the
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 my schedule
- refining the escape plan
as
(quietly)
my own soul is the cold white sink
and
daylight pink
touches last night’s stains
no opinions survive
the tight rigid sleeping
in the small night
of my
twisting dribbling plight
eyes both cheated and guilty
- overheated with self pity -
seeing in 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 was wailing too
in the dark of the night
sailing calorie high
and
the loud 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 would 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 this edge of rebirth
under fleeting skies
and
i’m wavering woefully
and
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
i am reborn
disgusting
from the brief darkness
that spits up radical thinking
and
i am
shriveled and shrinking
away from last night’s
wild conception of drinking
and
now my dry thick trembling thumbs
- fumbling as one -
rolling the needed nicotine stick
see 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 forgotten breeze
reaching for any bubble packet
- not coping -
hoping
that the chemist’s racket
can help me leave
and
now 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 sync
behind the bright edges
- so ill
leaving 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
alas
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 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
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