Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Me and my demons.

Me and my demons
we tend to go everywhere together.

It's gets so people are used to them.
It even gets so people don't recognise me
without them.
I mean if I'm feeling okay one day
it gets so people get agitated
they don't like it
and they try to remind me.

What's with you today? You're acting strange.
I don't know, I'm happy I guess.
Yeah well, I don't like it. You want a shot? A whisky? A beer?

Most times I resign myself to it.

Sure.

And after a few
the demons are back
and people seem to rest easier around me.
Like they've got me pinned.
A lost little butterfly for their collection.
Easy to categorise. Easy to examine and understand.

That guy. He's got demons.

He's real messed up, you know?

And people nod their heads and look sideways at me
but I don't notice when the demons are with me.

Or if I do, I don't care so much.

Give the people what they want, and they'll leave you be.

So I just drink.
Sometimes I play the clown.
Sometimes I swear and sometimes I fall down.

And when I go home I get in the shower and cry
and I watch my sadness wash down the drain
through the pipes and out to sea
where the tears of all the lost and lonely join together
to form the oceans
so that the happy and the free
can sit on the beach
staring out over it and holding hands
and being in love.

"Isn't it beautiful, darling?"
"Yes gorgeous, it truly is."

And at home I sit quietly on the couch
in front of the television and the fire keeps me warm.

And so do my demons.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Goodbye Babylon.

He's out there and I let him go.

That's what the police must think, when it goes bad and he goes free and they've got nothing and at night they lie back and their nightmare is a smile - a simple smile - an insane victory, one for the bad guys.

He's out there and I let him go.

But it's diferent for me, see. This cold case, these memories of ice, this frozen fear. This wasteland I've walked for ten years in the hope of finding light, in the belief that I could run from the darkness, flee the terrible terror of responsibility - it's not my fault - in the hope that I could cower from thoughts that inaction is biblical in its reward. Babylon for the meek, let it go, let it go and one day you will find where to go - you didn't kill her, you were far away, unable to even say goodbye, you still looked him in the eye. You even took the handful of gold. You fuck. You weak fuck.

And now he's out there and I let him go and they're asking me where, where he might be and I just don't know, I don't know, I don't want to know.

I never wanted to be a man, when they came knocking. I still don't, the only time I do, is when there's no fucking hope.

When everyone has given up on me. That's when I feel strong, that's when the music comes and the words too and that's when the fire is lit,when I'm down below feeling the heat and furnace of desperation and loneliness. That's when I'm ready, but not now, not now.

But okay, you're right. He's out there and I let him go, so okay, okay, let's find the fuck and I'll let him know. I'll take the stand and I'll say the words and maybe, just maybe, this time they'll be heard and it's too late for me though, isn't it?

It's never too late, mister. It's never too late to pay or repent and if you pay a price it's worth every cent - because you, boy, you can take it, on the chin, under the eyes, the wrinkles and scars and running and lies, it's all caught up and he needs to pay and we need YOU to stand up and say,

that fucker, that fucker is a murdering bastard and I will never forgive him, and I will never tell myself again that she loved him and their love was a nightmare for them both.

Not when she is dead and he is out there.

Not when he is out there and you let him go.

One.

Baby,
if only I wasn't
a savage again
maybe we could make it.
[but I'm insane
I'm insane]

I mean
if only the drums
didn't beat so
fucking
loud
inside me
even when
no one
else
can
hear
them.


If only I didn't
feel
that fire
spitting
sparks
three
eyes in the dark
I can feel them
on me baby
even when you
and I are
content
in the garden
by the trees
under the rain
I mean
I'm still burning
baby
I'm burning
again
if only things were
different
and by that
I mean
the same

if things were different
baby
for me
not you
if things were different
and I could just do
what you ask
and what
they've always
wanted me to,
well then
maybe
baby
I'd be
in the garden
with you.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Relief Map.

Up
the ragged daggers of rock
toward the heights and hope
of that savage fire, to reward
an ambition of awareness
to just sit quietly on the peak
and understand or better;
the scaled perspective is the
way to take control and
the ice cold mist is my teacher.
So I'm going to sit here
until all the teaching is done,
or at least - just one.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Youth and Young Manhood.

I had to be fast,
you know,
down the stairs
to get the key
to open the safe
to grab the cash
to call an escort
to pace the room
to watch the driveway
in case they came
before I did.

Fifty fucking minutes
pacing the hall
hating myself
out of control
feeling sick
wanting to vomit
wondering how it
dissolves
the lust
so quickly
that blind addiction
to imaginary women
in the yellow pages
who invariably turned up
and were surprised
by how young I was
and happy,
I guess,
because I was powerless.

