Heart Fuck Death

My heart does not know what is happening to it, since it can’t speak the lingo. But, nevertheless, it jolts with greif as I, and it, speed out of London. That’s its language; the beat, the heavy thudding of the heels of reality, of death. Our death. And a good thing it can’t speak, or it would be screaming “Phone her, phone her, phone her!”; relentlessly, and with no regard for its own sense of finality. It doesn’t understand the space between the beats. All it knows is now, now, now!
And I wish I didn’t agree with it. Because all I want is to be laying down next to her as we pour smiles and love into one another.


Indigestion Blues

Shot, by an invisible bullet. Even so, it fizzed, like an angry hornet the size of a bird. Like a horizontal, corkscrewing waterspout, it raped the air before punching a hole in my chest as though I were made of paper.
I open my eyes and I’m on the motorway, in two lanes, cheeks itchy and scratchy from old tears.
In the service station toilet. Holding back the nausea. He didn’t like being sick. Worm.
Gun, automatic, dropped to the grimy floor from the cubicle next door. It spun there for a while, between my bundle of trouser and the door on its broken hinge . I thought about what it might mean if the barrel pointed at me.
In fact, it came to rest aiming right back where it had come from.
“excuse me?”
The voice was small, tiny. Indian probably. I was unsure as to whether advertising my occupancy was a particularly wise move. Until my turd broke, splosh-thudding the ceramic bitch ass mother fucking toilet.
“…yeah?” I asked, my words like little angel scouts, detecting malice wherever it may dwell, the dicks.
“… can I have my gun back please?… ”
I wasn’t going to start trusting now. Eyeballing the height of the partition. I pick up the gun in my left hand and the turd in the other. I started talking about how we were going to do the exchange, all the while I’ve unlocked the cubicle door.
I jam the gun in my jacket and toss the turd over to the little voice.

I might have saved a life tonight. And fleshed out my plan of snuffing a few out.
I spat at the ground hot with an ancient sun. Imagined how crazy things would be.
Wonders what Mexico’s like.


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.

Grappling Tide

A thick mist of the inevitable. Lost minds clogged the lungs. A strand of junk thoughts messed with my mind. Memories of curves, of sensuality. Craziness from the centre of the universe. Longing. Laughter. A sombre day, spiked with possibility. The ghosts of 10 million soldiers marching across the tundra. Ragged uniforms. The muffled sound of military song. The clomping of tired boots through the shopping mall. The modern church of the damned. Me. You. We.
Notes left on lamp posts. Homeless postmen playing penny whistles. A friend coated in a suit of armour. The lost vessels of a long forgotten sea battle. The invisible waves running through my knees.
Mighty river, I would love to be like you.


Do you ever dream about a woman? And then when you wake up you’re sort of in love with that woman? Sometimes it can be a fictional woman. Well, one that you don’t know. Or haven’t met yet. Maybe. But this one, this one was my ex. So all day I’ve been in love with my ex. I hope I don’t feel that way much longer. It’s shit.


When the brittle soul man dreams, it dreams of empty service stations; endless isles of junk food, cigarettes, change for the arcades. As he snores, the rest of the world snores with him, perhaps even in harmony. Perhaps not. Tribes of alligator skinned nightmares queue up in a special, spongy part of his future. A lizard eyed, long-legged woman pries open his chest like a tin can; jagged flesh, a small, bulging heart coughing black ink shrinks at her grin. ‘He he,’ she prods, with her talon. Carves the word ‘smile’ upon his rib-cage which expands with the force of his still functioning lungs.
Betty, pray for me. The formica table top was strewn with dead cigarettes and many bottles. The air was alive with shagging insects. Betty opened the window. ‘Shoo!’ she went.
I flicked the dead butts at her peachy backside and watched her jump. ‘Oh!’ she cried, ‘Oh! They’re on me, they’re ON me!’

Burnt Jam

The sun never really comes out. They, the rich, have stolen it and stored in their castles.
Watching the buzz, from the work house, from the gutter. High hats totter and heels clack into the elite drinking holes, kicking up the odd gutter oyster (a rats liver, half chewed, something discarded from the paupers doctor, a piece of root vegetation). A scene of hoarse-drawn carriages, each with it’s own, lush cabin, inside which virginal beauties dream of star fruits, Turkish delight, tigers, peacock feathers, fountains of wine with rubber duckies boobing upon the semillon skin. The candle light cuts through the curtains. Someone throws blue mud at red wine velvet curtain. They are shot immediately; a crack of smoke. A posturing guard. A faint smile upon his young lips. His master pats his wig.
A fight broke out over some peelings. They spilled from the kitchens. Another shot from the flintlock pistol scatters the crowd. An old man is trampled to death.
By morning, his body had disappeared, leaving only the rags he wore. A phone rang. The kettle boiled. You read this to me. I commented that I hated it. Everything about it.
You left.
The sky remained stubbornly sombre but that was exciting somehow. Better than mass hysteria, than making jam, than walks by the sea, than you and me.


