I'm working dammit
on the promise of a viscous promiscuity
I would normally shoot first, clean the mess later, ensure no witness survives
in the middleweek each slatternly evening should be bedded early
recently, though, the inclination of a night is to drink
coffee?
right! right! right!
read and write and write and ride a hundred of your dirty looks
in an all night steaming just to thumb fuck the irresistible where
god granted good sense is disavowed
christ my mind tonight where hasn’t it been
a rattling mess
from the petty penury of the millennium’s silent bells
through a razored grift of oyster shells
via packet steamed voyage that will never be
and I’m screaming
“why can’t you be my Yoko, passionista,
intravenous burned brown celluloid injector
crowning, howling, screaming blood-letter
leech wife barfly spittle shined philosopher”
instead there waits a world to be shared
by just her and me
wings clipped by vows and golden bands
buried under the demands of continence
the peripatetic spur sundered
marrow spoon hollowed and forsaken in the soured grass
where lost co-ordinates of days of grace and grand escapes
offer no cue for slagged ambulant dreams
laid to rest in choked and over worked seams
disappointment is spread so thickly over the sailcloth of expectations
while deep within these tubes lies a germ of posterity
and its beetle glinting crawlspace
spits an imagined this
move
change the frequency, your smoke is staining my ears
move
remain though the matter of my subject
you and your forced finger self-inflicted wounds
if my words don’t flow the knives come out
my hands may form a loving fist for the needful dough
I could carve a new you and I have just the tool
but she, already dead, chides
“count your breaths, count your blessings”
which begs me to ask is there too much on the page?
while the dead are still singing the wind must always
beg caution
how much attention does this whore seek?
fracked and sluiced to the point of release
where every kind of juice spills
from pores palm greased
with the patina of slovenly verse
paupered by the diminished returns
of a creased core
what is the call?
I stay, a frog in a pan, of course
warning shy of every hopeful morning
and in a’ very short space of wine’
it will be love again
thank you suzanne moore (yes that one) for “the very short space of wine”…cribbed from a twitter exchange :)
very much in progress and in need of multiple revisits…a pulling together and re-shaping of a few recent thoughts