Oldies, Poetry

Data Consolidation (4. Another Slice)

More Oldies. Some of these go as far back as 2001.


I will say it out loud
because no one else can hear
the edgy words in the fountain
of my frothy mouth.

I’ll admit that I leaped;
moving targets never scared
the Mata-Hari of my sweaty
and spunk-filled dreams.

Mine, the greedy diabetic,
who chokes on a gobstopper,
that’ll kill, either way.
You’ll roll in my mouth. Taste is gone.

I’ll spit you out, shrinking sugar dream,
because you’ll bore me and cloy me.
Making me sick, upsetting the belly
of a capricious child.

When there’s no sweet tooth,
and I rather taste the bile.
I allow the caramel to bubble
and burn; to stick to my rusty dish.

Or lodged in my throat,
laughing at the single handed blow
delivered by an insatiable appetite.
No air and it all ends now.



Perched, on a chair, legs tense,
apart. Golden arches of flesh
and the sweaty vapour that
comes with desire; with the
shaking mess that is release.

Forget-me-nots, blue and dewed,
in fields as vast as temptation.
Overfeeding, gluttonous wreck;
itching, then scratching in circles.
Allergic to the blotchy fantasies.

Modus operandi: casual abandonment.



Strangely complacent; out of character.
Act three is when you step in, two lines
early, not your cue.

Initial hiccup over; perfect delivery of
over-rehearsed words. Blind audience
clapping ecstatically on demand.

Flowers and bubbles; understudies
feeding you grapes now. Nipples, later.
The press adores the drama.

Easy performance; typecast. Not an issue
When you still dim your bedroom lights
every night. Repertoire of shadow puppets.

There’s a hole in the bucket, dear one.
One will fix; the other, will run up
a hill and stumble.

It’s the script. Playwright’s wet dream.

No room for improvisation.


HomeEc for Cowards

It’s rude to make a girl cry.
To wait until the last minute (of the last hour)
to tell her she no longer fills the void.
Hunger; starved as ever.
She might as well never learn to cook.
Laundry (and whisky) are therapy.
Fabric softener by the gallon.

Now, who’s being serious?

Trying to remember all the Latin
learnt in sweaty classrooms. Rosae albae sunt.
Never would it come in more handy
than it did, at that split second when
the truth sprayed onto white-washed walls.
Clawing theeyesthefacetheskinthesoulthepainthelackofsafety.

Do you have any manners?

Reciting hard and steady; churned translations.
Swallowing the salt pinch by pinch.
One for you, one for me,
(one for the little boy who lives down the lane).
To force an end; empire burnt. Dust settled long ago.
Only morose because that is the default setting. (Ea!)
Flawed programming, crashing every other day.


Heave-ho Armchair Sailor

Without the music you can hear them speak,
suburban pigeons with hoarse voices
and laughs that follow the tales
of being kissed in public.

The mangled chatter climbs up
the ladders of smoke;
up high to the ceilings that’ve seen
cues against oxen-thick necks splinter,
falling onto a carpet of sauce and a print
so hideous yesteryear’s tears
can only decorate and glimmer.

It could have been beautiful
But they lived fast
It should’ve been forever
It would’ve been their last.

The faces always look older and dimmer
than they can possibly be
for those who don’t wear their grins
behind lacquer and ink
drown the sorrow in their frowns
washed down with liquor and spit.

Those with ageless wisdom in teeth of gold
look at children climbing up chairs that rock;
through the gap at the front, life just
whistles out in a tune that words alone
leave untold, too catchy, they sing along.

It could have been beautiful
But they choked on tar
It should’ve been forever
What doesn’t hinder, takes you far


Measure for Measure

If distance can be measured
by how often or how hard
the sighs come and go, in waves
of madness. I can hear her
choking to death. The sadness,
weakness that turns
her bones to glue and extra value jelly beans.

If the aches and pains can’t
translate to badly handwritten prescriptions
or overpriced over the counter
remedies. I can hear her sobbing
into a pillow. Someone puts a fist
down her throat and twists squeezes, steals
all the hunger (and ties a million knots).

If signing the contract means
never being able to change suppliers
nor speaking over the existing noise…
I can’t hear any longer; I read somewhere
she left for good.
If, if, if you expect her to allow
your leaded gaze to pin her down
look forward to a letter from her lawyers.


String Theory

It´s advisable to pass water
before the presentation to
the board of directors.

At this time it is not possible
to complete orders for induced
mock bipolar scheduled slots.

Must advise a trip Downtown
may cut your waiting time enough
to make the previous delays worthwhile.

When it´s still dark and the winter wonderland
isn´t far from freezing, timing is crucial for
side steps and cha-cha hinder learning curves.

Logic would never dictate the pleasure principle
just won this one over.

120/70 Delamination

Expecting contractions.
A tap on the door when there´s a doorbell in place.
A trip of your step where a cracked slab remains.

Termites to plywood; crackling-resistant statements
from shrinking almond lips straight to HQ.

Tools of the trade are the same as the trade for a tool.
Swap in misery for its company,
never alone fools will pay for upgrades.
Always knowing where you are, how much it costs.

The loss of control can never mix
with the orifices and their sticks,
nor the that shadow that sits mighty high.
Genus: Equus.


Diolch Athro
These days start late and don’t you wish
you were somewhere else?
On a hammock, hanging low, or with toes in sand not yet hot,
but warming up as the sun crawls towards the sky.
Perhaps still asleep underneath the bed sheets that got wet when
the wind crashed into and smashed the bedroom window.
Pieces of grievances, shards of nostalgia that do their bit in the brown bin.
Stabbing motion to the eyes just as the light comes through,
not getting up just because you lie awake; who are those rude men!
Already a jingl-ing in the head and cream gone curd in the stomach
and whilst trying to get up there’s that kind of swearing that
makes the coy and pretty girls blush.
Reaching out to where the hand spent the night,
sometimes taking a swig, sometimes warming it up,
with orderly thoughts now vanished, dissipation tastes like a hollow burp
but the mouth stings acridly.
A ninetofive with no emotion. Conforming to pay the bills.

You want to bark and follow your shadow;
to shop small, to stay smaller. Even when standing tall
there’s time to share a toy, a thought, the pain, a smoke.
Whilst those who rush around you are being hustled
It’s too much fun to stand still, if only to see what happens.
They’ll trip up over the old dog. They’ll trip up.



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