Saturday, 31 October 2015

Dinner For Two

Light green or dark green
Fickle is nature the fickle nature
Scrunch the spines of every leaf and soak your thumbs 
In emerald juice
A bird of paradise is burning in hell

Early schedules descend in flight
A conflict with storming clouds 
Severe floating features frequent announcements of
Incoming turbulence
The heat over here is just too much to bear

First you learn suffering followed by that it remains
You skip class. You flee school
But outside the world will teach the same
It mightn’t sound as the most pleasant
So learn to ease yourself

Of questioning
Jet lags
So cold shower
Worn jeans under angry suns
Enjoy the burden of sweat and odour
The painful excessive attachment of cloth to skin

Ramshackle suburban house contrast that against huts of hay
Immersed in poverty
Poor but proud
A dollar a day
Forbid we fall ill

Living standards that quiver the appetite
Lunch over for more life
The rhythm and smell of floating incense
To soothe the soul
Like Vaseline

A hungry man with a fed up look
Plucks at something on the ground
Reserves you a seat
In case you want
To feast on hearts of pedestrians

'The Blind Man's Meal' by Pablo Picasso (1903)

Your Life is Your Bitch

Your grace
I serve a flamboyant existence
Due to all your wealth
You are wholly invincible
Your humble mistakes
Pardoned in pounds

You are a master of games
You can enslave the law
You can beat all those up
Dare they cause you
All blue and all sore

You shove down your wealth
Inside those cowardice mouths
You lecture them that lesson
You shut up the crowd

But there is one little thing
From which you can’t always hide
There is this one tragic thing
That gives you no sleep
That in all of that silence
You sob and you weep

Now please do not kill me
When I tell you something
You would rather not hear
Please do not kill me
For it is death you do fear

Though needn’t you worry
Be not as grey as the clouds
For on that day when you die
We shall project our pain loud

Atop your marble bed
Inside the silk -woven shroud
With rare golden thread
I shall not forget
I will sew you a pouch

So within you can carry
All of that wealth
And all of which
Which made you so proud

The Waiter

The brown fedora
With its multifaceted feather
Sits not on my head
But the cold concrete

I shelter outside
The department store
My survival depends
Upon your charity

You make of your life
A burdened misery
You deem of your future
A dreadful reality
So here you are
Six feet above me
Your white teeth shine
As you deposit
Your nobility

Oblivious you are
You abuse your literacy
You groan and tantrum
You people are the ones
Who undermine those like me
The merit to articulate
Our pain and agony

Yet give me not
Your sympathy
For this is not
The way 
It’ll always be

Much rather I would prefer
Your apathy
So give me that
Move on
Restore me some dignity    

Pink slime

Round faces sagging cheeks vigorous 
Like sinking ships
Black hair, mop hair
Barking dry on flat stomachs  

Sailing deprived of wind
A sad sense of humour
Alligning a deep voice
Burying fear inside sound pulsations
Producing muttered music

A counterfeit inside the throat of darkness 
A frog suffocates
Its blood green
Guts slime of dramatic nature
Long nails on short fingers
Tearing the tissue
This is what the tunnel gets for being fake

From naked trees
A crow takes flight and dies midair
Stop talking shit he’s still alive
In another nest
With his other wife

A worm for a worm
Slithering in the dirt
What a boring life who live in fear
The feather and flight
They’re a peaceful species
No need for war
No need for eye
The egos of I's

What is it like to get stepped on 
All the time, your pink little spines
What is it like
To feed off our rubbish
Or die instantly
When concrete is poured

Party Peacocks

There can only be
One peacock per party
A peacock is cocky
That is a given
Everyone knows
How cocky they are

Stuck up cocks
Never wearing white socks
With formal shoes
Never wears
Brown shoes
With black trousers

But will still strangle
Themselves
In suspenders
And they never
Wear glasses
Those are a different species of
Party bird
Called nerds

Nerd birds
Live in libraries
Sleep in book beds
With book ends
To stop the peacocks
Pecking their self-esteem
They live many lives
Because they read

Typically they will be
Sipping champagne
In the corner of the room
But leave them alone
In their natural habitats
Or risk them quoting
The Great Gatsby

Peacocks have a distinctive laugh
Almost a roar
Sucking attention
Out of the air
Their tails flair for laughter
They are called peacocks
Because they have
A cock
On their heads
Literally

Son of a Bitch

An atmosphere
Concealed in uncertainty
From which a stray dog
Emerges
Into and out of the distance

