fairy dust

borrowed lips sparkle
with the glitz and glam of a 70s episode of TOTP.
a blue powder forms a cloud in the bar of the pub in which we sit.

i came of my own accord,
but now there are 3 people at my table,
wearing my girl's glitter.

i wonder what she's doing here,
flying nest to nest,
spreading shiny love,
like a generous polychromatic magpie.
a free bird,
like in that cheesy song.

eight for a wish
nine for a kiss
ten for a bird that you won't want to miss.

i'd like to blame someone,
but i probably twist my own knife,
just by associating with the love of my life.
listening to her harp on about the sticky details
of her other romantic interests.

is this masochism? jesus.
my eyes so open and tender
to open and tender lips on others',
when her legs aren't open to me.
those lips so closed and without tongue
when she says the words

i love you, like ventriloquist's words
that i can hardly understand.
like tragic mime,
they hardly move.
tantric.

i listen to her moan as i finish my pint,
and make conversation with her other lovers,
oblivious to the situation.
it riles me like playground injustice.

can't stand the tease
of baby, you're the one
with so many prime numbers
triangulating spirals
and ugly emotional geometry.

but there aint no law in love
so i leave the pub.

sauce

poem about condimental preferences from about 6 years ago (when poems rhymed) 

* * * * * * * * * * * 

i maintain it's insane, 

if the meal isn't plain, 

to prostrate to a state. 

homogenise your plate. 

'cause i wont love the neighbour 

who'd savour the flavour 

of table sauce bought 

by the sort who support 

mayonnaise as a glaze, 

(this i can't give praise). 

and i frown on those 

who might drown with brown 

a genteel meal, 

or a prime cut of veal. 

with tomato, it's hard to, 

escape ostinato. 

a jar of tartar, 

i see off with "ta-ta" too. 

now let this dirge 

mourn the tastes that have merged, 

and i urge, stop the splurge; 

stop your bottle's surge. 

it's a sin to begin! 

wipe the muck from your chin! 

...this dish is delic' 

without any false swish!

verge

frantic exploration of this slim, skin island,
with hands that want to be hard and soft,
rough and smooth, stroking and clawing,
like a perfect paradox that doesnt confuse.
deltas, ridges, planes, verges,
inclines, corners, coasts, clefts,
pinching peaks and just scratching the surface.
surfing fur and folds to the edges of skin.
to the ends of the world,
where you fall off, or fall in.

it still makes my eyes swell
when i see my sexual digit disappear inside a girl.
remembering the glee of my virginity slipping out of sight,
and that this was as close as i was ever going to get
to being back in the womb.

...now i'm digging myself a hole.
...and later, when everything is old and broken,

they'll dig up the earth
and put me back in a hole.

short of advice

good writing is like a traditional wedding. you will need: 

something old 

something new 

something borrowed 

something blue. 

and who the fuck is the holy ghost?

smell

i say, i say, i say, my fly has no nose.
then how does it smell?
well, it's got a thousand eyes and that sort of compensates.

a pollution of scents in the perfume clouds of coughing crowds
you smell of alcohol and the sucked souls of foliage
and hold your nose when i raise my arm to ask a question

coz i am an animal and smell like one.
coz i refuse to plagiarise the natural copyright of flowers' identities.
coz i have no one to impress and dont do market research.

so, sniff my pits, fucker.

making a killing is murder

i was just killing time like casual murder. dropped a fag to the concrete. stamped. killed it, and thought, 'i can stamp and stomp all i want but you're killing me, arent you? you fucking scrunch of smoke. you slug'. tobacco! tobacco! like a coughing opera. i wasn't sure if it was a friend or foe. manifesting doubts. and then i realised that i had nothing on time either, and that i was the victim of time's violence, rather than the inverse, as everyone seemed to believe. what nonsense is pop. what next? we're killing mother earth? no, mother earth can shrug us off at any moment. environmentalists are in denial and can't admit to themselves that they care most about saving their own skin. mother earth doesnt give a fuck about plastic or CO2. she's looking out at those asteroids, smiling, waiting for release. yeh, yeh, like, trust me, i've asked her.

wisp

so weak i cant hold a book up to my face.
and this pen is difficult.
it's not the top of a lap that writes,
but the bottom of a ball,
leaking ink,
as usual.

i lie here, still
in bed, breathing slow and thin,
like the smoke from a discarded fag
in my ashtray, still burning,
in a graveyard of cummpled worms;
it's soul ascending to heaven in whispers,
and the rest is rust and dust to dust -
sticking to the earth and rot.

so faded and light,
i wonder how gravity still holds me down.
and my sinking eyes
(pale echoes of hospital vacuums),
there's no surprise,
when i gawp in a vacant mirror,
and cannot cry.

when i die,
i want to be buried in a graffitied cardboard box,
so there'll be nothing left of me to see,
except paper.

hung

i wake up and im already dying.
oh god, what have i done to deserve this?
i get my answers.

a half eaten Döner in my sleeping bag
car parts scattered around the room
5 people who dont know each other
and i dont know them
i am totally soaked
from head to toe
and i dont know why
i drink at Fisch
till i cant hold a cue
or else fly off in the storm
bloody knuckles
different clothes
i dont know how

and blame doesnt exist.
nothing exists.
i think.
i am.
it is.
fuck it.

