Words

another me

2008-02-04T09:29:00.001-08:00

this could be another me.
see the man down there with his suit and polished boots?
this could be another me.
all confidence and cock-a-hoop bravado.
feeling this world shift cold glass to chrome with all the emotion of a cactus. i still recall those tender days when the monkees fell about and television didn't reward the talentless.
and the hope and hearts of humankind lay in the hands of children with flowers in their hair and foolish dreams in their rolled up reefers.
this could be another me.
not traped within these cold confines that limits imagination and brings my days to a close, a life of chasing paper.
i could dream.
i still dream.
and in my dreams i dance with the ghosts of tomorrow who hold me close, in arms verdant fresh and strong, and spin the dance on polished floors down mirrored walls where silver cobwebs hang and trophies watch from lichen lintels the passing of my thoughts.
but who will hold me when the spotlight fades? when my childrens faces retreat from me?
the door will close.
the light will cease.
a failing of wings and cloudless mumbles of goodbye.
such a waste when summer trips into the fallen leaves.
crumbling brickface.
ivy marks the windowsill where lovers once would climb.
and in the garden there is a pond and in the pond a statue stands but the fountain has gone dry.
i'm rambling now
but let me ramble for what harm can it do?
see the man down there?
a shriveled husk of once-a-go whose children used him like a slide, a climbing frame for them to bridge.
arms will grow to jelly and the spine will twist as wire but the darkness doesn't scare me just the missing of them all.
this could be another me.
maybe i could make a deal with god?
cheat the fates and bone collectors as i thumb my nose and skip away with all memories and loved ones still with me.
this could be another me.
the man who like all men fears the unkown.
.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.

pillows

2007-08-22T05:06:00.000-07:00

i collect their dead hairs and push them into pillows that i sew and manufacture and then sell.
lace and filigree. satin and velvets.
a selection of cushions and pillows for my customers to lay their heads and elbows and sore spines against.
a feeble industry.
cottage.
in all the years that i have been selling my artifacts not once has a glimer of suspicion been cast my way.
it is only a matter of time i know but the fun is in the game isn't it?
one day.
someday.
but not yet.

one

2007-08-22T03:35:00.000-07:00

funny how the ancestors of immigrants can so easily forget their history and turn against the immigrant with bile and rancour as if they were to blame. as if all their true history can be consigned to some dim and dark cupboard where no one ever looks any more. where the truth can be shackled and hidden away the better to twist the myth. as if being a member of the human race is not enough you still have to join and subscribe to their tribe. their clan. their faith.
what ever happened to one god. one faith. one human race?

white azalea

2007-08-21T11:43:00.000-07:00

i follow full moon
over bridge and stone
water wets my brow.
silver cast and callow,
palms held aloft
like tree branches.
shadows fall around me
dappled dark and cold.
a breath to harrow me,
a breath to slow me.
river flows like life.
an inexorable ticking
of water over pebbles.
recall the day in mirrored stream.
moments flee free fall.
the curve of her waist,
a distant memory.
hands held knuckle white
in desperation.
the hours sped quicksilver slick.
petals form a crescent moon
spilt on green lawns,
an azalea weeps white tears.

love is...

2007-08-21T11:42:00.000-07:00

love is just an empty word
found scrawled on old exercise books
honey tinged and glossy lipped
flacid and lame.
moths gather by guttering flames
now burnt so low.

DEFECATING DARIUS

2007-08-21T09:01:00.000-07:00

When Darius Slightlump defecates he defecates a strange shape. This strange shape takes the form of a tiny teddy bear with a smiling face. Having completed his defecation and arising from the toilet seat the smiling teddy bear poo then follows on behind Darius. Wherever he goes it goes too and always in his wake. Up hill and down dale the smiling teddy bear poo follows. Into shopping halls and even the library.
The only problem is when it rains.
Perhaps Darius should buy a cocktail umbrella stick and give it to the smiling teddy bear poo?

