POEM for a Souther Girl

 Southern baptist bound and tied 

For a life that has forgotten 

The wounds of young too deep and true 

American blue, red white and cool

From a father who didn't know mercy 

And a mother who couldn't find freedom 

Free-mom R.I.P. the chains with growing pains

And rid yourself of the pasture times and pastor’s lines 

Poised and coinless left to devices of her own

She strives when and if the time is right 

Or wrongly strongly holding onto a glimpse 

Of a future worth fighting for 

Tangled wicked web of stitches

Snitches get a glimpse then twitch

For the Pastor’s voice still holds its valore 

Shell never say a work about what happened in those parts

Not today, nor not ever 

City Wasted

 You left me out there in the cold

Shook me to the core

There not much left anymore

I’m a slave to your love

Broken the bottle open wide

Drank til I was numb

Nothing heals the pain that lasts

Tactless bastard of the aftermath

10 Thousand miles yearning for touch

Never learned to play the game

All alone, utterly alone

You took me out to the city 

Made me crazy and fucking wasted 

I did this

Plane Spotting

 

Fickle Presence

 She lays mostly asleep in an early morning slumber, the heat pushing against the dew on the windows opposite of the cold London November air. Is she dreaming? I wonder, are those dreams like mine - the ones that stirred my brain and pulled me out of bed like a fact defying inertia. Or does she sleep soundly as I hoped to; caressed and cared for by the beautiful subconscious, euphoric restful bliss. Is it the calm before the storm, before the maladies of life evoke their innate purpose and stir the momentary dead? I pray for her while sipping lemon ginger tea from a Zara home cup, profoundly unoriginal and serving its purpose. 

Sleep deprived but still I wake, with pupils dilated and bags like elephants hanging from sky she parachutes - I wonder...What does it feel like to be present in sleep? Is it a state of nothingness; unscathed by the wrath of virtuous thought and incessant desires? Is it dreamlike, or Dantes Inferno, is the fire blue or orange, or envy green? Is it speckled light and paisley dripped kaleidoscope art, illuminating the back of eyelids shut firmly but ever capable of lifting? Oh, I wonder. Is it a painting canvas asking for a beating, to be drenched like an orgasm? Is it that ecliptic moment right before release where all you want is to achieve nirvana knowing it's gone quicker than it came?

Sunrise, east side, come again today - be my unnecessary alarm, guarded soldier without a war. Rise from the same side of the bed and feel the wooden path to morning glory. Shit, shower, shave, take meds, breath, eat, pray, plan, act...be. But can we be? Why does the present feel so different from our distant dreams where one part is vivid and the other is a blur in a windstorm, suffocated memory glands of dust from the dessert. Attempt to live the dream from notes which look only like ripped projector screen images, but try nonetheless. Since if we cannot choose our sleep, nor our dreams, nor our lives - all we have control over is this moment which passed by before we ever saw it coming. 

Young Man, Old Bill

30 days he said in the room, thats how far I have come. It feels like eternity as I sit back in this chair waiting for the right opportunity to give a share - a bit of knowledge I feel I amassed. See, I am the clever one in this room. The mighty lion who has conquered addiction without affliction, everyone should listen to my roar. Young woman only 3 days clean sits back, glued to her fucking Samsung flip phone screen. She isn't even clean, nor serene, taking up a seat in the den and eats, where all the real addicts meet. 

Im sleeping well, with my emotions at bay - easily finding my way to every meetings across the town. I find the winners, or so I think, but they'll probably relapse as they are not as smart as me. I thank baby Jesus, God, or whatever is thee - give over  my self will, and see that higher power be. 

Presently content and innately perturbed, confused why no one is talking to me. No coffee invites, sponsors, or suggestions about new great TV. While I sit patiently for my time to speak, for everyone to sit back and notice me; I twiddle my fingers at the commiserated nonsense, who better than I? 

Each story of misery, plotted and twists, sitting with abated breath and clenching fists -  Is life all that bad huh? You need a drink. You left all your family to ponder and think. While your kids did their homework and fastened a meal, you drank and you drank until you couldn't feel. So what they're older, they've stopped talking to you now, your sons a divorced heroin addict and daughter a Munchausen syndrome cow. You made a choice just like to be here today, pissed, drank, fucked, shot up everything away. 

