I'm working dammit

 

 
on the promise of a viscous promiscuity
I would normally shoot first, clean the mess later, ensure no witness survives
in the middleweek each slatternly evening should be bedded early 
 
recently, though, the inclination of a night is to drink
coffee? 
right! right! right!
read and write and write and ride a hundred of your dirty looks
in an all night steaming just to thumb fuck the irresistible where
god granted good sense is disavowed 
 
christ my mind tonight where hasn’t it been
a  rattling mess
from the petty penury of the millennium’s silent bells
through a razored grift of oyster shells 
via  packet steamed voyage that will never be
 
and I’m screaming
“why can’t you be my Yoko, passionista,
intravenous burned brown celluloid injector
crowning, howling, screaming blood-letter
leech wife barfly spittle shined philosopher”
 
instead there waits a world to be shared 
by just her and me
wings clipped by vows and golden bands
buried under the demands of continence 
 
the peripatetic spur sundered 
marrow spoon hollowed and forsaken in the soured grass
where lost co-ordinates of days of grace and grand escapes
offer no cue for slagged ambulant dreams
laid to rest in choked and over worked seams
 
disappointment is spread so thickly over the sailcloth of expectations
while deep within these tubes lies a germ of posterity
and its beetle glinting crawlspace
spits an imagined this
 
move 
 
change the frequency, your smoke is staining my ears
 
move
 
remain though the matter of my subject
you and your forced finger self-inflicted wounds 
if my words don’t flow the knives come out 
my hands may form a loving fist for the needful dough
 
I could carve a new you and I have just the tool
 
but she, already dead, chides
“count your breaths, count your blessings”
 
which begs me to ask is there too much on the page?
while the dead are still singing the wind must always
beg caution
 
how much attention does this whore seek?
fracked and sluiced to the point of release
where every kind of juice spills
from pores palm greased
with the patina of slovenly verse
paupered by the diminished returns 
of a creased core
 
 
what is the call?
 
I stay, a frog in a pan, of course
warning  shy of every hopeful morning 
and in a’ very short space of wine’ 
it will be love again
 
thank you suzanne moore (yes that one) for “the very short space of wine”…cribbed from a twitter exchange :)
very much in progress and in need of multiple revisits…a pulling together and re-shaping of a few recent thoughts

Angryfrustrationrelationship

◄ what crisis?

mild frenzy ►

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