Authority

I tried to be an author once.

I chain- smoked cigarettes and didn’t pay my gambling debts

I Nursed a drinking problem, watched it blossom by the bottle.

I wrote a bad novella in which everybody dies

I pretended not to care about award and praise and prize.

I cut back on exposition, wrote about a magic kitten.

But the bastards wouldn’t buy the book; they called it overwritten.

Now, in the red and all unread I have to earn to make the rent

There’s little that I’m trained to do… except teach writing tricks to you.

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.”

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.

Bad Meat Blues

Bad Meat Blues

Cheap meat chunks hurl down dark drains

Cramping on ceramic swearing never again

If it walks like a duck and if it smells like a fish

If it costs half a fuck magic bean dream wish

This is no bargain peppersteak dish

It’s the Bad Meat Blues

It’s the Bad Meat Blues

It’s the Bad Fuckin’ Meat Blues for who’s

Ever stupid enough to swallow the crap

That The Cat that launched a thousand plate raids

Loves a bad Chinese meal bin invade

Now can’t find the inclination to air a nose near

Full on tail flick feline disdain steer clear

Of the Bad Meat Blues

It’s the Bad Meat Blues

It’s the Bad Fuckin’ Meat Blues it brews

Nasty gastrointestinal drive-thru spews

Crusting to the innards of the bowl

So crawl & mince & bone & roll

Retch retch against the dying of the light

Bad Meat Blues uptight gut night

Das Krapital

We have simple solutions to complex problems,
And special offers on shop-soiled pogroms.
Loved up teens, drugged up queens,
Unspeakable, uneatable tins of killer beans.

There’s an imperfect present and an irregular past,
A melted sugar daddy with his trousers at half mast.
Former suffragettes smoking menthol cigarettes,
Ramekins, mandarins, a pixie and some elves.

We have a bust of Nero fiddling with his fiddle while Rome burned,
And the orchestra that played while the Titanic nudged her ‘berg.
Libertarian librarians, over eager with their stamps,
And a lovely Lux Interior, really rather good with Cramps.

Our prices really must be perceived to be believed,
And the invisible ink they’re written in is marvellous indeed.
We’ve got magpies in all numbers to cover every known event,
Endorsed by the office of births, marriages & deaths.

Imaginary sanitary towels for transvestites and
Computers made of pewter that are loved by all the luddites.
Solicitors and barristers- briefs of the utmost brevity,
Greek grammars which, admittedly, won’t provide much levity.

Mills and pieces, bits of weevils, olde timey handloom weavers,
Machines for executions and penal codes for beavers.
We have principal objections against the introduction
Of all the aforementioned and a vacuum with no suction.