like pressed garlic
creamy crushed
husk blown away,
i held her
forgetting the argument,
forgiveness and
playing with that
blonde hair
thinking of tomorrow
A poem that got put published in Rusty Truck 25 March 2012 in memory of Richard Brautigans birthday 30th January 1935
conduit shrugs
from sleepy wither
morning scrapes
itself off the night
with bruised studded clouds
I will shower
soaps lather run
looming down
at the hoodless one
shaped contour of
male tissue erectile
veined with coming age
desensitized to cotton touch
hidden behind
clasp of gideon sundbuck
soft towel rub
once retreated
so nobody will know
it’s a shame
that this dome
quite architectural
with narrow eye
can shine and shimmer
in fluid moments
of interaction
but for now
the day pale clad
has begun
me as of today
and there I am
inside you
erectile tissue
incapable
rendered useless
previous tears
foreclosed
foreskin
tightened it’s grip
narrowing
to a pinhole
so hard to fuck
so hard to piss
meatus
glans
frenulum
biology of a urologist
with pinch
and slice
foreskin foreshore
to the tide
of emotion
as scraped emerged
purple swollen
sullen alter ego
meatus
glans
frenulum
now seen again
tactile flesh
to satisfy
I broke an egg
soft boiled
watched the yolk
spread
in the whorehouse
of my soul
i thought
of my yolk
spread
over your breast
as I kneel
and urge
over
your sleeping
shape
my mess
your anger
limp disaster hung
itself
on my brittle facade
you left
exit by the door
i now look at
knowing
this egg will
not taste any better
the moving clouds
buddha puffs
of a slow conscious
scratched awake
by some yearning
for nothing absolute
but unreal
sucked out of a heart
of someone
once and never loved
sun stains
burns and blinds
i yield
and feel no more
Events have occurred , political intrusion by government Trump or May that have dissolved our lives into a caricature farce that is dark and sadistic so I wrote this…
curious
in a time I never realised before
those blindly blinking
people
heads down
could be swallowed up
by forces unseen
and never know
monuments fall
governments tirade
without distraction
I was a beggar in life
seizing the moments
that never seemed to come often
thoughts and a voice
but nobody would listen
media’s bluster
without so much as
whisper
of human account
cut me into wounds
moral abstract slices
of nevermore and decay
will we be saved
on this exhausted hulk
called earth
or will I shrivel
into that carbonised carapace
and tomb
that is called death
I met a great guy Peter Sinseeya in New Brighton filming a crime scene for his TV series Matopulas we chatted and I loved the sound of a complex crime drama of three intertwining lives set in Merseyside , so a local production with a core of morals and principles being shot in guerilla fashion .
Time passed then I got a Facebook message that led to me having an acting role in it , I have never acted but I decided to have a go and wow I enjoyed the experience nearly 7 hours of chilly fun in the empty and haunted Woolton Hall a creepily beautiful place.
As you can see it looks brilliant and below is the trailer so enjoy
All the best
Beautifully sensuouß
I want you – come into the kitchen -I’ll show you my recipe
with apron strings undone to my secret spices
I want to make it hot for you – the sizzle and the steam
to stir the juices slowly till the cream begins to rise
and the waters starts to simmer till they boil
in a roiling raging tangle
– that melt before your eyes -a sated tasty mouthful of surprise
I want to make you my ingredient
in dripping decadence
to fill my fondant full of you -the froth atop the fantasy
till your words become a poem and your tastebuds tingle time
I want you- in my recipe – of love
oscillation of my heart
a thrum of false applause
nova wheel turns
in loose hands palms sweaty
streetlights searing flares
in greasy windshield stain
accelerating with measure
not panic
plastic neon afterglow
rearview shadows and transcience
nicotine once craved
alcohol once craved
cardboard cup balanced
lid slipped with brown liquid
it’s smell filling nostrils
along with dog
and after days perfume
arguments
those voices thrown and snatched
can be taken back
into a street
cop car drawled on by
tree lined urban paradise
front porch orange glow
parked
engine silently waiting
would she disturb the curtains to see
nothing
was he wrong
then he remembered
she was gone
they where gone
counselling for grief
counselling for depression
arguments outlive those who shout
that once beautiful house
invaded
shotgun splattered
with crimson design
rocking slowly to and fro
applause had silenced
into the false abyss
he would be in the shadows
a footnote on a headstone
living without a porch
accelerating
foot on gas
rubber black stained
breathing in circles
window open
a destination yet unwritten
cracked on cheap wine
liver brushed
tongue licked by camels
lying in semi stasis
not being illiterate
book slithered to floor
words melting into wood
she was by the full length mirror
naked with no breath left
she was my descent
her depths a surge of rapid currents
I could not read anýmore
tenderloin buttocks moved
her vagina a well visited republic
it’s musty sweetness
gave me a fugue of absurdity
return to me
return to me
her snowy gut roll belly
over my lips
kissing tongued glassy traces
jackrabbit twitching
lowered herself to me
I was forgiven
I had absolution
sweet poetry and flesh
shuddering silver dollars
into the meter
my time running out
would return to book
and motel walls
she a neon scrawl on my eyes
then there would be tomorrow