free love (D4M)

a handshake, 

a hug, 

a poem, 

art, 

anything you put your heart 

in 2 

and when push comes to shove, 

break your back in, too

the big head sea made 4. teil

keine haare an den beinen und keine cellulite. last n1te a sweet polish. girl - imeenwoman - imeenshehasakid - she got me in a bottle. back to black jägermeister. nip n tuk me in Bella 2goC a show, cow in sea dent ally, or thru un-noun similarity of tastes and flavours, 111of my faaave-writ bandz. wrist bands. rawk! BATTLES. shudder-nt name. drop - (l8r h8rs) - pop2. hop2 the nxt txt, next bar::: KØPI. should earnt naym. drop. another show, but NO. out staged by our entrance, we staggered in shifts. everyone shift was there, ro-bean and toe-b and man-u and eli-arsch and yo-hana and shift . . nd . . los . v . . utha . thngs . blurrring in the blender. the n the ton gue tide stummble home. some shelterless art.ists R selling, sailing, draw rings for 1 or 2 your-O under ▼ oberbaumbrücke. icy a mermaid wiv a cunt. how can eye RESIST? then we got 2 herz. end i got laidlike the 1st thyme in months. i got out. i got some shift. igotit. may bee. i will be Abel. to stop. the-ink-king bout LEGS 4 sum weeks. shift.

an excersise in chopping up

sentences. everyone is so fucking COOL (as cool as sunglasses) Mauer - Park - Berlin where every weekend is a festival where there are so many legs - coz it's april: all these legs like i'm gonna cry LEGS!# striped & tight, or else bare and open. i have to puke. i am a mess. i am crumpled, like neglected notes. scribbled and blowing down the road. brooding in public. in the light. i need to get out more. i never felt so lonely as in paradise. alone without the constant pressure of a hug. or the beat of the sun, hurting me. making me feel alive. the population of fists in the mosh-pit. the orgies that have to happen, to stop us from going mad. it's much easier to belong in a smaller group that is not daunting or crowded with competition. where there is space for everyone. where legs are familiar. shift.

Bare IV

we yawn to release pressure in our ears
then we wake up with a hard-on
an effect of the body re-pressurising itself.

enough tension in the bed?
we are all speaking different tongues and kissing different languages
fucking our dialects and stumbling over common threads
in bathrooms and beds
awkwardly and bizarrely
in stranger's houses
at 4 o'clock in the morning
in fantastic tangles 

in a naked mess

Bare I

i am not a rude boy.
and i cannot get it up.
and i'm not big enough either.
sorry Rihanna,
i don't think it's gonna work out, babe.

- - - - - - - - - - -

man-oh-man, do we have it good
question, Mark.

some of us wish we could lie like you can,
with your soft holes, so simple. safe.
just lie there with no responsibility in the act.

coz we're so scared of failing
so scared of performing
scared of the expectation
of being the male sex
of being judged -

we worry

wasnt emancipation about dissolving power?
didn't we have a sexual revolution?
did people not realise that the deep sexism comes not
from men against women, or vica-versa,
but from people who are scared to suck a cock,
and think eating pussy is disgusting.
who are dumb,
and keep genders as they are.
it is conservatives and the silent that are sexist!

we worry that our dick's are deformed maggots.
we worry we were the worst lay you ever had.
we worry that you will find out that we are nervous
and terrified creatures.
we worry that you'll find out that it's all a lie.

well, i'm bored of that.

fuck that.

it doesn't take any balls to lie;
that's why we do it all the time.
i've had enough of feeling like i have to make excuses,
when i don't fit the dream

to all my future lovers, i must run, yelling:

NO - i'm not gonna provide!
NO - i'm not gonna say forever!
NO - i'm not always gonna give you an orgasm!
NO - i'm not gonna be true!
NO - i'm not gonna die for you!

a bad influence

Ezra Pound, Bukowski and Allen Ginsberg lie at my feet 

all copies are stolen 

it makes me laugh 

it makes me cry 

when i lie 

to myself 

and steal from a library 

it's a bad influence - 

the thrill of all these words; 

under my jacket; 

pressing against my chest 

this is roughly how it works... 

i go in 

pick up whatever interests me 

stuff whatever that might be into every available cavity 

and leave 

usually get a ripple on the threshold. 

an echo 

a recurring flashback from bad trips to the very-free-shop 

hm... then what? 

well then i bounce all over the street 

like manic hopscotch 

these hot volumes 

fresh from the shelf 

down my boxers 

starting to singe 

surplus spines 

starting to spill from my collar, till 

i hit the green of the park 

bun up a zoot 

and let this language do dirty things to me 

he-he-he 

ho-ho-ho

41linepoems

0 nothing like a hardcore haiku.
1 one line in a poem is neutral.
2 to tell a lie like, "this is false".
3 this is a waste.
4 then-again: it isn't.

maths equals fail

the universe is not an equation, but we do know that if a = 1 and b = 1, then it follows that†...

a = b

and so...

a^2 = a*b
a^2-b^2 = a*b-b^2
(a+b)(a-b) = b(a-b)
(a+b) = b
a + a = a
2a = a

and if a = 1, then...

1 = 2

objective language is a wet dream. even the definitive rigor of mathematics; with its axioms, identities, derivations & transcendental #s, rationalisation of abstract quantities that established architecture & put π in the base of wine glasses & man-hole covers‡; develops from the tangible purity of sacred geometry to hodge-podge probability and chaos when trying to digest messy shit like quantum physics, the stock market, love and lust, or why my ex is a bitch.

∴ although language ≠ a clear picture:

THE PROOF IS IN THE PUDDING (consult your pineal gland)

__________________________________________

†the trick is - you can't devide both sides by (a - b) coz from a = b, a - b = 0 & you cant divide by 0 - it's against the RULES, yo.
‡& bottle tops; wheels; plates; tea lights; cogs etc etc