LEND ME

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Take my ears
And listen how to drop that life;
Ignore the past for it has passed.
Embrace the now because it’s here
and ours for keeps; just fuck the lot –You’re not like them.
I’m not like them;
We’re not like them.
It’s not your fault
nor is it mine.
Just let me in;
Just hear me knock.
And as I do,
You’ll open up
And as you do
I’ll give you love
A thing I have a fuckload of
And you’ll give back in smile, embrace;
In hugs in blankets
Stories told
As Love erases history
A future which
Lives on and then
Eternity shall live again
A first time love
Two born again
Where whispered words
make love anew
And you admit
That in this now
That somehow
Somewhere it
Makes sense
Where time and space
Conspire as one
Where each
coincidence is good,
where nothing
Harms you – never shall
For you are mine
Your soul, your shell
Your mind, your body:
All these things.
There’s things that you
can’t see for now
And as I lend my eyes and ears
at last you’ll listen how.

My nightlife

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I woke last night with poetry
And wrote until my pen went home
My midnight bookshop overflowed with life;
A paper sea waved anew.
When I woke in the night with poetry
I felt like it was waking too.
I’d spent all my years with stories
Like there’d never be another tome
Each more vast than the last –
Wider than the Sargasso Sea
For I spent my years with stories
Because they spent their pages with me.

Our Place

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In a place called Tomorrow – please learn of it now
there no fucks must be given, no when and no how;
In Tomorrow two minds comprehend the insane
and illogic makes sense ‘cross a watery plain;
Your Tomorrow is now just a lap at your shore
and a saviour – not Christ – knocks a knock at your door;
There forever beats never and spits in its face
which it beats to a blood-pulp and leaves not a trace;
As it learns to replace where its heaven is hellish
where both True and Complete beat an unsettled marriage.
Here all time planes diverge or they split into two;
once converged, now emerges a me and a you
and we two become one as we always just WERE
where we kiss as we fuck and we fuck as we stare;
For this place called Tomorrow, it’s raw and it’s real
there it’s filthy and loving, fuckpleasures congealed;
where it’s everything dirty yet none of it is
where forever is always and nothing is sin.
There’s no fucktwats or evilfucks messing with us;
for I love all you are: and I love you because.
The same in reverse has not ever been truer
as you love like you’ve never considered another;
You embrace me and pedestal-place me up there
where you stare in my eyes and you play with my hair;
where you kiss me and love me and read me to sleep,
and with closed eyes protect me with vision unpeeped.
In this place- in this home, or wherever we are,
whether near or apart it will never be far;
in two hearts love one soul and one mind holds another;
where our past’s in the past and is never a bother:
Thank ourselves, thank our pasts, thank Eros’ random arrow;
from this love of today we shall love more tomorrow.

DREAMBOAT

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A love that hid had been there all along; not knowing what to do or how to feel – with unexpressed refrain via word and song, it died a little more with each deep need. Habitual fucked suffering bore he, and never had he seen the things he should. But soon he’d borrow new – two eyes of she, and all at once a mirror: understood. A touch, a hug, a blanketed embrace…a kiss, a smile, a closed eye to correct. As shivers resonated, he gave words – his stories read, preparing to protect. And in their future, separation’s wrong, not figuring in thoughts or dreams awake; not happening in dreams nor thoughts asleep – subconscious love so real for true love’s sake. Through sleeping passion she would swell her lips as slowly he’d forget to recollect; a hug…a warm and blanketed embrace, this man in life so fucked, in dreams perfect.

DEAD ME

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When I hand this body back
I want it used and inked with sin.
I want it scarred
and kinda fat
with writers’ stories
written on me here upon my skin.
When this body of mine dies
I need it pinned and pierced with steel
I need it rough
and wrecked and fucked
with all the funstuff
on display right here where life was real.
When I hand my corpse over
I need it loved and overfed
I want it relished,
taken, used
And need my life’s love
on my dead face showing ravaged red.
With me I’ll take nothing back
No cash nor trophies cross the Styx
Won’t want a perfect body then
No vessel matters when its contents die with one last trick.

FUCKHEAD

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I’m SO not a racist – how very DARE you- for I had a brown neighbour and once knew a Jew.

How CAN you accuse me of bigoted views when the Paki shop’s there as the one I still use? What? You just accused me AGAIN, did you not?

Well, I once knew a blacksort who lived down the road so don’t call me a bigot; stop writing that ode. And they’re all muslims anyway – want us all dead; I’ve the right to defend ‘gainst a gun to my head. And they bow in their mosques to exclusion of me – where is MY sacred church? Why can’t I be as free? And my one God is THE God and they are all wrong; and I’ll kiss his godarse via word and in song.

Forget those atrocities caused by Crusade, just pull up a white chair and drink white lemonade. Forget Christians ‘splayin dead skin from their doors. (And Hypatia, schmatia- rubbish folklore).

Think now of white Jesus – just look at the art; and don’t start with semantics, I’ll wisdom-impart. You’ll find Nigger’s from Niger, or black – so it’s free to be used if you still have the knack, don’t you see?

And Paki’s contracted – I’ll enjoy and I’ll use it, whilst speech remains free they can’t say I abuse it; and WOG’s just an acronym I’m gonna use, whilst I think about chinks and those orthodox Jews.

Coz it’s them or it’s me so I’m happy to say that if God came to visit they’d be on their way. For I know I am right, see – and they are all evil with blackness and hatred of all we white people.

But I’m still not a prejudiced bigotty racist – now come here while I teach you the white person basics.

Hail, poetry

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If I die before I write, think only this of me: I’d rather fucking snuff it now than live to one-oh-three.

If I write before I die may all my stuff be good; with character and twists and spatter, spit and cum and blood.

If I die before I die and end up motionless, just give me bastards,
cunts and twats and I’ll not be distressed.

But if words die before I do then watch as I unwrite. All ugly words
breed poetry, such beauty in their shite.