Landmarks of identity
On leather and fur
Each claims their territory
Each dictates their rule
Himself a founder
They all can say

A jacket to shield and safeguard
To defend to deter
Deflect the cruel
A home housing the haunted
A bag of organ
Bloody oath

A full stomach
Churns of untold hardship
The cycle borne through a foul routine
Swirls and swirls inside
The suffering of the dog
Is no different to mine

'The Blind Man's Meal' by Pablo Picasso (1903)

Turbulent Trails

A Collin on Collins Street
Elizabeth on Elizabeth Street
Collisions on Bullshit Boulevard
Open windows
Closed minds
Closing shop
Open legs
Babies born so easily bored

A boy fixes his hair
Insufficient reflection inside the car
An air conditioner barely battles the heat
The scorching relentlessness of the stubborn sun
The despondent guitar
In consideration of the despairing melody
The cancer blows up inside my ears

Instruments mocking language
An iced mocha, an acoustic guitar
No wonder why they volunteer to die for diamonds
Roofless cars commit
Ruthless honking
It’s called the public calling reform

No answer
Bash the bastards thick and greedy
Greedy and gross
They are grouped together it’s just hard to explain
Why is everyone so serious 
Your cue to laugh

Glass eyes
Glassed eye
The world is blind
Glassed faces
Glass buildings
Glass windows
Glassy
What a glassic

Five earrings each ear
Five in total, the other bare
Like salad dressing in golden attire
What silent disgrace
Our sea-drenched globe
A moth landing on sweating skin

Freedom is the wind washing my face
The triumph of trumpets
And the saxophone slowly butchering sadness
If life is prolonging the inevitable
Then being dead must be
The most realistic form of life

Bush Walking

Like thunderstorms
Like earthquakes
Like hurricanes
Rumbling through the jungle
Heavy boots of fellow campers
Demolish life along their route

Gamble with the odds of extinction
They dare you to inhale
Elongate your branches of leaves
Under your head of hair of weeds
Protect your fragile figure of thorns

Whisper and soak up the sun
Oh how you wish you were never born
As the boots come squashing 
Each weighing a ton
Implications of pain and torture
Bleeding the obvious

Hailstorms of dirt and metaphor
One boot at a time
Suffer the turmoil
There’s no one to bribe
There’s no where to run
The boots keep on coming
They’re having way too much fun

An opera directed catastrophe
The running time too long
Green faces
Made not out of envy
As death plays its song

One at a time your neighbors quiver
As they all fare goodbye
You wait your turn
An impatient patient
To be buried deeper

Falling Down

Crouched in beanbags sewn by hand
Tears streak red faces
A friend’s death is deadlier than
The deaths of strangers
Strangely so

Beauty standards of high order
Falling victim  
Dear life-threatening procedure
Comfort our mothers with arms too large
Hanging loosely
Around bending backs
Hollow like old trees
A hundred years old

Swallow wisely a medical consultation
Predominantly in silence
What seems like hours
Are minutes of torture
Solutions to rid sickness
Of barbaric authority

My mother would complain
Like once the child
I was
Complaining to her
A whole person split in half
Falling off stairs
And seeking treatment bounded elsewhere

Surgery overseas
Hesitation to flee the four walls
Of familiar territory
A prisoner in denial 
Of their own entrapment

Not a single shred attached
Of the former self
A body failing all of its sense
It hardly makes sense
To suffer downfall

Foul ball

Lung cancer
Throat cancer
Bitch cancer
Fuck cancer
What is the difference
It’s still cancer
But not just cancer
Because it’s fucking cancer

Proposer in poverty
Human beings in inverted commas
Read pathetic
Read pathetic, again
First you swallow the dust
Then it swallows you

If a tree can afford
The loss of a branch or a leaf
Then you as well
Can endure the loss of a friend
Or eight
Sometimes a stranger is nicer than a friend
And that is why you shouldn’t befriend them
Because they’ll never be
That nice again

Perhaps people buy fake flowers
Because they want a permanent solution
In school they said I had doctor’s handwriting
But I turned out to be a piece of shit
A stinking turd
But kind of intelligent
If women could read minds
You would be dead
Ten times over

Reckon yourself the artist
And dare to bare your freaking soul
Braless
Hardcore humour
Morons in the making
Two on the mattress, throw in the sheets
Turn off the heater o they’ll burn in the heat

Basketball courts played on by eunuchs
This is the perfect opportunity to make a joke
About their balls or lack thereof
About their testicles
Which were cut off
But it is gross
And would have been a bloody foul

