solstice

red paint chips
slide into soft mouth

colours of the wall fading,
dark sun clings onto
surface

indigo lips push out at
the cool lemonade,
glass rests, upturned

as liquid refreshment
pulses

(heart in dance with time
with life with death with
dance)

ruby, it aches; this colour
of passion
dallies in the corner by the
lamp. she, its mistress

silently sheds a tear
as the onlookers

practice vapid, sip
on ice cubes melted sorrows

sadly murmur about the
solstice, deflecting
truth--

eyes look on.

ABCD...

A hillbilly, no a born again
bigot, with newspaper eyes and
crows feet etched on his shoulder blades...

"Dylan?" he mutters, from ear-to-
ear, as though chewing on the thought
formed in open-space as green-eyed
grad. students flutter about the quad,
hoping to get some of that undergrad. ass.

"its a miracle, a fucking miracle" he screams,
jumping on the spot, crow screeching, cawing,
k-k-k-umm, no...cancer of the mind
pointing to the Heavens, iridescent, gleaming
over a two-pound chicken, yeah, well
never look a gift horse in the ass
might shit on you, yes, you
lay-lady lay...lay upon a smoking grass bed.

quote me "spoke the earnest man, earnestly
resting on the downy earth".
Sister Agath-ommo-nagather, well
Timmy the Tool sure tooled her.
U-oy kids though, sitting on the leaves,
vacillating over the holy
whores of Christ, well, drunk and pissing really...
X-marks the spot.
Y? is the groove to which he "Dylans"
Zebras dance by, pedestrians try and walk on them. yeah.
***
this we call life.
in the fastlane.

perfect scenery

rain and coffee:
my sort of day,
in peasants dress

of slack robe and old socks
sitting on the dock
of my bed, steam rising
from my favourite cup
and slipping into
a good book

time, a tide; breaking
down by the second
hours slide by
and I don't go wanting,
just sittin'
in my bed

thumb and index
flipping page to page,
rolling on the words
as they rush back into
dark avenues of lazy
dust and papered dreams.

rain and coffee--
the perfect scenery.

tea & symmetry

the only problem I have with feet
is that they don't detach.

detached men can though, from
feelings and unions and Unions
and wives
on the balconies of posh hotels
filled with
naked bell-hop and smoked salmon.

so I walk,
into the pale city filled
with the sub-space groans of
a god busting for
a piss,

where the streets have many names
and the taxis all look the same
to the eye of the [whispers]

business executive,
but one long hop to the women
standing on the platform;
longing for some tea
and symmetry.

cat and mouse

hands like the stolen lollipop
hide within her sleeves,
as cat cradles the tumbleweed
in oesophagus, plays kitty
for all the neighbours
and dark mistress for the mice.

she unearths two secrets,
but one is plenty
and her cardigan is torn.

mice scuttle in her bones;
cat wears flesh like a coat-hanger.

never a.m.

yellow nail
and yellow

frail canary,
chirp like
a dog, hobble

on the road
and sleep like a hog.

i'll met you at the
crossroads, never a.m?

blessed be the lord

it is by green grapes
that tongues emerge

ably unfurling, swirling
in concert

vodka slipping over,
into, do-over?

***

head splitting, wringing
dirty words from wet

wagging tongue. we
shove 'em back in

and pledge our lives
to Lord Sober.

drunkpoem

d
   r
 u
n
      k
like a full-stop peddling into
a sign-post,

STOP.

and you [ha ha!] laugh, see.
like a maggot in the dripping
of a corpse dripping into death.
maggot fitting the
tequila bottle like frank-eeee
zappa

in the sugar-plum of some prissy
sis. some over-ripe
bandage on the sore of repressed
human sex-
uality

as yelling dog daddy,
"f-for-f-uck sake, get the fuck out
of this house." exclamation point.
exclamation point rising like
chimney smoke, we
laugh again.

at the fucks which are our lives,
infesting the spaces in our heads
like mothballs and vanquished sorr...