And they'd take a shower
in my parent's bathroom
and I'd be sick thinking
oh fuck oh fuck
was that a car
was that a key
oh god fuck
I feel sick
I feel sick
and
she doesn't look
anything like
the fucking picture
in the yellow pages,
jesus.

And my seventeen year old cock
had no chance -
wrapped in plastic,
between her twin peaks
as she told me about
her boyfriend for fuck's
and all I wanted was for her
to scream at me,
something,
anything,
scream at me hot,
or even better,
scream at me as though you care
for the kid who knows nothing
who has called you here.

And afterwards,
I was a lonely
seventeen year old
thief,
spraying the rooms
with deoderant,
frantically straightening sheets
close to tears at myself
unable to control myself
I couldn't even manage that
and was it because he beat her
or was it because she let him
or was it because I was
a no good son of a bitch
who never had a hope?

After a few times,
I just sat on the end of the bed
and we rolled joints
and I pretended it was ok,
to steal money
to give it to some one
to pay for an hour
of friendship,
two people with nothing
between them.

You want me to still suck your cock?

No thankyou,
and my eyes fall to the floor,
and I want to cry,
or look manly,
or at least seem funny.

But my friend just says okay,
takes my pot
and gets driven away
and I go to my room and write a confession
which gets my mother beaten senseless.

So I start running,
running from the ghosts
and the guilt.

I start running,

and I never stop.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Odyssey.

I can see a thousand stars tonight.

And there's nothing else to do, but lie in the grass and count them.
Mark them, mourn them.
Those little deaths - those cold, distant, little deaths.

They died for me, says the Ego,
that I could lie here, on the grass and mark them.
Mourn them.
That I could lie here on the grass and whisper,
can you see me here, thinking of you?

They died for me, says the Heart,
that they would mark the place,
where you and I had dreamed,
where you and I had screamed,
where you and I had loved
and burst and burned and believed,
they mark the place where we believed.

They died alone, says the brain,
far from one another in a silent explosion,
and all we see is the echo of their passing,
a footnote of a moment,
and
that is all
you
and I
and they
will ever be.

And tonight,
dancing with the stars,
abandoned by youth,
captive to a savage soul
I hold on to that.
The End gives me perspective,
see?

The End gives me perspective.
The End gives me perspective.

But I don't fucking WANT

perspective.

Because

I can see a sky filled with you.
I can see a sky filled with you.

I can see a sky,

filled with you.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Gaijin.

You are writing about when you were in Japan.
And it must be under 300 hundred words.
Do you think you can do that?

I can't write about Japan.
Japan is a dream to me.

Japan has lost all the colours and all the smells, madness and memories - faded fifteen years and ten lifetimes ago. Japan is a single brush stroke, a fast car, a US Marines flag - held high riding in the wind across the mountains from Nagoya to Iga on a 250cc road bike.

Japan is Miyazaki Yoko, taking me by the hand as we choose a room and she undresses and my inexperience is her aphrodisiac and she has been here before and I have not and we only have two hours and that is forever to me as she cries out, I'm Coming, I'm Coming - no wait she says - I'm Going, I'm Going and afterwards there is no one to share the moment with, only millions of misunderstandings, staring at me on the train home to a family who nod and smile and feed me as though they understand.

And that night, in a warm bed in a cold room by the train station, I fall asleep to the scratch and squibble of an illegible alien announcement. And somewhere, someone misses me, but under the covers I am alone, and trying, trying, to fit in, remembering home, my sister, my dog, until in sleep - only in sleep - it all makes sense, Japan is a dream to me, and I have become Japanese.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Night.

She never does anything sexy for me, he says.

It's always
with the lights out
and she never makes a sound
and when I bite her
she stops and pushes me away
and I think,

What the fuck?
I'm so fucking HOT for you.

but instead I hear myself say:

I'm sorry darling, forgive me.
I was carried away

and she says:

well,
you really hurt me

and I try
to keep it warm
keep it going
keep it flowing

by
kissing her softly
on her bleeding lip
but she just
turns
on her side
and says,

Goodnight.

And to me it's always
so final and strange
and cold,
when couples say
Goodnight
to each other.

I mean,
didn't I just have my
fucking finger
inside you?

So why
the formalities now?

Goodnight.

But I can't sleep.

And I can't cum

in the bathroom,
the lights are too bright.

[Hm,
I say,
Yeah...

thinking about his cigarettes
which sit on the bar in front of him,
thinking about the coins on the bar,
thinking about the girl in my bed,
thinking about how I'll write him,
later,
when I'm awake, and I can't cum,
and the lights will be off, and I'll be staring
at that fucking screen.