Friday, 30 October 2015

My Friend's On Fire

The sturdy structure
Of the wooden container
Carries inside of it
A lifelong complainer
Who today will rest
As we set him on fire

The vessel of death
Glows in the flare
Screams of suffocation
Underneath all the wood
Lies a strangely brave friend

Who used to lie in his bunk
Of the world he would weep
To slaughter the sorrow
From his heart that it creeps
                                                                 
Who today a lone passenger
Boards the journey he seeks
Before the heat and the sea
Brawl at each other
In fire, the flame
Signifies he is free

I bet if he was standing here
To see what I see
He would say that he’s glad
To see himself dead
But I thinkn’t the same
It should have been us instead

This is not a joke

Corruption is the stocking of a suited man
They play me us the fool
The blazing sun shines on the dumbest one
Never wear the flag
The secret to the genes is in the trousers
I don't want to be filthy rich 
I just need to be rich enough not to worry about the fucking fine
That I just incurred 
While driving 
God knows how rich that'd have to be
But it's enough 
If you ask me 

I would recommend 
Never brush your teeth in the shower
Unless you like diluted toothpaste
Suppress the consequence 
And see to the human trunks without limbs
You’d never say it’s just music to a musician
So why’d you say
It’s just money
To a beggar

A one-man revolution against himself
Bleed yourself dry
Nipples so long they cast their own shadows
Cold shoulders
Cold feet
Cold hands
A cold heart
Cool shades
“Prada”

Palm leaves weeping in the wind
So much pressure so be yourself
Gods and clowns
Gods versus clowns
Round three
Boiling rage
Boiled eggs
Free range
Your children are a measure of time
Signed letters, yours truly

But there is something quite sad
About the sight of a man
Not just a man, but a man eating ice cream
A turd buffet
Ideas will expire depending on context
In high school the teacher said good writers copy
Great writers steal
At university the tutor is threatening  
To slam a penalty if we dare to plagiarize

Wrinkly hands
A parade of five fingers
Only one salutes on centre stage
Nourished in bullets
Pellets and gunfire
What is the forecast for egotistical war
Will it rain casualty
Or confetti

My fingers smell of incense
I guess only janitors can say
Their jobs are shit in a literal sense
A breathing corpse
A creaking chair
Sometimes I am so sad
For no reason at all

This is kind of a joke

A man crossing his legs like a woman
A woman crossing her arms like a man
What does it matter but
Stand up, for the burning comedy of BBQ sauce capitals, never
Neglect your grandma
She is the supply for our op shopping habits 
Our vintage store ventures
Without her
Without her clothes
Without the odour that comes with them

They will never be able to sell detergent in those 
Big coloured bottles with
Laundry towels rolling around
Life is a myth and the tail of death
Keeps chasing itself
A showcase of skeletons
The clever ones will always expect the expected; feel sorry for our mothers
No one should wake up with dishes to do
Incoming outcomes

Hold the line, run your mouth
In expensive poverty
Running out of room to run
Agents of free will
Willing terror, tragedy, and tears
Tomorrow is never new
So remember to renew
Your library books

Spoiled milk for spoiled children
Milkshakes when shaken
Conventional dialogue
Empty houses
Empty heads
Empty the money jar
For more emptiness
You are poor
Because you deserve to be

Skeleton flowers immerse 
Blatant abuse
Goodnight to irrational men and halfhearted women
It is easier to straighten your cards on a hard surface
Crazy coldness
Shiver to sip on lifeless coke flatter than
Your mother’s forehead

Cracking screens
Like butt cracks
Hang up phones
For hang up lines
Pick up lines
For laundry madness
This doesn’t make any sense
You’re still reading it

Mantra of Madness

The chanting of an anthem
Borrowed from unattainable peace
A cloak for vulnerable form
Desperate for warmth
Alarms the atmosphere
In response to a thirst for light

In the confusion
Fatigue falls from the former face
Now a mask
A disguise
An escape
Explosive illusion to be the fool and be made of foolish

Amidst the chaos
Aside the absence of sanity and that of sound
Hosted inside an entity
The forlorn host and the war internal
The bloodshed inwards

An ocean of brutal injustice
To stir inside oneself
Feelings of disgust and utter self-hatred
Loathe the weakness oozing within

Request the ocean’s mercy to be devoured
To cease the suffering 
Of mortal being
Stroll against the tide
The natural instinct to survive

To be 
Their legend of gossip 
From one mouth to another
Slaughter the subject
Curse at the mercy that doesn’t exist