if 

ignorance is bliss

          &
knowledge is power

then cynicism 

is the only way out 

of this godforsaken mess

You have to have some good reasons to love yourself otherwise you’re just licking your own asshole

“This is 500mg’s each, take with caution”

He said with a grin.

It was a good and rare
sunny September day 
here in northern England,

People wore t-shirts and shades
and bermuda shorts 
and they smiled and strolled around
as pasty as an all-white toothpaste 
getting redder and rawer by the second
and they drank pints of beers
and their laughter was loud but well hearted
as people entered shops
and got out of them carrying bags,
and at the town center 
a Gypsy dressed as a Native American
was whistling one wooden type of
musical instrument or another
which made me laugh 
and I threw a pound in his box
and decided to take a second Gummy Bear.

I had two bags
on the left back pocket.
Each contained six of these things
and the bags are small
and child-like in color,
and it would be unsuspecting
to any decent passing folk that I was
gulping down 500mg more
of weed in me at that moment.

Later that afternoon
I was with a friend at a fancy pub
at some place or another
( I never contain names of places )
And I ordered a cocktail 
taking down two more of these things
finally thinking agitated by the possibility 
of these things being fake
and how much I loathe violence 
in general.

On my second cocktail
I decide to enter the pub 
myself and I start flirting 
with the bartender as I guide
her to make my Paloma cocktail—
she’s this wide shouldered younger girl
with nice blonde hair, a pleasant eagerness 
to her movements and all smiles.

I decide to ask for her number.

It’s midnight and I wake up
at a train going to
Manchester.
I don’t remember much, but flashes
of me stumbling and my friend
asking me if I’m alright.

All my belongings are with me,
even my shades,
tucked on the collar of my
all too plain black t-shirt.
Everything but the bartender’s number
and a train ticket.

I take the last two gummy bears
I have left on me
so that I don’t have to stress about 
a possible train fine
and I lean myself cozy and tired
against the vibrating window
and I see nothing 
but absolutely nothing
on the other side,
only my own drowsy reflection 
trying to avoid itself—
and sometimes the random street lamp
is some field, across some road
shading light to something 
lonely-feeling like a small brick bridge 
over an unused railroad
or a glimpse of it through
some black and much too thick woods—
and then
absolutely nothing but darkness again
and my own face again 
realizing I’ll have to spend the night in Manchester 
and leaning deeper into the seat
and out of the view of my reflection.

Blowing Bolan On a Purple Haired Unicorn 30 Seconds of Hot

Mascara rocka!
Kitchy koo Prince of pop land
With your halo of black popcorn curls
and glitter frosted eyelids
You bang that gong!
Strut and slide-rouged face glamsta
Love Warlock
Rolling those electric
snake hips in the blue pit
charming mesmerising
Tender all the way through
Making her feel sexy in the mouth
Making her pussy scream
And her purple rose tattoo shout
You sent that ectomorphic princess
to cosmic paradise
Fucking the innocence out of her eyes
Batting your thick-lick lustrous giraffe lashes
on a life size purple haired papier mache unicorn.

The Bath’s Edge

I wander into the bathroom
and you’re bathing
the white crackling froth of the foam
your short curled brown hair dampened
your face liberated totally of makeup
patches of vulcan red between
your regular skin
white as the inner flesh of a ripe plum

and you grin
beneath those solid blue irises
and I lean in
and kiss that smooth forehead

and you are so perfectly innocent
and free
within that happy primal water

your small breasts relaxing
above the hot murk
your immaculate cunt invisible 
your toes arisen at the water’s far end
poking out like eager spectators

and I feel your hand going up my thigh
that purple nail polish flaked and dulled
and you get to my zip
and zup it down

“do it…I do want it”

and you pull out my cock
already thick with simmering blood
and you take the head in your mouth
that burning tongue
and swallow it whole
down the whole
back and back

and I feel your hair
and you cradle my balls
with the initial hand
as your other hand
retreats beneath the waterline
to stroke your clitoris
so sweet
so tender
so bloomed
so good
and I think of it so: a fruit on the tree
begging to be picked

and I cry your name
with a single tear of pleasure
driving down my cheek
my spine snapping
my shins raw and angry against the bath’s edge
as I rush into your mouth
too fast
so fast
I could not dare to hold it

and you choke a little
and pull back

you pipe my cum into your palm
looking at it with such wondrous kindness
and suck it back up
between those pale lips
which then smile so graciously

it is gone
a quick breakfast

and I have never been in love like this
within any second I have ever before existed

I kiss your lips still salty
and then each soapy soft nipple
worshipping each breast of yours in turn

I wipe down my cock
and leave you to soak
as you put the hot tap back on
in for a long set

it is only eight-thirty in the morning
and I already know that the rest of the day
will be as beautiful
as you

and even if it isn’t
it doesn’t matter.

