Tuesday, August 20, 2019

Slow Comet Coming

but I don't move
at your speed

I'm a snail crossing
the freeway,
a comet crossing
the galaxy

and if you try to
speed me
I drop down the gears
till I reach
dead stop

and wait out the world
spinning all around me

until the day we lock gears
and move at the speed of light,
the speed of sound:

two lost souls
screaming in the wilderness,
looking out
for the same black hole

Stuff The Bag

Some people
see a man on the ropes
and take it as a sign
to step back, maybe
help him back to his corner
and drop him on his stool;

but others will
smell blood and steam in,
wipe their fists over
his face and paint his lips
with blood:

and there are some
who will only stand
and watch  not hindering,
not helping, staring into
the lights as though
doing nothing makes them
winners, losers or marks.

But no-one
wants to be the man
on the ropes breathing
in blood, waiting for
that soft pity
indistinguishable from contempt
we all feel for
the well-beaten man:

especially if we know
he is us.

Down On The Farm

Sprung for a few weeks,
how can I ever go back
to the key and the cell,
a turnkey directing
the locking and unlocking
of doors? For an hour
joy held me, joy named me.
If this is madness,
bring it on.

We Go To The Judges' Scorecard

maybe this waving you on
is only my strategy for
keeping you at bay,

so that when we finally
come face to face
I can kid myself that
I’ve been beating you off
for decades,

when you me
and the bell-ringer
know you’ll only come
in my face at a time of
your own choosing,
when I’m sitting on
the toilet or halfway 
through dinner

raising my fists for
a fight where I'm the only man
who's jabbing

while you just rope-a-dope,
taking every punch
as a blessing then landing
your solitary knock-out blow
before I can raise both hands
at the bell
and take it to the judges
sitting at ringside,

their cards marked before
the first fighter crawled
from the swamp
pretending he hadn’t heard
the bell

Taste It

Course I knew it was wrong
and I didn
t like the taste,
that was why I waited till I was six
and the little girl next door
said she wanted to give a gift
to her daddy on his birthday
but she had no money, boo hoo,

you should give him a blow job
I said;
my daddy likes them any time,
but especially on Sundays
when mummy kneels in the church
while we wait in the car
looking at pictures of ladies
with sideways smiles
and he smiles at me slowly
that sweet sad smile
makes me laugh and unbuckle his belt.

So she toddled off home
and next day there was a policeman
next day there was courtroom
and I must have been found guilty
because they sent me to another country
where the rain was colder
and the sun seemed smaller
and I knew they didn
t love me
because uncle never asked me
to unbuckle his belt;

but I make up for it every night
in these bars on these streets
every man
s got a secret hiding in his pants
every girl likes a taste
on the back of her tongue;
m only here because you remind me of him.

Last Drop

Cant imagine anything worse
than dying in a room smelling like a toilet
surrounded by grand-children
and people who claim to love me;
gouging out my last breath
like an eye on a spoon passed around
for inspection. I may as well
sit on the toilet farting out a log
while a critic 
nods and takes notes.

So much crap talked about death;
spirits passing over
and do you see a bright light?
The only light I
ll see is the doctors
little beam punching out my eye
when he knows I
m nearly gone.
No-one gets sexy over a head cold, or spiritual
about your bowel falling out
like a truck losing its load. I want to die
the way I
ve always lived: alone.

Death should be a beautiful, solitary 
ordeal, like the first time you came,
your hands wet with liquid soap;
for the first time your body was more
than the pants you ran down the street in,
stronger than the nail you tore
your best shirt on when you
hauled your carcass over the back gate.

You knew one day time would crack 
every bone in your face, but you ran
like a kite in the park proud of
its broken string, chugging down air
like beer. You didnt fight it then,
so why fight it now? Ill steal
one more mouthful, then spit it
on the ground.
Ian Mullins

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