

now i see the kitchen as where 

its socially acceptable  

to play with big steel knives

in a frenzy of flesh & fire

necking cooking booze

among the blood & bones

with power ballads on the radio

& even a freaking cauldron

ANGORA YANG

its
hard enough
to
realise the right word

to 

compel a humdrum thought

to 

tumble free

out of the bed

&

wash its face for the day

& here i am 

attempting poems

~

i am jealous

of the cat again

three crossed paws

& his chin on them

humble bragging his dignity

in a curl of angora yang 

SPIES

at night i stretch out

like a corpse on acid

in the great shadow blocks 

of an expressive & eclectic dark

waiting for dawn to arrive

pocket sized

yellow & blue

~

&

i am hiding with the spies

in the back streets of venice
& 

i am hiding with the spies
in the books i hear too

ABOUT NIGHT

 

i microdose on it all 
till the bedtime overfall

&

the phosphenes there

spin yarns

in the rail replacement night

CLICHE PLATITUDE

today theyre testing
the transportation 

of antimatter 

by driving it around a swiss ringroad

with all the other 

reckless fuckery going on

this seems like almost 

a literal walk in the park

~

& the cliché platitude

'its not the end of the world'

seems like tempting 

a parlous fate 

in these ribald days