Coco Cola Eyes (Mise-en-scène)

Cinema-curled hair
Snake hips melodising the night’s starry mouth 
lizard platforms jive talking with leopard  silk pumps 
Moonflower shine-slap-rapping on white chiffon thighs 
He drank bourbon with a shot of milk 
had a Harvey Keitel lip swivel
Bull dog wrinkles –
liked African  panthers and Swedish porn in that order 
The hot shagging  rhythm of boom bap highs 
Quadraphonic-fever rush-infectious curves 
A flick knife ride on a funk  guitar 
She drank a dirty martini flaunting an 
open-bosom sparkle-shag bikini 
She had  coco cola eyes 
Hot  black fizz that mesmerised 
That same year  Barings bank collapsed  
after ‘rogue trader,’ Nick Leeson blew £ 1.4 billion playing 
high-stakes speculative games on the Tokyo Stock Exchange 
Riots broke out in London 
after the death of 26 year old Wayne Douglas 
And the shimmering horror of Timothy McVeigh’s truck bomb 
was played out in real time 
Oklahoma city April 19th  1995 – the same day a zit popped kid 
folded the four corners of a fifty dollar bill and fell into a dirty secret 
He remembered watching her move like 
TALKING CANDY 
Wanted to touch lick taste feel 
The same year the Unabomber Manifesto
was published in The New York Times 
Disjointed moments a portrait of chaos 
His hotel had a Gideon bible MTV and cable sex flicks 
Caught sight of  a new world in those eyes 
Want is sharper than the thorn of a rose 
Tangled in a luckless mist  
He approached her 
Like a high wire tight rope walker 
Cherry ripe lips  
on the edge of one kiss 
Vicious  heart stomp 
High voltage lust 
Her voice cold as salamander skin 
Venom notes of rejection 
The same year 1995 – 
when a spider ate a fly.

What’s So Fucking Funny

‘Look at the state of you! shameful!’
she said
I could see she was hurt
and about to cry
‘Don’t come near me or give me
any of your bullshit! I’ve had enough’
she told me
A few hours later we made love
and lay silently together
‘I love you’ I said
‘I know you do’ she said
and then I began laughing softly
‘What’s so fucking funny?’
she asked
‘Not much’ I said
‘You tell me, you love me,
and then laugh, how the fuck
am I supposed to feel
about that?’
she said
‘But you just said that
you know that I love you’
I said
‘I do, but why laugh about it?’
she said
‘I’d cry otherwise’
I said
‘Why?’ she asked
‘Because I lack any
Fucking imagination’
I said
She said nothing and
just nodded her head.

Motorcycle Madonna 

The girl rides through the September road shadows,
tanned and tattooed — blue cross on nude back—
Harley between muscled legs—
Body half covered in shiny black Spandex—
Today’s woman heading into tomorrow—
should I call her Venus?
Open road motorcycle lady, highway star,
lady of the hour, lady of this speeding moment.
Erotica in the street: so tres masculine/famine, n’est-ce pas?

Then She Was A Real Girl Because It Hurt

Nourishment is through your ceramic lips.
Pink nipple delivers various amounts 
of their potion composed of powders — bone mixed 
with dry milk.  Fuck dolls can’t taste it, spit it out 
pulverized skeleton, a draught of one 
of their own.  If you swallow its marrow,
lost pheromones, you grow vulnerable bones,
beneath this chipped anatomy (they threw
themselves onto without pity.) Shatter a
porcelain pelvis though you can’t even cry. 
Patching kintsugi cunt with gold mica 
will not bring a real tear to glass eyes.
Afters month of bone milk, you even grow skin.
Peeled porcelain punctures before they begin.

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.