wish they'd make books out of love, cause then I'd know which ones to never read.

short story thing

Night, 3.am. 

James had turfed the rest of his one cubed drink. 

He wasn't drunk enough, too drunk though to find his bed, like if he drove now eight days later the flowers would be soaking wet at his grave. James didn't mind the acrid smoke drifting past his face, he liked that he could feel the world push gently past him, and it was that red-haired woman with the rollie with her gunshot laugh and sex-pill eyes that was blowing all the smoke after all.

He can't remember her name though. It melted through the stiff posture of his drink. It's a dilemma suited for staring at trees, or giving to a tree. Right now he needs to take a piss, lean into the shadow a little perilously, blanket the earth in his misgivings and sex-fuelled dissociation. 

Feels like a lurch for James, a lick of seconds but damn when he nets himself back into the comfort of the 2 seater, bunched against the sleeping dog, well, sure enough she is gone. 

one TWO three FOUR

so you take inspiration from me, though i'm not look -

or very good looking. so the girl she says: 

    b

oiiii

or: !!!! ( with her mouth) i am the struggle to find space with all these things mothballed inside me, little egregious dont ya thinK! 

and what's plastiK? side-boob, saying things with sway on your mouth, chiffon girl, or salmon lady, oh say 

my star-spangled friend did you love the music or the element, the texture or the friendship? what was it you said 

 joey joey joey, 

 i tingle for the thing you said 

my hand in your ... 

she knows the rest . 

though countertop people are saying about her that-  

well, she has gums that smile instead of teeth, and is thin and knows them all to be heartless cunts, and is in love with one of them even if- well,  love. 

know how that is, so she wants to have a baby, love. 

grew tired of the fondling, or just bootlegging pretension and giving it out for free. 

love. 

i know that's harsh, 

that mam or 

me, by leonard cohen's fire

looking at her   look me!

and not really connect ...

entertaining the idea of my head nestled in boughs of her breasts 

feeding that warmth with logs from the tinder pi..

oh sacrilege we. 

though another night comes,  roars, 

ages by, the wine we dripped 

i saw it murky, clear eyes now 

 weeds we let crush us 

worm

inside the failing beat heart

 seeds we let shiver 

never to follow her 

 bright 

or pulse ,

false dark.

less bright, sanitary intentions

so the rain comes 

                               i can write again 

two-verse: 

                               YE! on the three. 

her basil persona 

                               tambourine like heart 

shakes him like a 

                               banana! 

hearse 

                               for the lit 

yellow glow. 

        of being inside the puddle 

        with the lights swishing by 

        and that one guy 

        by the by

        drinking all the things he wants 

        to say 

        and just so close to 

        her 

        that he knows 

        saying is for fakes 

        or 

        just scared 

        of 

        wanting to buy condoms 

        because this poem is the real world. 

       

which is trudging through the puddle and being 

on the street and doesn't give a shit about my fingers. 

        

           

                             

milquetoast

that's me
 in the corner, by the stairs

counting how many moons are in
over and over
over and over till i can be drunk enough
to go and talk a little with you

maybe say "bruise me sweet, but i must say you're the most beautiful girl i've ever seen" (well, in the last hour and five.)
 and then she is a kitten or a knife and i hold her
 clever, almost with the same care her mother
 wore her year after

by the cradle with the interlocking fingers and singing a song about blackbirds.

"hey, i'm whatever, whatever whatever and whatnot, who do you know here?"

i'm like: "david sorrows", with my mouth quirked and my eyes drift by the curtains with their alabaster skin, and slight flutter, "over there by the curtains with the dwarf".

there was no dwarf, i didn't know that guy either.

somewhere the music lurched into 80's suicide.

she "loved this song"

and i left without fucking her.

my phone was black screen and the street lamps spun my reflection. the night veered into masturbation.

bleak again

soon or later i will be tree roots or
fire.

a section from the window, and the escarpment beckons, two hands by the sure hope of heat
salted by suffering as to preserve

my dignity, my quiet ire. it's the crash i hear, when my dead sons and mother and her old ways and chatter
ghost me by the grate where licks of flame spark.

whose memory did i lie to? the wood panelled picture frame with the child i use to be. the wolfed down accent of someone older, their cracked sympathy and faultless love. a living room with a whip and i don't know where that went, away with the baked towels perhaps.

but the only sons i have are the ones i use to be when i smiled and fell through windows or threw dirt, scraped knees and hit bricks, blood streaming from the mess of cousins, a silk tangle between lies and frozen peas, but i didn't cry. i didn't rat either.

baked towels are the best memory, like my skin remembers them even though it stretched and maybe ate up my younger self- devoured. my skeleton stands taller, more able, so easily crushed by gravity.

though that's the crux of it: the labyrinth and the suffering; how to revolt from new teeth and shining eyes, bottle pain and muddle lips against other lips when words are useless little silences we use to forget how to feel. to trust.

to otherwise be a child and leave my hands to yours and know that you will hold them from tomorrow when i will be gone older, thirsting for the thing i cradled once.

or never have i breathed, wanted, loved.

under lava

if she were a cassette and i was a winding finger i would 

be reversing her back to the long and short of ire; you know, ire: 

its like love but less daft, its the shadow of a laugh and the long wince 

from long left flirtations. wench i know your name, it pulses 

beside my head when i think i see my phone blink.  ire is like that. 

say you hate me, see me man myself in wrinkles and crawl into one of them 

and squeeze my pain like a glass jar.  say that's true, maybe i fiddle to the honey bee, 

maybe curtains sting as i put away the sun ....

 

if she were a cassette she would be in the garage in a box or at the dumpster under 

a bunch of lava lamps.