Monday, 28 December 2009

The Rebel Always Finds A Cause

Desperate croaks from a child searching
For his rebellion, but nothing creaks
Nothing groans against his shoving or his
Obtuse behaviour and whines.
There is something out there with his name on it
And it is lit with fierce fire and glittering
With melting, splitting coals, demanding attention
Because no-one, nowhere is tending it
Washing it and caressing it and its pleading
Pleading to be represented and strung high
To be martyred and noticed
The child grinds his knuckles into the stiff wood of his
Desktop, crying in rage, tears squeezing vice-like
From screwed up, balled up eyes. Spittle lurks in the
Corner of the rebel’s mouth, blown by gasps
And sobs as the spirit runs rampant
Tussling with the need of the fire, with the yearning embers
That only he can see, can act for, can speak for
If only he could speak at all. But
He can only cry and wail to himself in silence
A silence that carries more rebellion than his young heart can know.
The red eyes aid his fire’s cause, the tired weep
Splashes over the streets and the nights and the days
That lay at the foot of his bed and the gateway to his life
Marking his purpose with the lapping floods that show
That above all else, he cares and wants to do it,
It is anything so long as it is his and it is there for him to
Fight for.

The fire warms him and strokes his back like the lapping
Of a friendly cat’s rough tongue, nuzzling his broken
Spirit and his broken, angelic neck, as he continues
To beg on the other’s behalf, desperate to keep
His feet and his ground that they stand upon,
Still from rocking, but to demand and wail till they hear
Till they cannot ignore the cries of a solitary yelling the
Need of so many using just a simple voice and a human
Method of such common existence, that its fiery source
Must be acknowledged and received, but not welcomed.

The forest burns without their knowledge and he dances in
The middle of its snapping branches and clamping jaws
Singing to himself as he has always done, his hair flinging around himself
And licking his shoulders, the smile has dried up the tears
They look at him as if the child has lost all sense and sanity
But he keeps whirling around to the drumbeat, he knows
They are there but it makes no difference to the chant that he has
Throttled from his heaving chest.
‘Look if it makes you notice! Listen if it makes you wonder!
Touch if it makes you comfortable!’ The child laughs to himself
And to all of them standing, watching him. The wood is
Collapsing in on itself and they try and bait the boy from the flickering orange
But he has nothing to say to them, petting the crackling bark with his
Naked hands to soothe the forest and its quiet moans, hushing it like
A mother a child.
He knows what his reasons are, he has found his purpose and as such
He will take it with him and the trees to his
Grave that he dug the moment he was

Sunday, 27 December 2009

Gonna be one of those nights

It just got pressed.
The self-destruct button has been pressed.
The timer is flashing; the numbers fluttering away.
Poor old construct won’t see another day.

It looks distressed.
The blood-soaked parcel seems so distressed.
Flickers of fear sparkle across its glistening hide.
There are puddles of oil where it may have once cried.

Its time has come!
Everyone, protect yourselves! Its time has come!
The explosion will destroy its entire fucking world.
But then, I guess its world ended a long time ago anyway.

And this is just a formality. Something that occurs every six years.

One More Truth

There are six billion people
On this soggy rock,
Every one the unique result
Of an equally soggy cock.

Friday, 25 December 2009

How to Kill Christmas

If you build a god out of yourself,
at least you know what you're worshiping.

Bad Day/Bad Night

Sun's not even down.
I'm drunk
and the impending night air tastes bitter.
Or maybe I just have a little soul stuck between my teeth.

Thursday, 24 December 2009


The lowly star-fucked traipsed
Their lonely way ever westward.
Droplets of love,
Breadcrumbs leading back
To each moment of ruin.

‘Touch my insides,
Squirt your signature into my flesh,
Let me know what it feels like
To be famous.

I’ll give you anything.
I’ll give you everything.’

Disheveled and bedeviled
The chain gang marches on.
A taste of fame,
Simply not enough
To sustain a dream.

Wednesday, 23 December 2009

Chicken Bones

The foxes are growing more brazen,
Patrolling the frozen London streets

They scatter their chicken bones over the paving slabs
Like shamans preparing to laugh at your future

But then sniff arrogantly at what the fates utter
Before strolling through the night’s crimson sunshine.

I sit motionless on the bench in Battersea
Dear snake Thames crawling beyond my feet

The muddy blood of dear zombie town
I reach and retch and scatter my own.

The pulsing meat of my heart pecks at my ribs
A mottled choir assembled by memory, conducted by blow.

The red canopy of the London sky rains more blood
Filling the river and soaking my pale, pale skin.

Everything in this town is red.
Everything in this town is dead.

Another red fox appears from stage left
A greasy chicken bucket clenched in his teeth.

Its red striped paper spiraling down like drool
A natural extension of his gammy fluff.

And a whiff of dead chicken
Weaves through the coke clogged in my nose.

He stops, looks at me, as if he’s challenging me
A ratty gameshow host and his rattier contestant.

I snort, spit and raise myself from the bench,
Turning my back to the taunts of the fox.

Shuffling along the unkempt pathway
I discern the darkly familiar patter

Of chicken bones
Being scattered over paving slabs.