another drinking night

commences and only
the poem flies through
the fingers. stories, novels,
plays, they remain stranded
on an island engirdled by sharks the
size of tankers. it’s alright, I
drink, recapturing the essence
of my soul which I
almost lost over a love not
worth a nickel. only the poem 
comes easy to the fingers. 
nothing else,
stories, novels, plays,
they remain far away, 
stranded in an island
I cannot reach
‘cause it’s too far from the shore
to swim to.
it’s alright,
I drink
slowly recapturing the essence of my soul
I almost lost
for a love that wasn’t worth a nickel. another
fifth drained, one more
bottom reached; it didn’t
contain the coveted answers, the
search continues. new fifth
cracked, a mix of junk and blow
shot into
the vein. not even powerful
speedballs can
kill me. no one else
around, all alone on a Saturday
night, it feels supernal. exhausted of
meaningless company, unwilling to
indulge in conversations that lead
nowhere. another gulp, another
shot, still alive. I lock door and windows, embracing
the imposing darkness. I see
my grave overlooking
a ravaged shore, a turtle comes to take
a piss on it. substances rush through my blood, destroying
a heart that died years ago. I broke
someone’s heart two days
ago; it’s alright, as long
as I drink. my wrongdoings turn into
blurry, insignificant
images. I disappointed yet
another person, a speedball injected
in the neck kills the guilt, turns remorse
into an alien emotion for lesser creatures. my muse
abandoned me, all the
inspiration I’ve left comes from
the sharp, dirty needle.

you don’t love me…

or maybe you do 
but only because it’s Wednesday 
you won’t love me on Thursday 
although you may love me on Sunday 
because you go to church on Sundays 
and you think you love everyone 
on Monday it will rain and 
you won’t love me anymore 
love is never constant or unconditional 

but it’s okay with me
that’s why we have dogs.

A Dream About You

I had a dream about you 
That didn’t feel like a dream at all
Where your shoes are kicked off 
In the floor of my bedroom
The TV is playing in the background 
That we’re not watching
The moon is like a night light in the sky
Of this dream
Where my fingers hook the loops of your jeans
And hands brace your hips
As you slip yourself between these lips

I Wanna Be Yours

I wanna be yours cos right now
No one else will take me cos I’m
Just a modern guy stuck here in
This postmodernist world where
We’ll have tories, either Red or 
Blue, always in power, and I just
Dream of you and me running 
Away to nowhere miles from
Anyone where I’ll write love poems
& drink only the cheapest of French
Red wines.

I Can Only Respond With A Poem

I sent the poem you sent me
to a devout, widowed, Catholic woman;
and, upon seeing it, she gave up her life of prayer,
certain that God either never existed, no longer exists,
or that He exists but must be evil. I can’t say why,
but I hope that this little poem somehow
brings you the peace you’ve been looking for.
Oh wait! I forgot! You keep reminding me
that you’re looking for war, not peace.
So you see, all of my theology
is either unworkable or unmarketable.
Conservatives reject my religion
due to my penchant for hookers, gambling,
smoking, drinking and blasphemy.
Liberals reject my religion
because I can write and they can’t.
Hence, my poetry career is ruined forever.
I actually prayed to God about this
and He said that he doesn’t like poetry,
or poets; and therefore I’m standing
on solid ground. My fan club now
has no members. My book sales
are zero. Immortality stars right here.
My last letters from the late Donna Lane
are etched in my mind. As she lay dying,
she told me to tell everyone to fuck off.
Because of her courage, I’m hoping
the people of the world will erect shrines
in her honor. She forever refused
to believe anyone’s bullshit.
You’ve got to love that.

Midway Home

She had a blue ribbon face
on a state fair body

He was a duct taped tilt-a-whirl
living on rock

She whispered secrets to elephant ears
He saw himself in Mötley Crüe mirrors

Switchblade combs cotton candy
roasted corn and melted butter
scatter on the floor of the camper trailer

Together they part
and walk away
on pixie dust

Scheduled Simping 

ah yes that scheduled simping, 
Sunday morning, hungover n’ 
horny, where one wank won’t 
do it and the dehydration and 
a takeaway and the shame and 
second wank and often the 
weight of the blues setting in. 
but Monday welcomes a fresh 
menagerie. then there is a 
love letter of endings I 
never expected in the pages 
of a Carson McCullers book 
from the NI lass who’s 
impossible to forget. 
I’m feverish, get the paracetamol. 
’cos spring snogs summer pure slop. 
today I feel like a boy who got 
his pants pulled down 
at the public pool. 
I gape at the long running sitcom 
suddenly going into syndication.

rejuvenation

you cheap whiskey vomit into the pig pen
bent over the fence 
with your ass in the air

and the fat sows squeal and run for the snack 
if your ass falls in and you passout
those bitches will gnaw you into another dimension

and the old woman up in the trailer
is glued to the QVC on-line
she’s spending all your money 
on a robot vacuum cleaners
and jars of rejuvenation cream 

and she’ll want to screw 
after wasting all that cash
it happens every time

but can you get it up when she spreads her thighs?

will you even make it to the door
with those sows closing in 
and your head spinning like a broken bladed fan? 

upping the irons

by the age of twelve
my bedroom was wall-papered
with Iron Maiden posters.
Eddie in every guise,
my crown jewel being
Live After Death,
Eddie busting out of a grave,
corpse musculature straining,
stringy white hair streaming
away from his skeletal face.
lightning strikes the hinge
securing his skull cap.
the poetic couplet engraved
on the tombstone
introduced me to the
literary cosmic horror
of H.P. Lovecraft.

I remember fondly the
door-sized poster from
Seventh Son of a Seventh Son.
the occult overtones
titillated my young mind
already simmering with
the writings of Aleister Crowley.
the poster illustration depicts
Eddie seated at a desk,
demonic candle burning
to his left, angelic candle
casting light to the right.

I purchased that one
with my paper route money
at the local flea market
along with three Chinese stars
from the ninja gear booth.

every poster was titled:
Phantom of the Opera,
Aces High, Piece of Mind.
Stranger in a Strange Land
with the iconic Eddie
portraying a mash-up of
Blade Runner and
the High Plains Drifter.

these posters and so many
more were procured at the
August Fest, a celebration
of dodgy carnival equipment
and deep-fried junk food,
the highlight of my summer.
every poster was a prize
for busting a balloon with
a dart at a dollar a pop.
Number of the Beast
appealed to this devil-
loving Catholic boy.
Two Minutes to Midnight,
Flight of Icarus,
Somewhere in Time.
Eddie brandishing a cutlass
and a Union Jack as
The Trooper.
Can I Play With Madness?
Powerslave.
all these images supercharged
my hyperactive imagination,
horrified my mother,
perplexed my father.
when my school buddy, Cas,
stopped by to fire up my
newly purchased Nintendo,
he took in my shrine to
this mysterious Iron Maiden
and their monstrous avatar
and asked if I had 
any of their albums.

we looked at each other,
blankly, for a moment.

albums?
Iron Maiden’s a band?