Thursday, June 21, 2018


You lose slowly, one needle
at a time. First time
you slip it in your pocket
like a dirty coin, but soon
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
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,
s you;
s all youve ever been,
s all we ever wanted
but not me: leave me here
with my bazooka
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 Id met the devil himself,
but he was just the average everyday
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
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?


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

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...