I'm not as bad as you, I can safely confide, since i only drank myself to hanging and nearly died. Im alive in this room as I look at these two buffoons - sipping decaf coffee counting years of loneliness reciting prayers to be on the offence. You cannot be serious, taking advice from the hacks, ripped * stretched shirts and outdated pleated slacks. See I have 30 days in these rooms and they should be thanking me, for all the advice that I can bring with blissful glee. 

Its just then it struck me what my purpose must be, alone with my 30 day chip, I can clearly see. That all these poor saps are just like me - a different number in their pocket and a crippling decree. Do not take that first drink they say, or you'll end up like me, a drunk washed up punk - the universal wannabe. 

So just for today I take a seat, 30 days clean, bitter and serene. Listen to the drunks, the liars and the defeated, like looking into a mirror, this is what I needed. 

Day 5 - The Court

 The Court 

Trying to shake the itch that sticks and twitches at my skin

Pure addition, void of fiction - this is real life

Face it, We Can

Stop lying, You’re losing track 

The weight is even on both sides at the local bar 

Choose We Can

Stricken and afflicted by my past 

Trying to last without the glass that always FEELS empty

Don’t fill it. We Can 

Emaciated faces locked in by gates and fates

that we can control but, we don’t

Eat, breath, speak, love. We Can

Disease does not mean we cannot cease, 

To escape the tape, rope and ties -  to fix our lives 

DO it, We can. 

That Sexy Motha Fuckin' Coronavirus

Years later I am surely to look back at the title of this and marvel in its childish nature, but after months of isolations my ethereal and adolescent brain just wont let me attach a mature naming.

So its time, its been long enough to write what I do recognise as cliche' yet compulsory, obligatory even - thoughts on covid and the experience of self isolation. Rather than drone on with endless paragraphs of prose, which while purple, I promise you are missing out on some stunning vocab works. But, rather than being enlightening, charming, well spoken and driving couples from coital slavery, I'll go with a list. A list of of observations and experiences throughout this joyous opportunity for solitude and confinement. Mom - not everything I write is true or about me. I've learned these precursors are necessary when engaging in such a piece.

So "here it comes" in my best Alex Turner Sheffield England accent.

Observations of a lonely dickhead in isolation:

1. There is a new found obsession with keeping devices 100% charged. Its like there is this imminent fear that at one point the electricity is going to go out and I'll be left with 4 hours of macbook pro juice, and if I am lucky 9 hours of iPhone life before Im digging through the drawer of junk trying to find a fucking kindle which, mind you, has zero connectivity capabilities other than connecting to amazon. Which may allow me to buy another phone without batter therefore depleting my bank account and still being deprived of social distancing interaction via the virtual world.

2. Everyone is now attractive. I went for a run yesterday through Victoria park where typically Lovebox is held every year. The irony of social distancing in a park that is used to hosting 5,000 people dry humping each other listening to house music is comical. However being in isolation opens up your mind into whats attractive. For me as Im running about ANY boob bounce was a turn on. Small, big, uneven, nipples only. I was starting like a dope fein out in Santa Monica boulevard praying for a quarter drop. How long will this last? As soon as I am able to touch in the words of superbad an actual female nipple, will this dissipate or am attracted to any and all - ambivalent throughs leave me dizzy, but oh the boobs will save me.

3. People don't want to be alone. There is more connectivity than ever. As I speak with clients who live alone or partners who wish they lived alone for a day, there is a innate desire to be around other humans. Its gives credence to the commercials, social media posts, and profiteers who promote "us" and being there for each other. It's show that we cohabitate for a reason, that love is not lost and people should not fear change with one another but fear the notion of a desolate universe.

4. Anyone else have a sweet tooth? Last week I had a kit kat bar pre 9am every day. I woke up at 4am this morning started drinking sweet orange juice from the bottle and chased it down with a chunk of M&M bar with crispy bits. If you have not tried that candy yet, get yourself a mask, bandana or comdom, wrap that fucker around your face and get your virus susceptible body into an off license to buy one. They are delicious.