"this could be the last time"

2007-08-21T05:29:00.001-07:00

it was the dusty golden light of nineteen sixty five.
life was glorious and hospital traumas lay somewhere gone and somewhere to come.
the kinks were playing.
"the taxmans taken all my dough..."
the sun visited me with sharp pine needles that splintered my day and drew circles in the sky.
it was the best of times.
it was the start of times.
pre-puberty.
pre-angst.
pre-teenage rebellion.
it was upminster, dury falls, and my first year at senior school. i was scared and haunted, a little daunted by the prospect of this place. the school my parents attended. their expectations and my natural reserve and shyness. my feeling of being an alien in a mirror ball world.
the lessons meant nothing to me.
dull words spewed out as a meaningless diatribe. chalk symbols written in hebrew, arabic, greek.
in fuck knows what.
my natural inclination was to gaze out the window or scribble words that rhymed or draw superheroes in my exercise book. the one marked geography with a subtitle of boring.
the playground was the place where you hunched your shoulders and glared. you looked tough to frighten away those you were frightened of but i was only first year now and no longer a member of the hierarchical senior pack. a pleb. an oik. a stain on someone’s gym shoe.
the fit hit as fits did mixed with my usual reluctance to ask any help of anyone and with a sudden violent impact that threw my pre-teenage world into an ugly turmoil. a parody of a dance.
the word spread.
the spotlight shone.
here was a kid, a new boy, dew drop, spastic motion, spasmo, soft little scrote ready for the taking. ready for the bully boy brigade to heavy muscle in and have some fun with.
six onto one was no fair odds. especially not for the tender innocent who still believed in jesus and love. who still thought people cared for people.
the circle was formed and the dummy was shoved. a spinning tub of tears held in. an angry spinning, bruised and hurt child whose anger grew and grew. and the more they spun the more the fear died.
from scarlet to acrid black.
the fear died.
the fear died only to be replaced with something far uglier and far more sinister and twisted than anything the thick ticks who need to impress with their might could ever dream of.
rage.
a rage that burnt all the innocence away.
brimstone black and bubbling.
it inflamed and incensed me.
later, i took my protractor and snapped it in half and armed with only this revisited three of the cast.
i was never bullied again.
the hurt remains and always will.
they made me act like someone i wasn't and it is this that remains with me.
this that hurts more than a broken jaw.
not their act of terror but my reaction to it. the way it changed me forever.
the way it reshaped me from being someone untouched by violence or thoughts of violence into someone able to react with the self same ugly fist.
the same senseless thuggery.
the way it has coloured my views on racism and sexism and homophobia and every form of bigotry is a positive but the way it formed me into something as equally unpleasant as them, equally able to reduce my own humanity to random acts of violence is a negative.
history repeats but nothing gets learnt.
it just machine feeds and we all get pumped out the same rusty mechanism.
sympathy?
fuck off.
tears?
wasted.
but it is here, in our starts, our childhoods, our infancies, our schooldays that the changes need to be made. fundamental and long lasting changes for mankind that probably only woman kind can bring.
but now, with the passing of time and having witnessed my own rage grow rabid I have come to the conclusion that this was all me feeling sorry for myself. rage doesn't help, it just make things worse. the change needed was in me and not the curled fist.

fragrant recall

2007-08-21T05:13:00.001-07:00

i lay my pulse
on the soft swell
of your belly.
your taste drips from my tongue.
i watch your spine
bend like the horizon.
orchid lips open
petal sweet in pink flush.
i rise upon your heady fragrance.

