Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Shelleyfish

Percy Bysshe caught a monster fish,

And he brought it home to Mary.

Said she, “I just wrote Frankenstein,

Your foolish fish don’t scare me.”

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The Fuck

Who fucked it?
My generation?
Your generation?
The Who’s generation?
The ones who want salvation?
Who cares, really, who?
Michael Jackson & McDonald’s
And your goddamn stupid wedding
Fucked it.
Shit.
Every soul who didn’t stroll,
Got in a car or a plane instead of a train
FUCKED IT.
The barrista fucked it too,
Serving you.
Me and my booze fucked it.
Existentialist fucking analysts fucked it.
Fuck it.
I’m writing fuckalot.
Fuck that too.
FUCK ME
FUCK THEM
FUCK THE WHO
FUCK THE LIES
FUCK WHATS TRUE
FUCK LIFE
FUCK SUPERGLUE
No, really, we love superglue.
It binds shit together,
Just like it was new.
And sitcoms and sometimes
A trip to the zoo;
And movies and art,
That sometimes get through
To the part that thinks FUCK
And says “Hey, fuck you too.”

The Words

Where are the words?
Not the assonance alliteration,
Rhyme or repetition.
The fine words.
I mean the words to say out loud to you,
Words that might be true.
Though, they’re just opinion.
Probably.
I feel dumb.
Not allowed… by me.
Not able, face to face, to articulate.
An idiot.
Stupid and scared.
Where the fuck are those fucking words?

The Shit

Most that you write
It’s gonna be shit.
There’s a start & an end
& a SHITE! middle bit…
Most that you write
It’s gonna be shit.
But, that doesn’t mean
There won’t be a bit
Out of what you might write
That might just be THE SHIT!

Scares

So. Man?
You ran from a prostitute in Amsterdam
Back then.
And the idea of kids still scares you too.
Electric cigarette. Wham Bam.
Getting older
And a bit aloner
Long time man?
Boy girl middle age breakup.
No mortgage, not normal.
Day job fakeup.
Scares of not having
The things that normals bring
To the table of that
Boy, man, middle age wakeup.

Years

All those years
Of love and hate and broken plates.
Sex and tears.
Piss and vinegar.
Early morning tea making,
And the TV!
Movies we watched through-
Good and bad. Me and you.
Best sex. Less sex. No sex.
Sad but through.

On Hearing of the Death of Robert Young

Loaded was one of the first things I pianoed.
Something about it sympathised.
Later than everyone else, I screamadelicised.
Tried to convert my metal mates over rizla king size.

I remember the time when someone said:
‘Hey, this sounds good even when you’re not off your head’
It felt like a personal victory, of my taste at least.
Moving on Up indeed.

We both jumped from bass into guitar,
You had Les, I got a jaguar.
You, however, made the better fist
I cried at your slide when I was pissed.

And now, that’s it. Nothing left to do
But spin Swastika Eyes
And pray thank you.