5. Friends are the best. Prior to this two men calling up each other on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday would be considered "gay" or even questioned by our partners as an excessive catch up. I have about 3 calls a week with my good friend Dom - who I think is probably gay. His hair is now growing out and he is using his fiance's hair tie to push it back. Sadly its not long enough to do so, so its more of an act of feminism but I love him anyway. Dom - when you're ready to come out of that closet I will be there...two homosexual meters away. Not because I am worried that you are going to try to butt hump me, just because its the rules. You understand.

6. Online dating is for the birds. I started off the first couple weeks in a full rabit hole. I was like Anthony Kiedis in Scar Tissue - there was not a drug he wouldn't try shooting, not an app I wouldn't give a look. It was not until after my friend Freddie recommended some app that turned out to be all people with bisexual fetishes like feet, pee-pee, and in some cases beating each other with cooking equipment that I had to take a step back and question both my sexual orientation and prowess. There are some advances beings in this crazy world of sex. I highly recommend putting the apps down.

a) if you meet you'll get sick. If you are thick enough to believe that they have decided to risk their health for you and only you because of your uncut hair and 4 inch dick, you're wrong. You are likely guy number 4 this week and not only do you have COVID but you have Chlamydia.

b) Take this time to be alone. We never have that opportunity to be truly alone. Masturbate.

c) No one tells the truth on these things. Even if you end up on an emotional rollercoast of whatsapp transition conversations, they are saying what you want to hear and vice versa. You'll meet in 3 months and realise you like her friend who isnt a cunt.

7. Speak to your family. If you hate them or love them, they are thinking of you. I lose my grandfather during this virus, and to the virus. When he was on a ventilator against his will the nurse help her mobile phone up to his ear so that each one of his grandchildren could say goodbye. From London to Virginia, to Connecticut, and California we all said our final words and an Irish blessing. As if almost planned by a god I can't call mine, he passed just as my father said his final words. I hope no one reading has had to experience a loss but if you have, you're not alone. Call your family often, kiss them if you can. This virus is a motha fucka but its not going to ruin all our plans.

So I'll leave it at lucky number Sleven which is a great movie on Amazon Prime if anyone is keen on horse racing and Josh Hartnett, yes he did another movie outside of Pearl Harbor. Stay isolated and stay sane. If you feel sad call a friend, call a family member. Guy -  don't be shallow or try to be omnipotent, we all need help at times, and this time is no different. Whether it's on facetime, zoom or micro teams, whilst on 30mins of exercise, or yourself in the mirror. Ask that person how they are doing with genuine passion - you never know when they need a friend more than ever. Let love win.

R

5,000 Miles

There is this third eye blind song I have always loved where the lyrics say "...and I have never been so alone, and I have never been so alive." It's titled Motorcycle Drive By. I still cant really make out the title relation to the lyrics, but I suppose I don't have to.

It's lonely here. 5,000 miles separate me and the closest person who shares my bloodline and I'm drip feeding affection for them through a 6inch screen, longing for attention like morphine. How are you bro....Ash, don't fall in love again too quick - he's just a boy. Kate, wear you mask as you muster up the strength to save another life. Dad - pops is still there, keep your head up, quarantine and let the whiskey sing. Charlie, heal your leg, 75 never looked so good. Michelle, keep the state strong as you, keep your family stronger. And Mom, sorry for the last time we were together...Im trying to be a better man.

As the seconds chase the minutes, tik tok applications make me ill. I try to fight the feeling but the liquor wont keep me still. Sober enough to feel, but drunk enough to not - it's a monotonous battle against the clock and its automatic. There is no battery; as long as the world spins the hands turns round and round. Another day, another dollar, another night with my hands around the collar of a love I cannot stop to miss.

You did this mate. You moved across the country to find a job that paid you well. As the money made the man you said, they'll look up at you so proud. So you kept your head on straight kept plowing to the top, but its lonely in that atmosphere and still you cannot stop. You ran through women like the lottery, never cashing in a check. Just playing for the win, when the odds were already set. Congrats my friend, for you have lost another day in a row. But you're rich so play again, and let money dissipate slow.

If I could call upon a friend many days ago I'd ask him to abide. Take my hand sit by my side or just go for a ride. Look at the images of fancy things, Prada dressed in McQueen lace, but steady mate, hold your pace....

