THE GHOST OF EVENING PAST

last minute screaming angel eyes of 

yesterdays accelerated glory are 

now small cold pools 

without depth 

struggling to continue spooling your movie

and

 with a canceling hand 

i review the schedule

 - refine the escape plan

as 

(quietly) i look around . . .

soul is a cold white sink 

and daylight pink 

touches last night’s stains/no opinions survive

 the tight rigid sleeping 

in the small night 

of my 

twisted and dribbled plight

eyes both cheated and guilty

- overheated with self pity – 

see 

in 

lurid

Technicolor sight

and 

i was riding a plastic horse 

of course 

- under a slick amber dome

as 

the sudden shouting freedom 

bled on 

in a strange place 

outside my home

and 

i wailed too 

in the dark of the night sailing calorie high

and the loud and spitting whispers 

close up 

in specific ears 

mean i do try

and 

i was fractured 

but 

i showed it mattered 

by tidying 

before hiding

and 

i would be grateful now

 - not hateful now 

nor 

spiteful now – 

if 

i 

could 

be anything

and 

i was the blind drunk 

leading 

the blind drunk 

all around the houses

now 

i am up before noon 

wearing 

yesterday stained trousers

and 

i’m teetering 

on the edge of rebirth under alien day skies

and 

i’m wavering and i'm woeful 

and i'm

wondering why i don’t die

and 

now 

these last morning minutes mercilessly mock me 

without enthusiasm

as I wonder 

- post amber cataclysm – 

 DO I STILL QUALIFY AS ORGANISM?

and 

reborn 

and

disgusting 

out the brief darkness and light of drunkness and height

that spat radical thinking

and 

I am 

shrivelled and shrinking 

away from last night’s 

wild conception 

of 

drinking and smoking

and 

now my dry thick trembling thumbs

- fumbling as one – 

rolling a needed nicotine stick

shocked by flames too bright 

and 

parched twigs too tight 

- still i force down smoke 

for the chemical hit

and 

i am a pale shadow 

empty of light like a cobweb 

hanging 

in a desert dry breeze

reaching for any bubble packet 

-  not coping - 

hoping 

that the chemist’s racket 

can help me leave

and 

my stomach 

is a sad low pile 

in foul need 

to squeeze out 

nicotine brown sick

and 

my white knees come to see me 

- see through me – 

as the fugitive suddenly exits

and

 i’m 

The Ghost of Evening Past 

drifting damaged here 

- with fluid floating guts

and 

i know this

won’t be 

and 

can’t be 

the only load 

to show me 

how my insides suck

and 

i fix my testcard eyes 

on the door

waiting 

for what they saw 

in the epic evening past

to surface slowly taunting 

- like visions unholy haunting – 

taking my attention 

off my arse

and 

habit tempts you 

with some artificial placenta 

to chew on/at once 

lumpy and empty 

- the grumpy kitchen zombie is you son!

and 

an emotion free zone prevails

- preoccupied with the cold vacuum

head mercury boiling! 

- bubble packet nurse 

helpless and consumed

and 

tracers 

like drug angel’s 

frolic out of synch 

behind the bright edges 

- so ill

leave an insane craving for soft suds 

- fizzy present 

to hug my insides still

and 

from loving all around me 

in the warm 

late night storm

to loving nothing 

around me 

at all 

after the dawn

and 

deep in 

The Heart of Drunkness 

i ran before the sun

i had to be finished 

and 

i made sure I was done

and 

i am reminded constantly 

of the Nazis 

that are after me

by the 

bold black writing 

that lurks 

like old slack typing 

smudged across me

and shame - but  

grow you must 

and 

go you will 

from 

The Heart of Drunkness

stumble away from this sick land of old beasts 

that you know best

ignore this bloody rebirth/leave 

without 

ACTUALLY looking . . .

keep denial in style 

and 

let your car crash legs 

do the walking

but

- the kitchen is a painting 

honest and expensive 

on the hospital walls

and 

the world’s a two-dimensional mirage 

of endless shoes

 in 

lurid front halls!

and 

outside 

a sadists movie 

is lurching 

from a hidden lens

and 

my acting 

is intangible now 

despite the evidence

and 

the first fake lightness 

of strange escape 

is passing away now 

rancid proof 

of a 

dirty fall near now 

– feeling thirty fear now 

and 

you are still teased 

by the 

blue light insight 

you hunted 

for all last night/the ghost touch 

of evening past 

carries high 

the host torch 

of jagged hindsight 

and 

all my angry tolerance 

is held like 

madness 

in one glance

brought on 

by healthy straight fools 

around me 

that 

can 

jabber 

and 

prance

and 

the booze splashed hurricane 

that tore me 

from my Novocain

was to others 

straight lined 

just one more evening 

much the same

and 

- nobody loves me 

and 

everybody hates me 

so 

i’m going upstairs to wear shades 

where the phantom guilt 

under the clammy quilt 

is billing

me now 

for fictitious debts 

unpaid

and 

still 

the shattered reminders 

are 

creeping 

through the haze/the torture 

and the relief 

will strobe me 

deep 

all through this day

and 

i'm a slimy man 

calling out 

HELLO 

again 

- to my 

Own Private Overhang

and 

if it answered me 

- in a trance i would be – 

not saying anything

and 

i am dried up 

and 

useless like an old fridge 

grey and hanging open on waste ground

waiting for the miracle touch 

of Morpheus’s 

brief 

and 

careless hand

and 

why do I do it?  

because of the modern world in my face?

a classic reaction 

– the search for distraction – 

a textbook case

and 

in this state 

i cannot be hurried 

nor can 

i be stopped

as 

i shuffle at a constant pace 

– suspiciously watched

and 

when i’m free from the tunnels 

and 

the screaming train faces

HOME 

at last 

and like 

GOD 

i collapse 

– in horrible stasis