Jars (original poem version, 2nd revision)

As spider closes in,

wheels turn square;

call this the death of my hope (and)

my body's crazy dreams.

Turn the tap

to drain the cask,

but do not take,

is all I ask. 

In my belly: sharp and poison.

In my belly: poison'd stars.

How'd I earn these empty shoes I walk in?

By putting things in Jars.

Glass room (watching denial),

nobody's watching me now.

Noone, then, is laughing

at mother nature's clown.

I'm a loser, I'm a guy

who wanted to succumb

to an un-ending, lovely dream

of being bored and dumb.

In running away you altered me,

like a refugee fleeing.

Your love was like a burning blurry thing

that was just beyond my seeing.

In my BELLY: sharp and poison,

deep beneath (these) burning stars.

All I've learnt are empty lessons

from things I've kept in JARS.

My knife wields my psyche

(it whispers, in my secret inner ear,

two ways of departing

all I've collected here).

All the stars have burn'd up,

all the hate has been relieved.

The sky of my stomach is ablaze no more -

for all have disbelieved...

in Jars.

Lotus Shrink.

Spasming plasma
(the red home of rage).
Oh! the myopic miasma
deceiving my age.

A species of feline
with teeth infinite or none,
Crouch'd beyond treeline;
you'll leave it undone.

Love

to love you.

I love

to love you...
shrinkbackpissed/toosober

     

It is you! With fine Roman mien
set ablaze to fiery, fiery fire!
"There's shoes in your blood stream",

("In your veins!" I do say)
so now I know where you've been hiding your drugs
(you dumb, blonde, fuck).

Did you shudder in disgust
at the thought of being kissed?

Or do you quiver with lust
for my hot, bitter piss?

Turning, burning
these misty fields, I run
this pink wetness (oh, tongue! Yearn)
over the shrinking searing city on my tongue.

Sliding in daggers
one after another.
Those disappearing,
another, another.
Up several slimy, messy holes they go.
Go away.

And GO CAT, GO!
With claws over your eyes.
BITE! Lapping the dream-milk from my brain.

Lifelong Praxis.

Bitter blackness, boiling brew.

My vict'ry when myself I slew. 

And yet, to finish, raised knife -

found that I could not go through. 

Tore down walls instead, with rage, 

on instinct - acting half my age. 

I was built to be half-finished, 

I was born to burn my own page.

Plaque, some envy and a tooth decaying 

found out that my demon wasn't playing.

A perverted, self-run cabaret; 

A half-way state of things displaying

SCAT'TRD.

I have never been elevated,

I have served an empty throne. 

The enthroned one cares not for me,

For I sit in it alone.

I am a tautophonic scream

awake in humid, lucid dream.

They shouted me on taking 

medicines that keep them waking.

And yes, I attacked your weakness.

Yes, when you were vulnerable.

You chronicled it then,

and so did I.

But you didn't account

for my Fermentinfatuation 

or 

the relentless strength in you. 

* * *

Here I hate this absence of old

repeating the fiction of hurt.

I was stuck halfway between scattered and stoned.

Halfway between water and dirt.

Self-Deception Connoisseur.

So here I am, writing lies 

for fear of leaving nothing else,

as poetry ambiguous 

clouds neither brain nor body. 

Damn you, gravestone, 

and the coldness here interned. 

You don't share that secret 

which I alone would die for.

Pagan-godless heathen, Jew.

Alphabets within Alphabets 

Idiosyncryptic contexts 

and nervousness. 

I kill three men a year:

one, a baby 

one, a bore 

one (who used to guide me) 

can dead guide me no more. 

Turn away in time.

Runaway in tears.

What did you expect of me?

I am constructed from your fears.

Gin.

There's the smell of gin,

that takes me back
(and I feel this, write this
just for you).

Sometimes you used to say you'd come over
and I would wait around
in my unlit back yard,

by the unopened gate,

with the unopened gin,
but you would never show up,

so I could never let you in.