These things you seek are few and far between but the love you pass is vast. Breath, look, feel and taste - this life is not a race. There's people that will love you, and theres friends that will surely pass. But be a better man this year, that's all that I can ask. As you actions hurt not one nor two, but the masses alas...And you my friend have love in your veins....now please put on this mask.

Pops

You got your belt buckled? Yes.
And what else? Mind your father

Always a lesson with a smile and nod
hands cracked from years of trade
car engine runs but not so good
bank account empty, but did what he could
Trips to New York City, baseball games and such
Picking fights with small town thugs

Boy, turned to man, turned to dad turned to pops
Loving endlessly, a war hero never stops
As breath grew short, and hairs sprouted array
We sang jovially on his 90th birthday
Sing soft, sing sweet, one day again we'll meet
Right after Gram has a few words with you.

Chips and dip, and scramble eggs
sleepovers and stocking legs
I remember all the moments as if they were yesterday
With my umpires you always had your say
I wrote this on arm so you never go away
may the road rise to meet you..we pray.

Weightlessness

There isn't a cure for the common cold, like the common heartache that pushes at our ventricles like an unstoppable rebel force. A simple song comes on with vague and flaccid lyrics and you're drenched with emotion - a child could have written it but it pulls at every violin string of your gut. They're two in the same, you're living but weakened.

Gypsy singer, witching speaker, tell me how to live in this beast. The world it keeps on spinning and and I'm hanging on its axis - which way is north..if I am always falling down?

The drinks never end and the drugs are superfluous. We hate them til we love them and the party never dies..until we do. Tip toeing on the diving board a meter from the water, can it keep us cool? After all we are cool aren't we? Bring me to the blue part, dip me in the pretentious glass sea. I want to feel weightlessness... chlorine dripping from my pours. I've got 20 tons of pressure pushing me down but my pussy foot wont let me slip from the edge.

The streets are empty with a virus that cannot sleep, the public cannot cope and McDonalds is closing doors. Cycle lanes are empty and Im careening through the universe its axis on a tilt, I'm guiltless and free like the dopamine dreams. Catch me if you can DiCaprio, I ran a red light with a green walk sign and an old lady winks while a parachute by...bye grandma. But in this environment where everyone feels stuck, trapped,  like Stockholm syndrome, Im buzzing like a bee, Muhammad Lee. The streets are empty with a virus that cannot sleep, I forget to signal right and Im hit by an empty TFL bus running a red light. At least the virus wont spread.

American Boy

Take the breath from my lungs as long as you use it wisely. Im hanging by a thread like the film real of a flimsy TV reel. Dim the lights down low and let its stream, Im like netflix in a dream, prime in a box.

Thanks for the information this morning. It was enlightening. Did you feel the American flag drip down you lips, did it feel good to let it burn me? I feel wiser for the knowing, more sad for the hopeful head that thought it twisted my stomach in knots. You win. Are you happier? Only a month we been apart - lyrics dance like a wedding song on mute. You're my new apocalypse, innately frustrated by the state of the art heart attack you drip into my veins. Needle-less to say Im at a loss of words, I can't type back as you hyperventilate about the distaste that lingers like something in your teeth on a night out. Toothpick digs and flossing only seems to scratch the surface as it lingers like a bee sting.

Hold the door, Im coming out and the sun is burning my Irish face. Freckles hide the sadness that awaits my Sunday slumber party for 1 and Im Jack's sleepless head. Nonchalantly flirting with the thought to sleep with a stranger and dance with danger going in without a thought. Thanks for the memories.

It may rain...

I watched you walk away today with the most cumbrous of hearts. The kitchen was clean just like the closets of every last piece that once called this 680 sq ft home. Desolation drenched in delusions of grandeur that we could make it through, that I could change the person that I have a become. It's not a monster dipped in malice but a malicious mind overpowering an off-beating heart longing for love.

Wish I could temper my emotions, find calm in being alone - a result that only I propagated. Looking across the wooden floorboards hopeful to abate the stalemate battle between me crying and walking the streets with lightness. Standing flightless, and feckless. "You did this mate, get off the sorrow bench and pull the rope from around your neck." The coarse knots pull at the skin that once held a man together, beautiful and strong. And now, you ask the twine to rip the life from everyone it knows. "Selfish fuck, don't look up to the sky asking how to recover." Don't tip the bottle back like all the times before. As the morning dew settles the whiskey hits your lungs with no calm, only igniting the hunt for the liquor, thicker than the clotted blood in your veins. Losing battle grounds created by lies like betrayed King Henry's Court driving France to burn.

