What it is

I drove 200km and remembered the way down a gravel track
to a house where I recorded my thoughts and drove back
against my friends wishes.

I am unsure exactly if what I know is what I know
when it comes to three women I think of.

I have this urge to understand what it is I am in,
some trapped version of a life
where I seem free but am not,
wanting more and more to find something
that makes me understand what is.



This noise, whirring,
alerts me to silence.
The others seem to be giving me brain cancer.
These hero’s.
They just go on and on these hero’s.
They tell you they’ve been to jail,
out on probation,
I feel sick and was scared before bed.
I drank, I might now again.
This consideration of paper.
Being drunk makes you write,
that is sad,
that is alarming.
That is Bukowski and his udder’s.

Sober Party

Some ache you must break
just the pain you downed, blocked,
stored away that stays,
pray it burns out.

For even walking I fell,
footsteps harder,
like two belts
stopping rape,
it happens.

I want, I want.
Not you.
Not me.
that makes me work,
a knife in my back.

Stay clear of those pills
they call a party.
Safety is stored in peace
where you are sane
and close
to someone sober.

That Woman

In morning after drinks I feel my brain frail and weak
trying to master speech with coffee just gone.
What is it I want now that I have nothing left
for my life continues for now.
I could work for a house, a car or a wife,
battling mornings forever.
Though  I want one thing now that I can’t have
and that is a woman I saw once.

Read or Die?

Morning is ruined by sex before marriage
and a bot-net run by the “alpha” guy of chat.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said her vagina wasn’t fresh…

I was trying to ward her off me.

Now I have wondered why I just cannot let go.
Why must I attach so much to so much.

There are too many things around me.
Too many objects, I want them gone.
I want to write and paint in solitude.

Reading seems worth it in a small way, just small.
Writing is more important than reading.

Anyone can read.


My Habitation

Setting mood, like sex, it throws us down aloof.
The kettle lover is burning for the morning smile.
Paint and guitars are everything to semi-monks.
Stay away from drugs if you have a child.

To sure the sights on fought soil for seasoned comings,
we raise our bloody hands as evil dies away.
Bombing people has no reason if it is just for cradles.
Sleeping deaths are forced for some moon in futures.

My ego says to you that I am a hero.
You laugh as you know I am weaker than that.
I cannot even last a day without habits.
When a scientologist told of nuns were raped.



When I am lost, dejuncted? Troubled…
and at a standing point against a wall
where everything’s too hard and nothing works,
I find myself to hide in words.

Really I think to myself words are all I have.
These joins of letters like a rash.

I try to get interested in other things
and be hard working and brave,
though really all I have when I have nothing
is what I can say to you.

Someone said my charm is negativity.
That was a hard thing to hear.
I want to be more than low
and raise up a Sun to someone.

I think writing takes more than objects.
It takes less objects.
You can have all this stuff and not need it at all.

Really all you should do is write.
Concentrate on it.
You may never become wealthy
though yes you could be seen and heard
somewhere by someone else.

If you have lived a bit of trouble
and still wish no one harm,
maybe you have learn’t something
from that weakness.

You are scared to cause harm
for fear of a revenge,
this weakness is your saviour
in a future come.

You could admire police
and wish you were them.
Battling against bad all day.

Though when you look inside
at what you are like,
you just want a kiss and to hold
a girl close and make love.

So if I am a channel
for anything,
a voice can speak now.

“You need less things, or nothing other than the thing you are heading for.”