Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

“bullets bullets bullets”

Monday, 3 March 2008

bullets bullets bullets
sideways rain of swordtips fired
confusion, weakness, temptation
sparking off the fenders of your fast-breathing
heart.

it is not crossfire, friendly fire or even
enemy fire

it is not
your
own
fire,
the flames
duck
the wrath of these

bullets bullets bullets
sideways rain of swordtips

shattering the glass vase
atop the blender in your stomach,
cracking your bones like 8-balls in the grave’s
corner pocket.

bullets bullets bullets
bullets bullets bullets
bullets bullets bullets

bullets.

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Craving for extermination

Sunday, 17 February 2008

“All they do is take.”  My voice is weak like someone found near death in the desert.  I speak to his gold-rimmed glasses more than his swimming, frightened eyes.

He’s higher up on the food chain.  At night he fucks a hot divorcée who used to work here.

‘We’re all just numbers,” he says with sympathy.

He is right, but when they fuck him it’s with more and better lube.

The whole thing is a joke.  This isn’t a real job, he isn’t real, the walls aren’t real.  When I tell Glasses morale here is non-existent the HR cunt sticks her ugly mushroom head out of her windowless office.

“We’re having a meeting about that.”

I want to throw her against the cinder block wall which isn’t real.

I can’t hate Glasses in the manner he deserves, he’s so sympathetic to the eternal screwings of the dead-end job.

Bullshit, of course.

I am getting fucked with a dildo of sand and grit.

Our meeting ends.  In the restroom I piss in the sink.  In the mirror is the only motherfucker who will fight for me.  He has to get me out of this mess, no one else can or will.

I have a craving for extermination like the Buddha warned I would.

Will it be them or me?

For 100 dollars you can come in my mouth

Monday, 7 January 2008

For 100 dollars you can come in my mouth

Fury at wet socks
in a cheap vinegar room
the struggle for light in Mexico that night after all-day
west-east flight through frightened pussyless skies,
the plan to get laid
laid months in advance.

the first whore a dud adding to my
misery in the deafening bar, but now upstairs again with this one, blonde,
naked ass curved long like the view in a peephole,
pear breasts, body glorious but fading,
as she finished undressing I made her say it again
because I really didn’t understand.

Her English was good, the last item on the menu, better,
“For 100 dollars, no condom blowjob and you can come in my mouth.”

money laid down, again,
she tricked me as I tried to squirt her while lying on my back,
missing the mystery sweet spot that makes the hot white blast,
instead it poured out like angry white ants.

She grazed the softening tower with her lips, short blonde hair tickling my crotch like teasing rain.

I had fucked and failed again,
wanting to fill her with the years lost
from both of our lives, blah blah blah,
there was no time for sentiment
it was over so fast,
already forgotten by one of us forever.

hail satan

Friday, 2 November 2007

“You would never say, ‘Hail Satan’ would you?” I ask David.

“Hell no.”

“Not even as a joke?”

Gravely: “No.”

I didn’t let up.

“Let’s say there was an emergency and you needed a cab,
and the only cab in the city had SATAN written in huge red letters on the side…
would you literally ‘Hail Satan’ then?”

“No dude, I owe the Big Guy my life.”

“But God knows what’s in your heart…”

He ignored that. Told me his story. Brain tumor. Surgery. 40% chance to live.
(Obviously, he made it).

So there we both were
He a Miracle and me a shithead, both of us working the
same stupid shit job for no pay, legal slavery.

Somehow I don’t feel like I owe the Big Guy.

In fact, I wish a cab would whisk me to Hell right now
with David’s tumor behind the wheel.

how could it be worse?

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