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.

Cloven-Hoof and Agape of Maw

‘The cloven-hoof daemon,
spitting raw angst and fire,
would be more at home,
in a story or a fairy-tale.

His maw was agape,
and he spat fire and emotion,
and could not speak without
infecting his diction with bile.

The daemon was wracked
with sorrow and with agony,
for his father had died
and his mother was soon to perish.

He had known love from only them,
and had come to entrust them with all.
His father spat fire,
his mother, spoke only in angsty tones.

So a product of a marriage made in myth,
a minotaur father,
an abused, mewling mother,
a princess ravaged by fat minotaur hands.

The cloven-hoof and agape of maw,
was both man and beast,
and strode his lava fortress,
with an iron sword ten feet long.

The beast swung at intruders,
and bellowed ash and magma,
at all who entered,
through his skull and knife gates.

A magician made of gold witnessed,
the massacre of a town,
so displeased with the beast,
they felt implored to act.

The beast tore their limbs,
and chewed their bones,
all the while sporting,
a hot animal erection.

The magician summoned ‘Dragorampator’
the ethereal legend dragon,
whose scales were ice,
and whose blood was acid.

And Dragorampator thrust his tail,
which span the length of the lava moat three fold,
plummeting and ravaging the defences,
of the hot erect beast.

The remaining civilians,
trussed in chains and wailing away,
were burnt and maimed,
by the spray of acidic blood.

But Dragorampator was burning with rage,
and the daemon-beast was infuriated,
and they clashed giant sword and acid-ice tail,
until the tail was rent asunder.

Dragorampator bellowed with agony,
and the magician’s ears pricked,
So he summoned a healing angel
to mend his wounded warrior.

But the daemon-beast caught the angel,
as she floated from the stars,
and tore her dress from her flesh
to gaze at her milk-white breast.

Dragorampator forgot his suffering,
and stomped and pounded to the embracing pair,
and his hot dragon penis was wobbling,
dripping acidic precum over the remaining prisoners...’

‘Dad! Dad! Dad... stop with the bedtome stories. For Christ’s sake just let me go to sleep.’

‘Sorry son.’

'Corpucrescent'

‘Corpucrescent’ is not a word,
But if it were,
It would mean;
‘A corpulent crescent, a fat waxing crescent,
A tubby waning crescent,
A heavy moon.’

I believe ‘corpucrescent’ is a portmanteau,
And therefore technically acceptable,
Provided the context is accurate,
Or a definition is provided.

‘Pissflaps’ is not a portmanteau.

So Like Art Then Do You?

‘You like art then, do you?’
Bellowed a bearded man atop the Fishmarket roof.
‘You like Bennett, and Lawrence, and The Levellers then, do you,
Well rejoice in Northampton, the creative capital of the land.
We have galleries of work, and workshops in galleries,
And a bazaar of art right ‘neath my very feet.’
He points and guffaws like a ridiculous street urchin.
‘We have a museum, of history and crafts, both ancient and modern,
We have theatres that have had upon their boot-trampled boards
The boots and the flesh of the feet of genius,
Whose walls have bathed long in the tongue of Shakespeare,
And the graceful rumble of the Royal Ballet,’
‘We have auspicious audiotoriums, The Roadmender, The Racehorse,
And these transport our minds so bedecked with the highest of arts,
To the dirty, filthy, mucky pounding prose of modern band jangle-pops.
All this is ours, our town is our home, so come within this market now
Feast your eyes, and to this shoe-borne town, avow!’

And as the man shouts,
A beautiful young girl collapses in hysterics,
Her pretty pink shoes
Doused in hot piss,
And she stares at him shuddering,
And replies, sweet and serene,
‘Northampton! Northampton, the heart of England,
Northampton, Northampton, the heart of literature,
Northampton, Northampton, the heart of ART?’

And we hear the little girl cry now.
‘What troubles you, my dear?’ Beardy shouts from atop the roof,
perturbed and puzzled by the effeminate disturbance.
She responds;

‘NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
MY OWN FUCKING NORTHAMPTON
CULTURALLY INEPT AND BEREFT OF MEANING,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
OUR OWN LITTLE VACUUM.
NORTHAMPTON, NORTHAMPTON,
NO ONE VISITS, NO ONE LEAVES, NO ONE CARES,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
WRUNG TO DEATH IN COUNCIL HALLS BY BLUE BUTTON BASTARDS
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
HOME OF CLICKERS AND COBBLERS NOW BURIED AND COLD,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
SKIPPED OVER BY BANDS THAT TOUR OUR WHOLE ISLAND,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
GREEDILY DEVOURING ITS OWN SPHINCTER,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
WHERE WANKERS WARBLE ABOUT SAVING TREES,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
LADLING PRAISE UPON ITSELF,
NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON
NOT A CENTRE, NOT A FOCUS,
BUT NORTHAMPTON NORTHAMPTON,
THE SEPTIC TANK OF CREATIVITY’S HAND-MADE HOME.’

And as she finished spitting her diatribe,
The market had melted,
The people had left,
And all that remained,
Was a puddle of excrement,
In the shape of a stiletto.