Enter the chapter of another disaster if I continue on this path. Look back and laugh if I can surpass.

Crippling you and stealing days of breath is all that I can recall. Turning into what I always thought I would using a flaw as a cute, helpless hook to draw people in. Its not cute, its not fun, its hurtful and drawing Dorian Grey over and over again doesn't make the paint not crumble.

"It may rain, it may not...but if it does rain how much will you allow that to impact your life...thats anxiety, its a fear and if you let the fear win you will always fight against it and lose...moreover you will forget to live."

Look back at this and laugh...if not laugh smile because tomorrows not promised, only offered. 

Eye Contact

Its dinnertime and I am so acutely in touch with my senses. I can feel the pulse of her eye contact. Can see the flutter in the blink, the lubrication that coats her corneas. Her lashes touch and drag against each other until their inevitable pull, the top lash...the only part of the body that seems unrestricted from the burdens of gravity. Hold. Don't let go of this parasitic grip that trips up the beat of my aortic fixation.

Contact lenses dress the tension of the 40ft gap. Im counting crows because I think she's "looking at you man" but its my inner gut and lapse of egotism that forgets I'm the best. Why should her eyes turn anywhere else? After all I'm on the back of the ball staring into her brain. What does she want?

Synapses void of time lapses stretches through the cerebral universe where I'd like to live. Give me a year, a week, a day - give me a note within her Beethoven symphony so I can play the matching tone. Eye contact is not enough, I'm burning for a touch like doctors lust to get a little closer. I am rapacious. It is embarrassing and all consuming. Im a festering maggot feasting on her lack of focus.

All this breaks in a second of fate and I cant take the mistake of looking again. She picks up her Virginia Slim, presses it against her lips, and she gone like a ship in the night. An overture of silence takes over. I'm the lonely man on a one-night stand and that beauty wasn't built for me. But, I was meant to see vile denial of another being who will never again catch my eye. Im Dantes hidden away making friends with a man full of treasures at the bar. Jesus Christo, monte christ I can't count the time any longer. Just give me one more second of eye contact and I am sure I can cure the world of loveless sight.

"Bye," she says.

Closing Time for a Salesman

By the time 11am rolls around the following would have happened; Pre-workout drink with caffeine, glutamine, creatine, sugar. Cup of earl grey tea. 2 pills of vitamin b-12, orange, banana, grapes, another B12 before meeting starts. At this point the body is functioning on fuel. All fuel does to a car Is make it run, and at this juncture the body doesn’t start with an empty fuel chamber, the mind doesn’t react. It's a necessary routine, an arbitrary necessity. 

The sales cycle is like the morning routine. There is a need to jumpstart strong to avoid ambulance chasing at the end of the quarter. You start fully charged, ambitious for the early close, the larger booking, like the dose of amphetamine that makes your scalp itch like lice. When the money doesn’t come you search for blame and digression from fear only to choke on another presentation driving nonsense to the core. But we love it! The chase, the fight, the hunger..like the victory of a first fuck or a long drink at 7pm in your Eames chair.

And when a quota is met or lost you take it like a a shield, and wear it for better or worse. Since the only measure of a man or woman on the pitch is how they do in their last ballet, their most recent quarter, a tumbling dance for the overachiever. Numbers held over our head like a hanging kerosene lamp, but we’re the ones that fill it up. We keep it burning since without its glow there is no rush for the win, for when the wick disintegrates we know our time is done.

Pass me the big one, mate, pass me the jar. Let me fill it up with the pound notes and sterling that will make the people happy. Make the dress shoes sharper and the blazers more fitted, until we’re wearing worn clothes like the blind  beggar of Whitechapel. Stop the car, Im getting out – it’s a monkey factory in here and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Enter the death of a salesman, the poetic conquest gone wrong in a world of sharks and critics. Verbose metabolism violently fades with age, like the vacuous attempt at learning a new trait. Bitter to the core and unable to appease with uniformed non conformity; the younger beast emerges from the shadow to take the lead over the formerly dapper associate. In this little microcosm, I’m on top right now, but who is coming in next?