let lips and union an Yamigami Hype

‘Let’s keep the lips away,’ she suggested, thinking of yesterday’s drive.
The drive that drove and stopped and union and drove and finished.
Hands,
limbs,
aching and
fresh.
Steeped in meaning,
for the shrubs and the crow to stare,
and see a new eye born of two that sees 4D and blind.

Union and a bell-jar.
Vacuum safe and
heating minutely.

Octogenarian Open Mic

You won’t believe what older ladies want to do with you.
They want to lick your balls,
tickle your shaft,
dribble up your bum,
stroke your bum,
put fingers in your mouth.
After they’ve been in your bum.

You won’t believe how much they charge,
to let you do things,
lots of nasty things that make you stink,
stink of grease and cabbage,
and wee and meals on wheels.
Does cunnilingus constitute part of your five a day?
I sure do hope so.

Empty Crate in a Corner

A dusty room in bleak midwinter
played host to a splendid soiree of like minds
and like souls
sharing, and chatter,
and the tumble and clatter of glass
and aluminium as rosy-cheeked stumblers
bumbled through
tumblers and ash.

For three long days the dusty room grew
ashen and tacky with spilt beer and dropped baccy
and cider undrunk
by those, the merry
and rosy on white wine and perry
and as one gaggle departs they are replaced,
and in their place another face
rosy-cheeked and worn.

The eyes in the corner pierce and cut
and twist the tendons of my gut.

Until such time as God’s Day dawned,
and such as God did rest,
the gaggle yawned, and dressed
and made to leave one by one
leaving trails and surprises
comprising of dirt and the dried, stained
sticky residue of spilt liquids on
hardwood floor,
‘These invites I shall impart
no more.’

The eyes in the corner are turned and shut,
yet still twist the tendons of my gut.

‘Don’t sleep there it’s not for comfort,
besides, the chair is smothered in filth
from the weekend’s debauch,’ spoke I
soft caressing her hair.
And so she twists and smiles and takes my hand,
and eyes me full of sweet and light
and my fear is relinquished
in the soft, Sunday light.

The eyes in the corner are focused and up
and no longer twist the tendons of my gut.
Tendrils of auburn rest as roots to rot,
echoing barks of creaks of wood fade,
a warm, perfect soul encased in splendour,
a thief soul that steals from me all thoughts of aught,
of dreams of seas and waves and wrecks
of sands and time, of loss and own,
of the world. The world, as is to me.

Dronefly

Dronefly a lonely fly.
Dronefly a biiig fly.
Dronefly fly all day,
all night,
all time Dronefly.
When it hot,
when it cold,
when it rain,
when it dry,
Dronefly.

Dronefly,
flied real high,
got too high,
flew down in time.
Dronefly,
escaped a fly,
on a pass-by,
fly as he might,
Fly died.
Dronefly circled,
Dronefly tweaked,
Dronefly near leaped,
from standing,
post landing,
demanding
Glenn Danzig.
He panicked.

Dronefly wing got tired,
and ran fast.
No fly,
he run!
And Fly,
He come by,
while fly,
and he sy
‘Ey Yo Draone.
Whattup Drone dawg,
wanna buy some cheeeb-aahhh?’
and said it with pride,
Dronefly,
well he buyed.

Danzig came over and Dronefly got high,
they talked about industrial and nine
inch nails and Lohner
and Vig
and the ‘No-Rave’ party.
Dronefly,
well he a nice guy,
but he stuck, he mired,
in tired,
speed-wired
nights.
Swimming pools were a threat,
to a Dronefly.

Dronefly’s little girl called,
Ritafly, she fly,
she cool, tight,
and she said
‘Dadda, I just been sold bad Danzig.’

‘WHAT THE FUCK’ roared
Dronefly.

Sweet talks fly
bleeds before
Dronefly.
The assault tangible.
Macbeth,
Dronefly.

Prison cells bad place
for Dronefly.
No pie,
Just rice.
No Thai,
Just Lye.
Lye to bury and burn
the used, lying young.
Dronefly.
You bad
ass
fuckin’
Fly.

Parasites

Feeds on the blood and
infects
with diseases.

These little jumping
insects
infuriate me.

Limited family tree,
incest,
isolated breeding.

You wants my blood you
insist,
well have it.

I’ll wage war, I’ll
enlist
an exterminator.

And he’ll be covered in warts
and cysts
from chemicals.

I’ll refer to him as
Shit-Tits
when I make tea.

All because of you, you
parasitic
slut.

Do you know what it is?

Do you know what it is?
In a heart it creates bliss,
In cars it creates mist,
In bars it gets you pissed,
At home it provides the kiss,
In gardens and forests it picks,
In minds-eyes it plays tricks,
In dresses its image sticks,
At home it provides the kiss,
In everything I do it hits
and overpowers all my wits
when eyes close and my thoughts flit
it’s there,
perfectly still,
blurring away,
until I lose focus,
and my eyes open,
and I’m alone.

At home it provides the kiss,
Do you know what I wish?

Lonesome trudging through fields of shit.

Life toil, slow waltz, drink by drink, cigarette by cigarette,
pounding the soil and wearing through the shoes.
The pavement slats and rough-laid tarmac know the rhythm
of weary soles and a tired, sprite of a soul.

The scraggly beard and overpowering odour of a man
chained to a lamp post, clutching ‘The Big Issue,’
and he begs and pleads, and stares solemn and lost,
but I can’t afford his rag, despite my nice watch and leather wallet.

Another weekend oblivious to the strife of a world so torrid,
wretched and bruised,
the flakes of skin,
litter the floor,
where content feet once waltzed away.

You’ve gone and I’m lost.
You’re lost and I’m gone.
The gentle meander of a heavy, bruised heart.
Pounding,
stretching,
‘til atrium tissue fissures and bleeds.

Now I cough gentle scarlet blood,
into a handkerchief bearing an insignia;
‘A P Lawrence,’
The ‘kerchief of my father,
destined for the pile,
landfill,
a blot.

The beard wriggles with lice,
the ‘Issues’ crust with piss,
the fingers blacken
and the lungs rot
with smoke and ash and the onion cider potions.

He, like me, just wants to die.
My father did not.
But I am selfish.
And will.
‘til then the succour of licqour,
drink by drink,
cigarette by cigarette.

Your slender words and elegant eyes

Eyes enticing,
cheekbones raised,
and taut pink lips
split a jaw so perfect.

In my eyes are echoes
of your voice and mannerisms,
you shouldn’t know
the candle I burn so cliché and classical.



Eyes,
face,
lips,
hot mouth.

I writhe and dream of you,
when you talk and act filthy,
and never say
that you are the ass I cannot escape.

'Another beer, sir?'

‘What can I get you?’
were the words that dribbled from his stupid mouth.

‘Pint of mild,’
came the stereotypical retort.

‘I’m afraid we’re out of Mild today sir,
we have Hobble’s Crotch,
Gentleman’s Relish,
Piglet Power,
Apricot Shandy-pie,
Hampshire Porter,
Goose Greene,
Turnbuckle
and Borstal Bitter.’

‘You made two of those up didn’t you?’

‘I made them all up sir, this is a pharmacy. Here is your Diazepam, now can you please leave.’

I waited and thought... ‘nice trick son.’
‘Whiskey and ginger you cruel fuck.’



The cold, damp embrace, of the kerb outside the pharmacy.