My Gods

If you believe…
There is a God of Butterflies, a God of Lottery Tickets,
A God of Storm and Thunder, of the Ocean Waves,
Sibling Gods of Dream and Despair,
Even Gods for Cats and Dogs,
And Gods of Love and Hate,
Even a God of Poems.
I don’t believe in any of that nonsense,
Save for the God of Hate.
I believe because I feel the God’s presence. 
It’s like an anchor at the back of the skull,
A hand embracing my heart,
A dull ache that never goes away,
A pain that become pleasure.

Many deities but all in the same vein of worship.
You get it, my fellow believers.

Waiting in line, Co-workers, In-laws
Children, Traffic, Asparagus 
Commercials, Emission Tests, Taxes.

Bow down on your knees and pray.

And if our God needs sacrifices…
I’m just a mortal waiting in line.

HOW CAN HE

How can he write when
there is blood on his hands,
destruction upon his breath,
hope between his fingertips,
love an explosion sprinting
through his blood,
how can he write when 
people are dying of hunger,
of disease and madness
and violence,
how can he write when
water is gold and the air
strangled and polluted,
when girls and women are
violated at the vileness
of men in every village,
town and city across
the globe,
when the planet is acting
out suicide before his eyes,
how can he write?
because he has to,
he has no choice,
it’s all he can
fucking do.

All the Way 

Go all the way 
and never look back, 
because the only good back 
is the one  
that makes you cum 
to it and on it.  

All The Madwomen (Shock Corridor)

Creeping up a dark crooked staircase
pushing on a large steel door
opened up to a cracked linoleum floor
it was an empty room of women
all the madwomen
one sat in a rocking chair
singing lullabies to a doll with no eyes
and one arm missing
another laughed hysterically at me
choking on her laughter
tears rolling down her face
in cascades of pain

Hearts scrawled all over the walls
boys’ names scrawled in crayons HARRY ADAM DAVID CHUCK
a girl stared into nowhere
tearing hair from her head
whispering He Loves Me He Loves Me Not
the little black one baring her teeth at me
pushing me in the back
hissing I’m sick of your shit ya hear?

The cracked window high above
pouring broken light into the gloom
there was the blonde
who slapped me over and over 
“I’M SAD! MAKE ME LAUGH!”
a few clawed between their legs 
vigorously rubbing their vaginas
bright red raw 
mangling their breasts
as their tongues mechanically rolled around their lips
moaning like cows in an abattoir

The room heated up and manic musk filled the room
they moved in and
circled all around me
pushing me down and grabbing my sex
kissing and licking and biting me
like piranhas
a swirling maelstrom of hair and teeth
I screamed and screamed
the last thing I heard
was Daddy I love you

Sell Out

You’ve never been so excited to disappoint your parents.
It’s an endless process, them making you feel less than.
Yet it makes you laugh, posing for and PMing strangers.
These boys got something better than a bottle of bourbon
Hidden in their closet boxes or creaking nightstands.
ZipLocks full of body parts: Nail clippings and Q-tips
Sent from anonymous cuties aching for extra cash and attention.
You consider these girls an elite clique: pretty as pearls but grounded
by a need to please. “Is this sock smelly enough?” they ask themselves.
“These panties streaked with enough excitement? The photos professional?” 

You’ve always been a sucker for irony, class clashes & white-flame car crashes. 
I’d think that’d put you on the other side of selling, but you’ve got a mortgage.
Cost of moving on from umbilical cords and wedding bands cut long ago.
Reminds you of bloody baby teeth found in your mother’s sewing chest
Twelve years ago, you experienced the lockjaw jolt, spine tingle, 
The sinking shock. An unseemly discovery, things you shouldn’t have seen, 
memories tied to sinew you had to tear away with unwarranted assistance.
So, price your words and wear with a barbwire barrier to entry.
Isn’t much, but it threads the needle, keeps your teeth clean,
Your heart-shape box free of debris and fingerprints.

No one’s gonna unearth your secret before you’ve spent a few smiles,
Bought up a black void living space to melt into like ice cream on a cavity. 
Keeping busy means keeping current with the fetish trends. This month: Lips.
Floss flecked with spinach, tongue-wrapped tubes of gloss, saliva sold as lube.
If you bubble wrap the mason jars and Handcock the lids with a hearty insignia, 
You can call yourself a businesswoman, a shoulder-padded stiletto-sharp trailblazer.  
Put that degree to use, make your perverts proud they got in on the ground floor.
The crust under your soles and the spiteful grit of your teeth ensures success.
The men entrust you with re-choreographing their childhood trauma. 
Sparkling in the camera light, you recast yours in soft filters.

Nobody’s daughter, everybody’s type.

Random Thoughts In The Morning

Life is sometimes
As thrilling as
Being the “Next”
In the waiting room
Of the dentist office.

The special fire house chili
Brought tears to the eyes,
Flamin’ farts soon followed.
One must always consider
The consequences of one’s
Actions.  Ice cream is not
Always readily available.

In all the years of
Carousing about
And all the women
Who fascinated me,
I only asked two
To marry me.
One said, “Yes”.
One said, “No”.
Both were a 
Disappointment.

My first thought upon
Waking in such an odd
Inexplicably good mood
Was that I must be
Someone else.