No fathomless entity. Just plain old poison lust. The dust up my nose. Faeces in my cuts. Fumes in my lungs. A friend juggled a blancmange. Ended up sobbing, covered in pink slime. His cigarette soaked with cheaply sweetened, deformed mucus. I stared at him and kicked a stone at a little bird, who watched us from a verge.
He asked why, I left him there; shamed, pitiful. Ruined.
They call it love. It becomes death. Resurrects itself as bitterness and collapses from old age and undernourishment,
My old lady used to warn me not to wear my heart on my sleeve. I can see her now, fists clenched, biting at the air with every consonant.
Useless whore. Now disintegrated in my memory to a creature smaller than a dung beetle.
A simple, razor thin synaptic heave. A fart from the past issuing bile into the present.
And they call it love.
I know no one and yet I’m head over heels for you. And you know it too. Look at my eyes.
They have drunk you in so much they’ve become skewed. Perverted. Desperate.
When you leave, as you will, they will watch you walk away. And the pilot will warn the mouth not to echo the sentiments of the heart, worn snugly, gruesomely, upon the sleeve.


Side Effect II

The night dissolved and the daylight clotted the blackness. A sickly sky. The air, however, was good. My body was not. The drugs had left a chemical taste at the back of the throat. And all I thought about was whether the message would find her.
My head filled with questions, doubts and fears like electric spermatozoa.
A pool of water with bubble of petrol. Around the pool are hundreds of candles balanced on tall pedestals. And the wind began to pick up.
When the questions begin they usually don’t stop until a small pile of flesh is torn away. Between the teeth, over the mountain and into the deep, gray sea. This beauty won’t know how much I love her. It’s too painful to say. The message exists only in my head. The basso throats, the gin soaked carpet. The sky lit up with bombs. Small thoughts made into enormous, defective buildings.
Tongue in knots filled with devotion. There to stay. To burrow inside and fester until transformed into regret.
Everything you can ever say shot out of the sky like a bird with twigs stuffed in its beak. As it flaps in its own waste, the grass swallows it up, as though breathing, into the deep, gray earth. All is fire, all is light; the pride of the heart, still swollen, persuading the mouth to express its heat; the ice of the mind jabbing sharp icicles through the arteries, slowing the blood. You wonder when it will happen. And you know it never will. And yet there is always a chance.
*     *     *
The door creaked. The tables were dirty. The food was good. The waitress was better. My glass was empty. She held the bottle over my glass. She looked at me. I put my hand over the glass. She poured the drink over my hand. Then she got down on her knees, the wheels of her roller skates still whirring, and licked off the booze with a cold, silky tongue.

Fibre Match

Hula hula. Sound the horn. Chaser lights in gravy. Tweed suits and serious issues. Young animals with death in their bellies. The attic creaks with secrets. Two people, far apart, think of a world without each other. Harmonica’s dangle from the rear view mirror. Speculation on coming catastrophe’s. Lightening left-right combinations. How to knock a person out from across the room. Drowning in fizzy piss and tears. Writing poetry in blood. A scarecrow cackling at your prostrate form, fingers clawing the wet mud, rain washing everything but the memory into the crop. Soon, sprouting misery, a last hurrah, celebration of the cheap-shot. Scratch your name into a beautiful wooden table top, you wimp. The building hums with spirits of all shapes and persuasions. Hymns ring out for the lost, the dead and the dying. We trundle on through piercing rain in the general direction of hell. Once, I dreamed of drinking a vase of wine. When I came to, the sheets were sodden and I vomited into the toilet. Floating in the acidic mess were pasta shapes spelling the name of a hard forgotten lover. Seventeen dictaphones placed in strategic positions record the comings and goings of this naked ape. This spasm of flesh and nerves. A trail of sonic evidence that this person did something ritualistic, perhaps obsessive, in this location, at this time and on their own. There were a second set of footsteps recorded however. These were more graceful, less easy to pick up at first listening. In lipstick, the words seemed slashing; red, violent and despairing. Deep in the pigment, there was suspended a memory of him. Though no fine tuned detection would or could pick up the subtlety of the trace. A thin cord attached them but for how long, who knew. It seemed as though it might break at any time.

Wait, what’s this; a new sun? No. Someone with their headlights on full beam while I try to sleep. On the boards, under the sea, halfway between you, halfway between me.