I was waiting to let you in,
but some nights you didn't show up.
I'd call you and ask you where you were
and you'd say you would be here, "Soon."

But the nights you came

they were marked by sin

and mastery of subtle conversation.

If it didn't have that sweet darkness

I wouldn't remember it today.

There's the smell of gin,

that takes me back!

And I feel this, write this

just for you.

And then I even thought the hurt was gone,
it lurked around some time-dark corner.
Puppy jungle-monkey love
or puppy love, puppy love.
Don't you ever end, or leave?

Secrets Whispered.

Whisper quiet brown
secrets witnessed,
since the collapse of starfall, time
(the brown paper bag of eternity),
or the day you were crowned
with a toilet-roll tiara.

Hymns of the elderly
(secrets) to which we are witness
hither to today
kissed me only
on my
spine.

Whisper secrets BROWN to EARTH (am I boring you?):
tell her compassion from weakness.
Tell her you thought you loved her,
but you don't care for fucking kindness.
Like this laughing during the middle
of a race-track nose-bleed.
Blank stare absorbed in the geometricity of the universe,
the blind doom of the empty cubicle next to yours (no witness).
Pulling the arcane teeth from the jaw of the commonplace,
to fill yourself with the enormity of singular, disconnected existence.

Re-affirm denial,
the shell-shock horror
in my sweaty palms.
The aligned and sorrow'd foot,

a shadow striking, stalking, burning blisters in the night.
And struck shock, struck terror - shock-stricken dagger
a sordid dagger in my chest, a shock, a terror,

sordid-terror struck shock, 

struck-terror, shock-stricken.

Clean and savvy Earth witnessed whispers,
(which you whispered to the trees)
the things you told their cousins:
sprucewood, alder and the ash;

and the crumpled paper bag,
brown
paper bag,
begs me for eternity.

Dawn (Before Sleep) Drawn Deep (The Way To Go).

Teutron T. NEUTRON 

discovr'r of the bomb. 

Scientific FACTS and stimuli - my eye! 

So was it you that sent me here?! 

On starvation & loathing,

dressed in women's clothing;

I slipped between the quantum phase.

`I thought The Way To Go WAS TO GO NOWHERE AT ALL.' 

It was like floating on the sun 

and all I'd ever done was to go nowhere.

So I impaled myself upon my prong

but this felt unnatural and wrong,

so I called the virgin, I called the whore,

and I pleaded,

and I begged.

Oh!

Oh, how I begged.

The very next day at 6am I had an appointment to get a blood test, but I needed to see a shrink. 

I was brought a bible by my favourite T.V. Programs. 

Never wanted to receive a punch in eye. 

Blackened, laddered heartthrob stockings, 

double-barrelled mental lockings;

and ALL I'D EVER DONE 

WAS TO SHARE MY STUPID SECRETS, 

and go nowhere, 

nowhere at all. 

The Indivisible Worm.

1. Scarlet Promises

I have all my mother gave me:

guilty, pretending affection.

All kisses strain love;

who could know (or guess)? A WOMAN.

The emptiness doesn't hurt,

pain is a struggle for fullness.

Emotionlessness a gene (like good skin)

that I protection faulted.

I land arse-first, like a blunt, drunk robot.

I had promised to be good

but only ever to myself.

AND 

I always was selfish: 

never showed my love, myself. 

And 

I became quite small. 

2. A Wilkes Withdrawal

Prone-positional pain,

that lump in my throat again.

Ragged disdain,

my self-moulded temperament.

AND ALL NIGHT I TALKED ABOUT MYSELF

in the uninsightful hope of someone liking me.

I read a poem and then sang songs and

MISTOOK MYSELF FOR A FUCKING ART SHOW...

again.

I was inwards of illusion.

"I am a problematic, pretentious social plebeian, and that doesn't begin or end!"

(That there were no solutions, I could not see yet).

Deeper down, I dislike my dad.

Now I malign my mother as well.

But TIME undoes these ragged stays,

that we lock into position with sweat, 

and keys of ribosomes and nucleotides,

and the black kisses of blood kinship.