another drunken phone call
from my little girl blue
i listen to her stagger
and remember the mess i have made of myself
flinging shit around the walls
in those obnoxious midnight whirlwinds
she slurs her misanthropic words
looking for love in all the wrong places
all the guys she wastes herself on
not knowing what she wants
getting used and crying on my shoulder
and i try to suck out the negativity
suck it out of her like a poison
a mouth full of another guy's sperm
spit it out into a tissue
or sometimes i spit it back in her face
coz i get mad at what she does to herself
and it comes off as jealousy
or parenting
or whatever
and we argue
then we stop
and get over it.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Friday, September 07, 2012
my mother's tit and tat
from corner to corner
an assault course of crock and bauble.
trinket and trifle,
gimcrack, knickknack,
widgets, whatsits, debris, doodads, bunk and junk.
towers that collapse and crumble under the weight of their own neglect.
tiny polly-pocket worlds of wrinkling reams inside inside inside of folders.
boxes inside boxes, like matryoshka dolls.
through latin and russian - my matron and mother.
stacked into columns so tall
they threaten to meet at the top to form arches
and forever block the sun in underground tunnels,
fit for squinting rodents. so defensive of her mounds,
the vole house.
the house i grew up in.
when i visit the little crooked house
deep in the guts of birmingham
i feel as if i am wading through runny flab
drowning in the excess
crouching through aching arches of forgotten paper
snippets, clippings, printouts. incomplete tangents.
my mother's ideas trailing off into obscurity
to remain undiscovered until too late to enjoy.
when they will be the tatters of the dresses to which i used to cling with little fingers.
when they will absorb my eyes with her forgotten spells.
when i will have to send my mother's silent cackle into the crackle of an industrial furnace.
on the fridge in the kitchen -
that aladdin's cave of culinary alchemy -
a magnet says,
"please do not write your name in the dust"
and i laugh as i read it,
laugh with my beautiful mother,
at the bags and boxes,
wherein one can find relics relics relics
of recipes that were never to be tasted;
like squirrels forgetting where they left their feast.
the growing bags under her eyes.
my mother is a hoarder
so i must wait for her senility,
thereby robbing me of the catharsis
of burning books
of refining volumes
of the breaking of paper chains.
till senility,
as these days most of us must
with such an excellent national health service
that lets our smiles rot before we are finished being young
and keeps us alive long enough for our minds to do the same.
on this cusp of dementia
on this line for which my mother would kill me
or possibly herself
with those pills she told me about
on my 14th birthday
and she tells me to be careful with that axe, you gene of mine
careful of this hoardom, forcing me to perform covert burials.
midnight fly tipping jobs.
back and forth from one tip to the other.
tip tip tip toeing to the windy landfills to which me must all return,
one day in a box,
to be eaten by worms and worse,
to be lost in a gust,
and blow away
blow away
remember
remember
an assault course of crock and bauble.
trinket and trifle,
gimcrack, knickknack,
widgets, whatsits, debris, doodads, bunk and junk.
towers that collapse and crumble under the weight of their own neglect.
tiny polly-pocket worlds of wrinkling reams inside inside inside of folders.
boxes inside boxes, like matryoshka dolls.
through latin and russian - my matron and mother.
stacked into columns so tall
they threaten to meet at the top to form arches
and forever block the sun in underground tunnels,
fit for squinting rodents. so defensive of her mounds,
the vole house.
the house i grew up in.
when i visit the little crooked house
deep in the guts of birmingham
i feel as if i am wading through runny flab
drowning in the excess
crouching through aching arches of forgotten paper
snippets, clippings, printouts. incomplete tangents.
my mother's ideas trailing off into obscurity
to remain undiscovered until too late to enjoy.
when they will be the tatters of the dresses to which i used to cling with little fingers.
when they will absorb my eyes with her forgotten spells.
when i will have to send my mother's silent cackle into the crackle of an industrial furnace.
on the fridge in the kitchen -
that aladdin's cave of culinary alchemy -
a magnet says,
"please do not write your name in the dust"
and i laugh as i read it,
laugh with my beautiful mother,
at the bags and boxes,
wherein one can find relics relics relics
of recipes that were never to be tasted;
like squirrels forgetting where they left their feast.
the growing bags under her eyes.
my mother is a hoarder
so i must wait for her senility,
thereby robbing me of the catharsis
of burning books
of refining volumes
of the breaking of paper chains.
till senility,
as these days most of us must
with such an excellent national health service
that lets our smiles rot before we are finished being young
and keeps us alive long enough for our minds to do the same.
on this cusp of dementia
on this line for which my mother would kill me
or possibly herself
with those pills she told me about
on my 14th birthday
and she tells me to be careful with that axe, you gene of mine
careful of this hoardom, forcing me to perform covert burials.
midnight fly tipping jobs.
back and forth from one tip to the other.
tip tip tip toeing to the windy landfills to which me must all return,
one day in a box,
to be eaten by worms and worse,
to be lost in a gust,
and blow away
blow away
remember
remember
Sunday, September 02, 2012
corn fucker fucking dog
from my 3-month trip to America, titled "American Crumble and the Gluttony Honeymoon"
and so it comes to tinned pigs brains in milk gravy and deep fried butter. these things are real. i have seen them with my own eyes. can't cookies and i scream crumbling and dribbling down mall swelling "i heart attack" t-shirts. it's never been the same since it came out the wrapper. meat product. cheese product. powdered cheese. squeeze cheese. spray-on cheese, in the land of circumcised sausages and castrated dog dicks. ground up re-constitutional quote unquote meat held together in messed up gut paste tubes. intestines into intestines. this is modern alchemy. this shit has to be stirred as part of its manufacture. i cannot stress this enough. corn dogs, corn syrup, corn flakes, corned beef, corn muffins, popcorn, corn-hole. me so corny. so chokingly cheese-steak-tastic. corny and cheesy are words chosen to mean bad taste. this is not a coincidence. neither are the domesticated mongrels staring cross-eyed vacant into the twinky-winkling salt crystal stars and stripes of streaky bacon, rippling and spitting on the hot-plate. have you not noticed before? that the spangled banner is a giant piece of bacon, crisping and curling at the edges? (the stars came later in 1777). we used to eat pigs in blankets, and look where the revolution has led us - to shrink wrapped irradiated dreams. to oink and snorting slaughter house debris galvanised in glittery candy bread, sloppily resuscitated by dielectric magnetic waves. that's adultery right there. but who am i to judge - amen and awomen - when you lick your slithery slave fingers. who am i to judge when the world's richest country gobbles dog food?
as a border patrol cop told me coming over the border from canada, "boy don't even think of coming here if you aint got enough dough" ...yes officer lard ass. i can see that (wibble. wobble).
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