Sunday, September 24, 2017

well well well

A torrent. A cloud burst. 
Cats. Dogs. Now and then, spit. 

An oily smear across the t.
A single droplet dotting the i.
 

The passage of water eats words
the stutter of consonants
a paragraph that can not swim
 

A voiding of the vowels.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

diplomant 2.0

"Every truth passes through three stages before it is recognized. In the first, it is ridiculed. In the second, it is opposed. In the third, it is regarded as self evident." - Arthur Schopenhauer
All flight paths to perdition converged on P'Yongyang. A ridiculous haircut.
     He sat snuffling Cointreau like a spoiled little bitch. All that was missing was mink, a shard of ice off the shoulder.
     He sat trailing a long shadow.
     It spilled off the stool and onto the floor. Climbed up the washing machine and ate into exposed brick.
     An inky aspidistra itching to shed leaves.
     The decor was frigid. Magnolia. Baked tile. A tea-towel hanging next to the porthole window. A map of San Francisco in the shape of a heart. Pier 39; Fisherman's Warf. Bleeding out toward the Golden Gate Bridge.
     Alcatraz.
     It was a night for arseholes.
     Buses in the rain.
     He got down off the stool and threw open the door. Fell twice, while cueing up George Jones.
     The cigarette glow mashed across his face.
     Aside from ghosts, he spent Halloween happy hours holed up alone. His left elbow practically in the kitchen sink. Flirting with anxieties.
     He could not wait to buy himself a dog. A Shih Tzu maybe. Teach it to squat in a sandbox in the corner like an infant spilling out its pants.
     The right hand a paddle as eager to chastise as reward.
     Like a bitten ring left in the ashtray, the tail of a dress shirt caught in the closet, he gave himself away. From here, under the ceiling light, he could glance back between the years to count close friends lost.
     He missed each more than he missed his mother, his wife, that was the still pulseless heart of it.
     His legacy was a tumour ducking into a taxi like an engraved folding blade.

Sunday, September 3, 2017

shoot

"you cannot shake hands with a clenched fist." - Indira Ghandi
Me and my dick have seen better times.
     I say this, in part, to rattle an acquaintance so anal grammatical treatises are practically dropping out of her arse.
     In the main, I mention it as a nod to fumbled moments better spent.
     That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger, some say. That which doesn't quite snuff out the candle has a propensity to simply maim instead. My pissy old dick is not so much a monument as an embarrassment: wrung out; battered; a stub of rubber cod after years of legally prescribed chemical abuse. The head all scarred and listing like a middle-aged spastic trailing a shopping cart full of kelp home after dark.
     A target for sticks of two by four. Crumbling bricks.
     Well. I refuse to tie it up in latex as a gift. Leaking pearls before swine.
     It limps on as we all do. Tiny wind-up soldiers marching in circles. Straight off the kitchen table and onto the linoleum.
     A runaway jihadi hoodwinked into modelling a suicide vest.
     We are all of us, at the end of the day, survivors of sorts.
     Rewind the tape. Spit it out. The morning anti-psychotic. The gastro-resistant gelatin capsules.
     Doctor Feelgood is in rehab and unable to answer the phone.
     My tumescent appetite trembles on the wire.

Friday, July 28, 2017

pollen

"...don't bite the hand that feeds you, it's said. I'll chew the f@cking digits off the first paw that rattles my cage." - ib

Outside in the quadrangles bees hustle atop the daisies.
     Jockey and drone. Inch and fart.
     Strung out. Buzzing.
     Pursuing the amber dust which underpins their shantytown.
     I sit nursing the hole in my tooth while the half shogun slam poet from Negril lays down his Mocha. Chases a crumb from the dreadlocks fizzing onto his lapel.
     His giggle tumbles out the nostril like a finely tuned summer sneeze.
     "Half past four is good," he trills.
     A master at racket ball, he squashes the opposition with a well timed glance to the midriff. He prides himself on his athletic bent.
      Less so, that priapic pilfering waist deep in the bowels of the lower third.
      It's a long way down from the twenty-second floor.
      The smile recedes abruptly and his eyes narrow as if surprised to find me there at all.
      He offers me a finger of shortbread.
      Berates the stricken of heart apropos of nothing and glances at his watch.
      "Hmph," he huffs.
      I look to the spaces lurking between bookshelves. Newspaper clippings. Marley's martyr. Despite ghosts past he is astonishingly far from advanced in years.
      The skin peeking out from under crumpled linen a youthful laundered suit.
      Up here in the ivory nest where the bumbling hover the reception is peculiarly rarefied.
      I vow to flee before he smashes my ball down centre court. But not before I deliver up a map. Surrender it entirely. His head is still dizzy with hurricanes. That perfume etched in the seam of Irene's raw silk knickers.
      Some fool's nectar.
      It's why I read so little, these days. The fear of synchrony.
      Religious intolerance.
      Road rage. 
      Pygmy villagers brandishing torches to light the failing thread from one paragraph to the next.
      "Ah well," he concludes. "I can't promise anything, but let me wish you all the best."
      He reaches across the desk to clasp my hand.
      The old magick.
      Invitations. Ropes which maim and cripple.
      Burn.
      And, lodged in the corner of his eye like an aristocrat in exile, something which resembles disdain.

Friday, April 7, 2017

eat poop

Eat poop! the mimeograph chants. Each letter rippling on the t-shirt's bib where he drops down in his armchair.
     A sackful of rubble upended from the rafters.
     The years, as they are wont to chime, have not been kind.
     Springs eaten at by various body fluids protest and expire. Explode. Cockles and whelks sewn beneath the waterline disintegrating in clouds where fishwives dance in lead clogs.
     Pablo Dillinger, errant choirboy, sibling to that medieval guild, is never hasty. Too rotund by far, a portly disciple, he is slow to respond to flattery or jibe. "Later" is his mantra. A Vedic hymn fallen on deaf ears mostly.
     A sullen mediator. A sulky correspondent.
     A Prussian brat.
     News comes to him that some words or other have been published in Sacramento, of all places. News falls unheralded out a trove shipped across the seas, greedily received, plugged through all the same by this dreadful pause he is powerless to commute.
     Red and black. Well, more of an orange. Dusted with ochre.
     It reminds him of the thirties.
     Bertolt deconstructed in the wings.
     Bottle caps studding the stage where the have fallen on the comet tail of Kristallnacht.
     Skulls.
     Even as the first air strikes detonate benignly, the scaffolding has come down. Labourers have fled. Joiners, painters. Bakers of bread.
     Pablo carefully unfolds a yellow slip. Until it occupies the space served up on a napkin.
     8½ x 14, halved.
     No staples. 
     He hoovers up the ballpoint.
     The brotherhood has been busy.
     Fuck, yeah.
     It tickles him immensely to learn that the word is right now in the process of being dispersed, undiluted, to see his initials in print, to think of entire paragraphs dribbling into corner culvert incontinent, or spirited away half torn under the windshield wiper of a runaway blue and silver civic bus.
     Fuck the Ministry.
     The primary content is thus. A 9mm parabellum handgun, fully oiled and loaded, manufactured in 1969, parcelled in a tricolour of vests. A panther on a leash.
     If we are not yet despondent we are disconsolate, nonetheless.
     No fleas on Ahab. 
     He already has paid six years in advance while on remand waiting.