A humbling image

I thought I would go quietly
Wailing and sobbing bereft
When daily I used to be silent
The tones of the world black and sober
The water had turned bitter too
Winter starts early on pruinose leaves
The thought of a springtime and summer reprieves
Ghostly white hands wipe chalk from the slate
It exposes a blackness I’ve not seen as of late

Saintly pale figures promenade in the cloister
Discussing my sins, their tones gravely descant
Sung with weak voice still strongly reverbs
In walls of a monastery far from my house

 

I thought I would go wildly
Beers, cars and hookers abundant
Yet God, in his wisdom, chastised me
And made most of that shit redundant
My tone, if nought else, then, is vulgar
But the world is vulgar too
If Godly is that much transcendant
Then what does he care for my sentence?
I care not for hell nor for heaven these days
It makes me uneasy to think of my fate

Yet these earthly Eves with fig leaves askew
Discussing my cock, who fucking knew!?
Laughing and kidding and scoffing in slurs
In my kitchen, no less, in ample discourse

 

I thought I would go boldly
Where no man had been to before
A trip in my mind so beyond
That I could go back and meet Jesus
Talk most of this over and ask for a hand
But then I just coped by myself for so long
That I believed I could shorten my song
I thought I could die and never reply
That my soul, if hidden, would never be tried

Enduringly seated, the judge’s keen eyes
Focussing tightly on miniscule letters
Written so faintly, the screen is all blurs
In times when l was feeling abused

 

I thought I would go eventually
Some day aft tomorrow I’d leave
But as day after day, I witter away
Productive but in no great degree
“He shall increase” says the Pastor
Low and beholden I am
In what measure I ask, and in what quantity?
A finger extends, lathers clear viscous oil
“What other souls can my people embroil?”

As cynics conspire and think of new insults
I start to wonder if I could do better
And injure myself with some great big gesture
Some bet on a game with odds that I’d wager

 

I thought I would go lovingly
Some far away place as a pilgrim
Follow a path of redemption
Atone for my deeds and my symptoms
My feet are still steadily placed on
Terrain that will crumble asunder
If I don’t move fast, what shall I befall
To stagnate and passively slide with landfall
Bury ambition and be smothered by sloth
Anxiety aches more than God’s fiery wrath

Some woman in parks and by seaside awaits
The prospect of hearing some forthcoming dates
Equally likely, she halts there forever
Hooked by the gambit of my own endeavour

 

I thought I would go meekly
Sharing my catch with the poor
As good men before me have managed
That I could survive by my actions
But as I clutch to phone, watch and wallet
Grudgingly clinging to bonds I despise
Hoping to buy a purgative prize
I partake loftily in man’s noble game
To die as a hero, enrobed in fame

Splendid and simple the clothes of the pure
Some dirty white tracksuit with flock-like velour
Worn until thin, and never replaced
A humbling image for keeping me chaste

Game of Crones

Hunchbacked hideous and crippled old monster,

Hunchbacked and clunking away under the streetlights,

With extruded aluminium exoskeletons, these metallipeds,

And hidden at night in the back of your garden sheds,

With huge black alien eyes in a ridged frame

Grey old ghoul with tight clawed fingers and boils

With skin crunched up like a brown paper bag

Stuck to her face with gravy, a half burned fag,

With ash falling onto a fire retardant blanket,

Credit card armed because she doesn’t like change,

White headed pustules of sour, hateful pus,

This crooked, horrible confused hag takes the bus.

Biscuits

Shall I compare thee to a biscuit?
Though art as reliable and fulfilling as a chocolate digestive and twice as delicious. Steadfast and strong, putting up with the strain of hot tea. But the digestive is tarnished with tattoos of self affirmation. Yet like a jaffa cake, a hot headed flame burns underneath your dark and sensuous layer. I hopeth not thine brain is jelly.

And of bourbons and dodgers your stock is sure, yet more pliable and less firmly baked than chalky dense   biscuits of yore. Not of the Nice biscuit, so contrarily named, perhaps crystals of sugar and coconut are thought as bland, but neither art thou a pink wafer.

An anzac perhaps, but less sharp on the tongue, a hobnob less stable but with me forever on the edge of my tongue. Sweet fondant from inside whilst the foundations discarded? No! Thou art a biscuit delicious in all! With caramel sweetness and delicate fruit. Not flat garibaldi, so common as to come from a production line still attached, no thou art as viscount, individually wrapped! An Emerald armour like a gem to my eye, as I try to unwrap you and freshen my mind, with opulent haze of peppermint divine.

Sonnet II, (De oculis tuis)

Felled tree’s brown network of radial veins,

Earth dark and knotted, old roots yet unseen,

Where sprites take shelter whenever it rains,

A marriage of umber with zesty green,

Past bee orchids crowding the river bank,

In tinted ripe light, diffuse, disarrayed

Branches prick out from where water is dank

And rest their tired limbs in verdigris shade

This happy moss, a green patina on

Cracked bark like gemstones embedded, set in,

Hazel and ivy, reflected upon

The iron rich river’s chocolate skin.

Drawn to these colours, I’m enticed by both

Your eyes and this forest of deep overgrowth.

Whore’s heir mattress

Blue and whimpering sirens of gay rainbow dust popcorn
and happy gay boys in a beautiful canal
Enjoying the dust and brackish water soda stream
Pissing in a fountain like a rosy cheeked cherub satan
Licking my trAGUS RAPE!!!
Slutty sluggish fat bitch whores
With mighty dike rambo knives
In their handbags amongst blusher
And a pair of flat shoes.

Groveling romanesque thirds of romanies
Buggering horses into our lasagna
I’ll get you in your ear until you smök da reefā
Marshmellows and vasaline and cotton pad pussy
Like a rotten foreskin ripped apart like Milly’s chicken
Bob Dylan’s herb patch tattoed on my arm
And the herbal breATH KEEPING ME ALONE
Away from hard and anal alleys with cycle crossings
And spoked wheel bashes
Like a (twenty euro) train and the dollar it cashes!
And a staircase stack costs just as much as
Your crotch rashes!

Yelling oi oi and grander things await
With foreskin long, a coming elates
Emotions Round me
As I masterbate.

subplicium

Electric shocks all over my body

Bolts of static in my nerves

Confused and rigid rigor in every limb I have,

An odd sensation reminding me of the time when

My father told me he had switched the mains,

And nearly killed me

as I fell off the ladder

Trying to change the light bulb.

I heard the echo of my steps

Aback, aghast and angry

 

He stood there shameless

and cheekily told me

“I must have only done downstairs”

 

I lost my trust in him that day,

And realised I would have to grow.

I’m still under his guard, or maybe he’s under mine,

Now an exhausted older generation,

Is treated with resent and scorn,

As we start to understand in ambivalence

That these little jolts in our skin,

This withdrawal and,

and the feelings that anticipated it,

He is equally responsible for them.