The sky remained stubbornly sombre but that was exciting somehow. Better than mass hysteria, than making jam, than walks by the sea, than you and me


8 minute countdown. Flames melting the draught excluder. A moth, dead-eyed, waiting for death. One wrong turn. It’s life snuffed out by a kitchen light. Potato and leek soup. Sleeping pills.

Late for work. Sacked. Walk the streets. Empty headed. Compose letter to landlord, ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances…’

The family will worry.

Pinch off a scab. Blow nose. Make a list of things to do. Know that something is missing. The moth stuck to the cheaply painted walls.

Open window. Conversations. Other, weird dinners. Presents from old lovers spill out of the cardboard box. One had a card tied with a red ribbon. Read the card. The card begins… ‘darling’.

Imagine. Darling.

Springtime: Viewed from Space

His last 50p freed itself from his thumb and forefinger and hit the tarmac on its side, before cartwheeling into a storm drain. The drain smelled of old eggs. He laughed, poured the luke warm, soupy, sickly ale from its sticky jar into his guts and walked out of the beer garden, smashing his shoulder into the wall as he tried too hard to walk in a straight line.
An open top bus rumbled slowly past. It was filled with creatures dressed in pink. They screamed and cackled and he cackled back. Then he felt spots of spit land on his shoulders and head. Once, on the side of his cheek and in his eye. The spit smelled like wax and sugar.
The weather was black and white. Above the screen of nothing there was blue sky. How high did a person need to be to reach the fresh air, he thought…possibly aloud.
The sense that time’s bottleneck was fast approaching didn’t alarm him as it once had. He was not afraid, not sickened and had no regrets. Another bird splattered at his feet; a wing waving one last time.
Heavy bass boomed from the open windows of clubs.

*    *    *

In the park, he sat under a large tree. He was always bad at naming things. But this tree, this thing, was old. It was so old that it seemed to transcend the time in which it existed. Its limbs seemed as though they might move, all of a sudden, and scoop him up and devour him. This thought comforted him. Cans were jammed in the crevices, these he threw away as though cleaning house. Then, he settled into an accommodating nook cushioned with leaves and reached into his breast pocket.
He’d found a strip of pills in the library toilets, next to one of the sinks. He looked up their name in a book and found out that they were sleeping pills. The foil covering the pills was wrinkled and slightly damaged. And some of the pills showed through like bone from a severe wound. He pressed out two of the pills. Saved up saliva for a few moments and took them. They tasted sour.
Soon he began to feel drowsy. His brow softened and the world opened up like an orchid blooming. The soil released iridescent spectre’s from his past. His family, now long dead, shone in their once beautiful garden. They offered him something to eat and drink. “Sit here Russ,” his mother said.
And the bows of the tree moaned like a deserted battle-ship in a thick fog of cannon smoke.


It’s your eyes. You have such handsome eyes.

But the years later, those long, dragging, alcoholic years; those are the years that take away the handsome.

The other day, let’s say last weekend, a young barmaid said “You look tired”. It got me. I left the bar. Don’t cry for me. You are me. There’s a hole waiting for all of us. And my two peepers, they have sunk deep into puffed cushions; crimson veins spread across those handsome eyes. But still, there is nothing to complain about. There is never anything to complain about. You don’t need to live in a council flat to feel pain and pressure. It’s not necessary to receive physical punishment, day after day, to be a prize fighter. All you need is a heart. Something in common.


You tell me all I need to hear with your eyes.

And I have composed letters to her; many, many letters. None have been sent. I’d have sent them if I wanted to feel the rush again. The shudder from the past. Temporary, at best.

In its original incarnation, we were good. Now, it would be war. War every second, every minute etc.

So I went out and spent money. The cashiers, I avoided eye contact. Still haunted by the ‘tired’ comment. Not because I hated the author, but because I hated the truth. I was tired. I am tired. But still, there is nothing to complain about. There are noisy neighbours. There is a cheap life. There is nothing but the foulness of goodbyes and hello’s. What is in these hello’s and goodbye’s can only be gauged by asking the askers. To me, it’s just noise. A rumble in the air. Like rain. But not thunder. No thunder. Oh, for thunder. Sometimes I pray for storms. Between punches, I jab away the demons with white burgundy.

Through a time of fantasy and dreams, an anti-cynicism, we loved each other. Then the time arrived when we had to face reality. Sadly, tragically, we failed reality. Not the other way around.

Shadow boxing in front of the mirror, I notice my eyes. Tired.