botany lesson

what do you call these
they’re snap dragons she said
look they have little faces
and you can make them talk
and we both started laughing
as she manipulated a flower
in the suburban summer sunshine
i like it when the ladies and flowers talk to me
especially tripping  acid.

literature

a fan’s notes
pointing buddha’s little finger
at the year two thousand six hundred and sixty six

hungover

hungover in the lunch bar
flicking through the glossy mags
i thought about how inane
and meaningless life had become
or at least
how most of everything conspired
to make it seem that way
another dress, another party
another baby, another break up
another diet, another rehab stint
and then remembered
another car bomb in old baghdad
where life is cheap and meaningful
all at once
hundreds dead, hundreds more
shred like kebab meat
and how magazines like these
or lives like mine
suddenly become reprehensible
almost meaningless
sweating out the piss
eyes too dry to cry

this life is a slow suicide

say the hungover eyes
and it’s all degenerate now
the excuses getting as likely
as the dog ate my homework
informing the boss i had sunstroke
though i doubt she bought it,
not for a moment
hands shaking so much
i could n’t sign out
a 3 day bender, mostly unknown
lost time and a fist of guilt
to the gut
and now the shakes and pain
codeine cant touch
though maybe, yesterday
it was funny out in the beer garden
laughing
as the socialist described the time
he conceded defeat
on election night
tripping off his nut
and how the neighbour
offered me his bobcat
free of charge
anytime i felt like smashing
an ex lover’s sculpture
in the northbridge piazza
but 17 hours later and barely alive
i’m not laughing now
sweating it out in a foetal ball
think i’ve had enough
at least for a while

these last few weeks

i have n’t written anything
worth a goddam piss in the sink
probably because lately
i’ve been drinking
2 sixers a night
with trips to the bar
and a foil on the side
remembering her
of course, on the upside
when i’m not blacking out
in the wild pitch
of memory
my skull resounds
to the riotous chatter
of a workshop for frauds
held underwater
or a reading for nuts
with something to scratch
thru their chemical
straitjacket culture

harden the fuck up

submit
of yourself
willingly
accept the rejection
reject the acceptance
it is a long road
to there
read the poets
living and dead
read everything
in sight
at hand
at lenght
read the sighs
and the tears
between their headlines
and each moment
listen to your demons
closely
even indulge them
once in a while
if you can and if
it’s not too late
always making sure
they know you’re in charge
and when you have nothing
remember this
a blank page
can always be filled
a blank screen
is only that
in waiting
now persevere
always

a

den
would look
like this
without
the E

non violent activist

i know you’ve been radicalised
but did you even fight back
as the ligatures drew ever tighter

little girls, romantic hearts
riding bikes to save the world

signing off today

suddenly
i dont feel like writing poems anymore
don’t want to be naked anymore
dont need the hassle
don’t have the urge
but it’s not even that
i want to, but i can’t
and it’s not that i don’t appreciate the praxis
and love it’s freedom or know it’s impact, i do
and it’s not that i won’t continue
to venerate poets and their work
i’m just signing off because really
my sartori means i’m not that good
or not a poet anyway
as i watch or rather sense the muse
pack her bags and mock the worlds
i leave behind today.

enjoy the view

i like my bitches plastic
silicon stacked
all blowjob botox lips
the more unreal the better
that’s how capital’s got me
right by the balls