Loser

You lose slowly, one needle
at a time. First time
you slip it in your pocket
like a dirty coin, but soon
it’s the size of a fist
and there’s no room for your own
alongside it;

one day your hear
its footsteps shadowing yours,
though you never look back
and never see its face;
soon you’re growing smaller
day by day, till one night
you’re just a hand
in someone else’s pocket.

When you look outside
everything is green cold
crazy and beautiful
and you never want to
go out there again,
no matter how they scream

this is the real world
where everyone belongs;
see that face on the street
that hand in the pocket,
that’s you;
that’s all you’ve ever been,
that’s all we ever wanted
but not me: leave me here
with my bazooka
I’ll fire my own way to hell.

Drowning Without Tears

Only an illusion,

of course; the hours

never stop bleeding

you dry, though sometimes

they sit you by the river

and tell you that

the coursing of the cool water

is also the coursing

of your life, gushing aside

from the mainstream

to quiet little eddies

hidden amongst rocks.

Many a wise head

can be found bobbing

under a jetty beside

the dead ducks.

When you understand

why drowning is

the only option,

life in theory becomes

easier to bear; but only

as long as you sit by

the river, sagely nodding

your head. If you are required

to go back into the tepid flow

it won't be long before

you're thrashing with the rest

of the soon-to-be-deceased,

trying to kid themselves

they know how to keep

their heads above water.

Contentment is only

for those who can afford

to keep their feet dry;

who can buy into the notion

that the clock may be

ticking, but you don't have to.

Wind how you will,

we all bomb out in the end.

Routine Admission

Thought I’d met the devil himself,
but he was just the average everyday
baby-raper
limping into the hospital
with his cock cut to shreds
like someone had got it real hard
then taken a razor blade to it

me I seen it all before;
you hit the low ground running
thinking they can’t get no sicker
and here’s this guy, looks like
every guy out there,
only thinking how hard
his dick hurts and where he can post
the pictures on-line

when somewhere there’s a baby
screaming
blood pouring out of his ass
in a river red enough

to wash me and bent cock
all the way to Hell

where Satan himself
will sit shaking his head
when I tell him
all the things I’ve seen.

Citizen Of Nowhere

Voices dissolve me like

a soluble pill, but light

burns through my skin,

rendering me a shadow

of the roles I’m required

to play. The loyal employee

you would have me fabricate,

and the wild boy I would be

if only you’d stop screaming

too loudly or whispering

too quietly, pushing light

into my eyes like a face

through a windscreen

when I crash head-on

into the world.

Me vs Meds

You could call it a trade-off,

I guess. Each walks away

with some of the little he asked for,

but none of the whole he dreamt.

I get to sleep a little deeper,

and he gets to hear a scream

without leaping out of his skin

and streaking his bones

down the street. But he's the man

I see when I glare into glass,

and he looks like a bum to me;

some homeless derelict with

un-matched shoes who only talks

to the pet in his pocket. We talk

the same talk, we slurp the same meds,

but I'd cross the street to avoid him

if I could. I wonder if

he feels the same about me?

Indifferentiating

Nothing’s happening here.

The world still turns

and grows old, the sun

still burns out its fuel

at a pace steady enough

to roast itself dry

in a million years or two,

but nothing is happening

down here in the dirt,

the dregs. All we are is people;

all we do is scream.

Nothing’s happening here

to cause Saturn to thaw out

a new ring, or Mars to thicken

to a more bloody shade

of red. The gas giants

are still full of hot air,

Pluto is so negligible

it’s barely there, more woof

in its name than its weft.

We’re nothing that might

cause any other dweller

of the cosmos to blink once,

then get back to dreaming

and dreading, growing weak

and growing old;

looking to the black sky

and finding nothing but comfort

in the hot burn of a cold universe

into another, as indifferent

as the last. Our predecessors

had Shakespeares too.

Ian Mullins