I hate that fucking screen.]

And
another time, he says,
I tried it in the backyard.
but there was a spider
just sitting there watching me,
and in the end I just rolled a smoke
and sat there watching it thinking
about how they eat the male after they've made it
and that kind of turned me back on
and I'm not sure why
so I went back inside and lay next to her
and made the bed bounce and squeak
bounce and squeak
and Hell man
I wasn't hiding it
I was saying, oh yeah,
and just calling out names, any name,
Rhonda, Serena, Fanny, Oh Hell Yeah Fanny Yeah
just fucking pounding myself
while she lay beside me and pretended to be asleep
and the spider was outside
just sitting there,
and she was just breathing
slowly, softly,
and then
afterwards

Afterwards the silk of her dress
was a mother
and the fucking guilt
stained my stomach
and dripped down my legs
and I realised I loved her,
I loved her,
so I put my lips on her neck
and I pretended she was asleep
when I whispered in her ear,

I love you. Goodnight.

[I don't ask I just reach over and take one of his cigarettes.]

Monday, March 3, 2008

Affair.

I'm lying
on a beach,
under The Sun,
watching as
the waves crash boom
on the rocks close to shore
and I can see the patience
of them -
standing still,
understanding
her moods and
the tides of her
lunacy.

It's a good place
to spend a good day,
and I'm happy to watch
their affair,
to play the voyuer
and feel the salt spray
of her passion
on my face,
and feel his surrender
between my toes.

The Sun turns to me
and asks me what I feel
and what I believe
and what I think.

But it's like trying to write a song about Love,
all the words in my head seem shallow,
and my fingers just daydream across the strings,
and there's never an easy way to tell the rest of the world
how lucky you feel, to be yourself,
without sounding like you're one of the masses.

So I just look at him
straight
and let him burn my eyes from ocean to fire
and his heat takes everything from me
until I just breathe
to the sound of her
love on the rocks

boom
crash

boom
crash

Later,
I stand in the shallows
and let her tug at my feet,
and that's when I know,

that I am ready to drown,
down,


down.

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Holiday.

When we walked along the beach,
I realised what it would take to be happy,
to be free,
to let it all go,
that's what it was,
just let it all go.

The only problem is

that I can't find a way to write it down,

without sounding

like
a
goddamn
hippie.

Writers.

I don't want to talk about writing anymore.

It's boring.

I don't want to talk about writing anymore.
I don't want to hear,
what's right or wrong in what we write.

The only person I want to know about,
is the guy in the mountains,
in his studio,
fists full of clay,
making...I don't know...
urns or something.

And he paints a sign,
that he sticks at the end of his drive,

LOCAL CRAFT. CERAMIC URNS

on the highway,
selling,

maybe one a year, to someone who bothers to stop.

Or the Grandmother,
on her little property,
who just
loves her garden,
loves her dog,
loves the magpies'
morning song
which inspires her
as she feeds them,

or as they feed themselves
on fallen fruit from her trees.

I want to know about her.

I want to know that she loves...

macrame,

or taking some glue and some shells
and sticking them on a mirror,
and sending things,
uninvited,
to her grandchildren,
who probably fucking laugh,
and stash her creations in the shed,
or in a cupboard,

and she knows that,
she fucking knows that
but that doesn't matter,
because she's happy to make
and happy to give

it's her damn thing,

and her grandchildren,
well,

they just miss the point.

I don't want to talk about writing anymore,
and who thinks what about what,
or have you read my shit,
or that I should read yours.

That's not what it's about.

It's about
your shit,
my shit,

and we

read shit and
blew shit,
and felt shit
and threw shit

and I'm being me
and you're being you
and what the fuck does it matter
if people have an opinion on
that.

I don't want to talk about writing anymore.
Or anything.
I don't want to talk about anything anymore.

You know?

If we're going to be writers,

then let's,

like,

run along a beach,
into the wind,
as the sun breaks the clouds,
as you squeeze my hand,
as the waves crash beside us,
as the whole world disappears
into the colours -
oh man the colours -
the colours of the rocks
that's all that matters,
that we're in the colours,
that we're on the beach,
that we are here now,
that words mean nothing
that everything's alive
and
that it's all going to pass

layers in the rocks,
bones in the sand,

take my hand
take my hand,
let's just run, baby, run

and write about it
some other time.

Sex.

When I feel like being inside you,
I write something down
and then read it back.

So that I can be you,

reading me.

So that
then
we are
together.

And it's exciting
because

when I'm you,
I see me differently.

But more importantly,
when I'm you,

I see you differently.

And it makes you
more beautiful,

when I am me again,

looking at you.