Slow Comet Coming

sorry,

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;
I’m only here because you remind me of him.

Last Drop

Can’t 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 doctor’s
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 didn’t fight it then,

so why fight it now? I’ll steal

one more mouthful, then spit it

on the ground.

Ian Mullins