Better than it

The kind that knocks out

vanity and any notion

of an audience who

watching get steam under

the collar and it isn’t

all tongue or all lips

or even all mouth

and when it ends

for breath

you have to adjust

the dials in order

to function again in spaces

between where the kiss

isn’t happening and the world

carries on mostly never

having felt explosions

of that magnitude

and the car hums with it

your hands steady

at the controls

but our eyes aren’t seeing

only people and roads

and things manufactured

anymore because beneath

all of it and saturating it

swelling amongst it

is the burgeoning

next incendiary

round.

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Portals in quick sand

A diagonal cut of architecture

against a clouded sky

breaking with light.

A new bristling memory

interchangable with all of them

you never knew made.

And suddenly you’re walking

in a Spanish town

and gazing at stirring crocodiles

and holding the dying’s hand

and kissing someone for the

thousandth time.

Your next may be

in a ship’s hold

or an enemy’s arms

or a black tomb

or a shooting range.

Fall through them like quick sand

or they’ll drown

everything now.

Effort versus righteousness

Grunting away on top of her

she only half present

like a blurred blinking video

recording flickering on pause

he did what they all do

a cliché of hormones and disregard

and after and beyond through

droplet tears hanging on each lash

she told the old man what

had been taken and out of some

paternal lunacy he proposed

it all came down to effort

versus righteousness

and so his daughter sustained

the crime and a buried secret

like a rotten aborted animal

lay forever between their embrace

and beneath their

exchanged symbols of affection

and I looked on with clenched fists

and a baffled heart

while my boiling indignation

I buried in me

like a wolf once ready to murder

tethered to a lamppost

as groceries are bought inside

a permanent masquerade.

Funeral for a former self

The wanting of a blade lay heavy

my body broken in pitch

scattered with dread moonlight

branches cast shadows upon shadows

imagining ways to fall and lose

the crown quickly

in forests of night

a final cowardice

a lost mind

reforged and made stronger

chronicling those thoughts

once felt belonging

to a dead man

existing briefly and madly

but very definitely

sending ripples through time

before and after

a split in the sky

broken stars cascading fire

crushed hearts of forgotten children

choose a side the clouds whispered

never going back.

Being

Routine becomes an albatross

or a tunnel out of yourself

at whose core the burning

pit is hemmed in by secret

passages mined elaborately

deep into the places will

cannot touch

and through soot clouds

of industry you perform

like mechanised avoidance

the smouldering embers

barely glow

but remain your stoic

beautiful self though

forgotten and ignored

and its absence excused

by those who wish to

contain and curtail you with

limitations

making you easier

to handle

like them

like everyone

whose fire

died long ago

in grey winds and cold

sleet wiping them

away like dry sweat from

a brow

but your flame

will never die

stoke it and become

of yourself

the only being

worth living as

for

with

because anything else

is nothing

compared.

A whore’s chance

Tear stains

unclean

a blotted masterpiece on her pillow

he joins her

it happens like pantomime

she is moving

as a gymnast moves on the mat

all chalk dust and routine

hollow

rehearsed with countless

chaperones

the physical floating

the emotional drowning

the two swirling around

the same whirpool

at opposite ends

the whore beneath

the lie

dies gently

pleasure without meaning

a needle in vein

plugging something terrible

no money changes hands

had it something honest

would have happened

her bed

is riddled with deceit

a grave for her truth

and his affection.

 

 

Blood in the gutters

There is no divine sentiment keeping them

from you

or you from yourself

a chimp dragging knuckles on concrete

following coppery aromas like a fly

to shit

and good and evil don’t exist despite

the proselytisations

they spew imagining that with one there must be

the other

when we all know deep

in the cavernous places

that evil is just instinct

and anything else acted               out

is like holding your finger in a candle flame

and watching skin bubble

thinking someone somewhere will appreciate the sacrifice

as they slide blades beneath each rib and suck

out entrails between their teeth

slapping your back

with thankyous meant to dull your

will to survive

and being under the shadow of what

good is meant to look like

you let them do it

again

and again

until before long

stumbling between moralities

you witness them gnawing

on each other’s bone

marrow

and realise

what they

always were.