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| "The Pub" We must have looked strange as you led me through the crowd of young Yorkshire night owls. Did they know I was six years your senior? Could they tell that you were a lush? Or that I was stuck in a fantasy that had died long ago. No matter; In any case they found us interesting. Maybe they knew I could do better. Oh, I got looks aplenty while we squeezed through that crowd; tanned skin and white teeth always succeed in the land of white skin and tan teeth. Or maybe my naivete was showing as I nodded and handed you my last 2 quid to buy fags from the machine; you in your Che t-shirt, me in my cashmere sweater, both with snotty noses from the March wind and sleet. Bad enough you’d taken up with a whore while I had a diamond promise on my finger Now, six years later you weren’t even man enough to sleep with me Even though my replacement was fucking another man. Alas, my Yorkshire prince turned into an alcoholic commie, and at that silent moment as I followed you into the bar, weaving through the crowd and to the cigarette machine had anyone told me that six weeks later you’d be telling me to leave you alone and let you drink yourself to death, I’d have told him or her - Well, no, wait - I’d have told him or her that it was I who was crazy, for somewhere deep inside me the little girl who believed in soul mates had to grow up. And she knew that time had come when you asked for yet another 10-pound note to get you through the week. I’ve cried myself to sleep many nights since, for the ghosts of my naivete and the spirit of true love. We are both capitalists. |
| "Sin on Skin" Bless me, doctor, for I have sinned It’s been 3 months since my last refill I have offended Freud and Gestalt, Flaunted the lessons you’ve taken pains to teach me I tried to resist, but it sang to me Seduced me, doctor, and I was weak I wanted No, needed To feel its strength, its power Against my skin I let it violate me I bid it come To open me up Expose me Make me bleed Make me drip You urged me to stick with Mssrs Squibb, Wyeth and Glaxo But I’m a whore I chased down Mister Bic Disposable And I felt so alive As all tension trickled from me in my release The fluid running down my thigh And – OH! The pain, the pain, The exquisite and searing pain. Doctor, I know I disappoint you As I disappoint myself And as an act of contrition, I promise to say 800 Hail Pfizers While standing outside the local CVS I will pretend I have no insurance And pay full price for my refill. I wish I could say it was only a passing moment of weakness, doctor But to lie is a sin And you are my savior. |
| "Happy Birthday" Push the button, venture through the steel door into the cage of Sun Pete Townshend in my ears, and we shed a few Eight minutes salt water, coconut and dimples But not on my face. How dark is too dark? |
| "Reunion" you lie fetal, wipe a tear pretend I don’t see how I wish to harbour you |
| "Winter" Ambling? rambling, looking for catharsis Snotcicles, scarf too tight Blue flecks become steel in my eyes But you never saw my frozen tears while you were gone I shared them with the Sicilian lady Down the road |
| "Cerna" To leave the bottle uncapped would have been rude and blood on the wall was inconsiderate enough. Even an immigrant with a rap sheet should make a good impression on his hosts. Poverocito. It’s not like he planned it The day started normal, Nothing went south til nine-thirty It was almost Christmas And going back inside Wasn’t in his plans The deputy took two to the stomach For doing his job, what he’d been trained to do for a year now he’d done it With no probs to report, nary an incident to tell the wife about But today the foreigner was done. A Guatemalan can get lost in the big empire And prison aint pretty right before Christmas And the world is less frightening when you carry a .45 And the deputy had shit timing And didn’t run fast enough Took two to the stomach And the immigrant was fucked But nobody shook him He had a chance to nail them in the car Could’ve fucking gone out with a bang Ha ‘cos nobody shook him but that would be rude. The detective was nice It was spring water, you know Not that paper cup bullshit But nobody shook Cerna And it was almost Christmas. Still, only a bad mutha would shoot his interrogator But he was tired, and he knew he was fucked and his head hurt pretty bad and now he’d shot a cop and nobody shook him so at ten forty-seven the shit hit the fan and the dura mater hit the wall and as the guatemalan’s gushing cranium tipped to the left and the guttural gurgling said what he couldn’t the cap sat on the water bottle, back on the table ('Cos you can’t grip when your brains are blown out and blood is pouring from your ear). Now everyone at home can be proud because he’s famous. He’s in the “what not to do” videos. And a favorite email attachment With a caption like “Getta Loada This.” |
| Ode to A Weegie Cheers, mate For six years’ service Watching me work my way through the woods Urging me on, Talking me down, Putting me in my place! Loyal and true (ironic, I know), coming to remind me just what I’m worth daily on schedule (not unlike the trains) My bright morning star From over the sea do you know how I miss you when it’s her turn to have you? My scruffy Phil Collins My horny old hobbit Indefatiguable (Incomprehensible!) My pocket rocket, my secret lover pulling me through. Cheers, mate. |
| The night before Valentine’s Day ….the wrestler held me curled up on his lap kissing my forehead, encouraging me to sleep while he sat upright, keeping watch. The man behind the counter wouldn’t take back the things I’d bought just a day prior and the child who couldn’t walk yelled at his puppy for wandering off. The night before Valentine’s Day the wrestler stroked my wet cheek with one hand and my thigh with the other while reining me in when strangers came too close, and begged me not to awaken until all was forgotten. |
| "Night" the observatory in the distance, i kick off heavy shoes, shed the roles I play it’s black to my left, just turning azure on my right “south” I say to the horizon as if it had questions lie on the gravel commune with my brothers and sisters there’s no sex out in space no gender no point we’re all one out there, neither born lesser or greater pieces of the yin and yang of brahman and atman i barely make out the comet i need to call her “she” this wonder, this event, this beauty beckons to me. oh, to fly unfettered by flesh and gravity! Language is futile in dreams; extraneous, sinful evil, polarizing stuff worse than guns and fists dreams speak in the beautiful language of symbols and pure emotion, expressed through each atom movement, dance, sensation. my sister and I fly together because we can because I can and Joy is such a failure of a word that you can't know what I’ve felt as we’ve swooped and dived I awake with sleep paralysis The central nervous system is a bitch I hear I smell Can’t move Forced to revel in the memories I’ve just created Oh bitter irony |
| Ode to a Young Man in a Button-down Shirt You make me want to do things that are stupid Irresponsible Driven by primal things Subconscious things That dirty bastard thing called “urge.” I want to grind on you in uncatholic ways Make you realize just how expert you are not I want to hurt you And not care if you enjoy it I want to hear a knock on my door And know Just know It’s you on the other side. But you’d be stupid And naïve To think you’d walk away easily You are blissfully unaware of the knot You are hurtling toward Thinking you can save me From what? Myself? Other men? You mistake love and lust One for another. You’ll get caught up, little boy You think you can just amble in, Amble out, No problem. But one foot at a time You’ll get stuck Until you’re ensnared and can’t move. Or maybe you’re stupid enough to think I am the one who couldn’t walk away. Perish it. You fail to notice that I’ve been in control All along. I’ve played in ball games bigger and harder than this one And I’ve conquered the field, Babe Ruth-style. See, I play to win, But, Unlike you, I don’t need the game. |
| "For An Hour" as he walks me to my car we make plans for next tuesday and i spin my hair back into a bun as he thanks me. silly outmoded games; he's not a gentleman. i'm allergic to those. but he has guilt. i don't. it's symbiosis; the perfect pair. only i've gained more than he: the satisfaction of endorphins and cash in hand. and as i drive away i check the time, remove one of his hairs from my shirt. and remind myself to pity him when i can pencil it in. |