I am not even Drunk

Clean slate like an arse wiped
after something nasty flew
like rotten birds if run down
squarking from lonely you.

If mustard, mr mustard, must
do what he must do,
he must write me now a letter
after letter from the clues.

What causation makes redemption
if a tongue has spoken blasts
and tears in furrow minded help-me-lords
with tongues in cheek?

I think for weeks and weeks
its been coming down to this
that it might only take a little kiss
out onto pages on a street.

Forget needing anything from anyone
even a shoulder or a sound,
get your money underground
and wake to art on sticks.

The trick is tricking everyone
to know the truth of lights
when covered in a black sheet
like it was killed.

You have suffered just enough or more
than enough and have had the victory
of knowing more than love
and staying in half a piece.

So dear friend of bends and crosses
drift into a sober arch where even smoke
becomes that past and seeping
slow into a now of consciousness becomes.


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.