poetry

Ode to the Frenchman and the Stranger called Culture

I would like
to go out
to dance;
to drink;
to love;
to live.

But people are mean
and the bottles in my
flat
are kind
and easy to
understand.
I prefer their company.

Because between the
unsightly buttcracks
and clothes so
tight they explain
why this generation
walks around
with a perpetual hard-on,

And the simple nature
of screw tops
on white wine bottles,
the choice is a simple one.

Humanity is an egotistical
beast.
It doesn’t need
my faith to thrive.

Now while Facebook
busies itself
with domesticated tiger cubs,
babies dying across the wrong borders
and gluten-free, low-calorie cupcakes,

I’ll pay homage to the dead
and pour myself
a glass.

Don’t worry,
I’ll leave one for you, too.

Standard
poetry

Love Letter to a Groupie

Baby,
where did we get lost –
was it somewhere in between
the champagne
in paper cups
and taxi drivers
asleep at the wheel,

or,

In the forevers promised
and cups of tea
left cooling
in the morning dew.

Because I lost you,
amidst the wailing
guitars
and women,
whose voices
were louder than yours;

And you lost me
when you decided
that inside your head
was a better place
to live.

I’ll see you again,
whether on your own stage,
your face plastered onto their hearts,
or strapped
to white sheets
that smell too clean.

But before then,
write me,
and I’ll judge the letter’s
worth
by the tear-stained ink.

Standard
poetry

Top-Shelf Booze

I saw a piece of ground today
that reminded me
of you.

And I felt the rage,

But being angry at you
is like being angry
at empty air.

So I grab a bottle
and collect it,
saving it to drink
later, when I catch myself,

Because too often
do I watch people with pieces
of you,
wondering
if I can put them together.

The bottles are kind,
if but full of hard curves
and even harder
lips,

Although I can’t melt into them
the same way I did
with you.

And they break,
more often than you used to.

I can put them back together, though,
with the sticky messes
you left behind –

It’s a perverse form of kintsugi*,
but it does the job.

*The Japanese art of repairing pottery with gold and/or silver.

Standard
poetry

What’s Left

I’m 5 years old
as I watch
a couple
on death row,
and when I ask the woman
“Why?”,
all she can say is –

“You’ll notice something
funny
if you hang around here
for too long.

And if you’re wise
you’ll leave with more enemies
than friends.”

All I can hear
is a life
full
of old woulds,

Too many masks
sore necks,
(from heads held
high
for too long),
and too few
“I love you”s.

So I tell her myself
and she calls me a fool.

I can see through her –
she’s made of water
and glass.
I just hope
that she doesn’t drown me
when she breaks.

But as she kisses me
goodnight,
I feel her leave
wet spots on my cheeks
that have yet to dry.

Standard
poetry

Bloodied Nails

It will start
With an absent-minded picking,
Tearing away the skin
Long dead and dry.
I will then pause
To admire my work
And consider the dirt
Beneath my nails.
It’s disgusting.
They should be cleaned.
But I’ll leave my nails
To grow,
And eventually chew on them
Until they bleed.
Then I’ll suck
On them, to staunch
The flow of blood
And then
I’ll take a blade
To my finger tips
And carve off
The unsightly flesh.
The self-mutilation will then
Leave me feeling refreshed,
And the gory mess
Begins to look
Beautiful.

And with beauty being
Of the utmost importance,
I’ll take the blade to my face;
To my gut;
To my backside
And to my legs.
Like a woodworker
To his new piece of art,
I’ll rend the undesirable
From my body.
I’ll scrape the blade against my skin,
Delighting
In gravity’s game
Against the fallen strands.
And in the stinging
Of this newly raw skin,
I’ll derive a sense of euphoria;
A sense of the approaching perfection.

Am I beautiful?
No.
Not yet.

Standard