Chairman Spike

2007-08-21T05:12:00.001-07:00

deeply, darkly on ebony thighs

she fuels his lust with her maidens sighs

that brews a tea cup for him to drink

with sapphire teeth and gold to chink

against the rim so pristine white

for his passions to ignite.

then upon a broomstick and a shaft

she grips his manhood with able craft

that sends a shudder sure to break

in far brazil a fearful quake,

as now it burbles and starts to boil

so with her teeth she sheaths in foil

the throbbing member as it burst

to flood the street in upper midhurst

that even with a ton of tissues

she cannot soak up all that he issues,

so with one bucket and a spade

from his semen she builds an arcade

for able bodied men and serfs

to bless with coins from their purse.

let's make no mistake, be it large or little,

this mans volume is no lick spittle

as future generations gather blessed

beneath the gelatinous edifice

that harbours jews and gentiles alike

to worship at the altar of chairman spike.

tongue and bird

2007-08-21T05:10:00.000-07:00

With surgical precision she cut out her tongue and nailed it to the kitchen table where she left it overnight. The following morning she came to break fast only to find her tongue had been replaced by an angry bird. A Raven. She removed the nail from the birds tail and there upon it flew away leaving her speechless.

Saintly Praises (alive and well and living in surburbia)

2007-08-21T03:22:00.001-07:00

I raise my glass to the statesmen who grin,
And with neat footwork stately spin
Yet another web of steel and bile,
The better to manipulate those without guile
Who with trained minds and lame intellect,
Spit out the peanuts for them to select
The next government who then quickly learn
To ignore the electorate and democracy spurn,
As in this life one thing is for sure,
The rich get the beef and the poor get manure.

i guess we all know what the truth is don't we?

you know, that little thing that lies somewhere between fantasy and fiction. the place where politico's hang out (m.p.'s and statesmen, liberals, democrats, businessmen, religious leaders et al).

they swing and spin that ball, the one they idly toss you when you leave the womb, and say hey boy CATCH. and you, with open eyed wonder hold your hands out.

i suppose, from a very warped perspective, it could be seen as amusing. all that dodging about like hamsters on a wheel and all in aid to eat and drink and sleep but tell me, what is so fucking funny?
is it the camaraderie of poverty that makes us cling together like survivors of a ship wreck holding fast to pieces of flotsam that go nowhere fast?

make a little here, save a little there, maybe take a holiday in some sunny place on some sunny beach.

no i suspect not.

i suspect it has something more to do with greasy poles and ladders and the belief that one day ALL people will be just like us. driving four wheeled gas guzzlers that spit out noxious poison and have air cons rattling away like deep sea diver lungs replacing hot air with cool whilst a huge fucking hole hangs over us like the sword of damocles.

it stands to reason doesn't it? what is fair for one MUST be fair for all?

uh uh, you are missing the point girls and boys.

NOW SIT UP AND TAKE NOTES!

this desperate race is only going one place
and it is getting there damn fast.
it isn't the now, the why for or how
that turns all futures into the past.
it isn't the deceits, cash register receipts
that grow with increasing alarm.
it is the more than less that leaves you to guess
why we're chained to this human farm.

that's it kiddies, that is the bottom line.

not the bottom line of commerce that deals with nett and gross and margins but the bottom line of us.

we are the bottom line and our margins have been so reduced by the thought of so much that we have just left the path, we have fallen off the cliff face.

and man alive is it one fucking long drop.

welcome to forever.

welcome to paradise.
words by cocaine jesus

midnight lovers

2007-08-21T03:17:00.001-07:00

we danced as though on gossamer heels
i held her close to me,
i felt her hands upon my spine
her fingers wandered free.
we smiled and laughed and laughed some more
and spun like whirling tops,
the moonlight cast us silver soft
and the starlight fell in drops.
we promised then a love to last
to last and forever more,
our passion rose in dark shades
shadows danced on the floor.
i took her hand and bent my knee
and asked her as my bride
to run with me with whispered words
forever by my side.
she smiled a smile of dazzling white
that set the stars to shame
but said although she loved but me
she could not bear my name.
and as the starlight faded fast
and the sun bleached the sky
i saw my love in mortal flesh
revealed to my morning eye.
'ten years past have i been gone
now with my bones all dried,
that solemn winter stole from me
all breath and so i died'.
i screamed and ran from that ghostly face
as fast as i could run
and no more will i return to view
the glade hidden from the sun.

Dance of the Divine

2007-08-21T03:07:00.001-07:00

Moses said to Satan,
Man, that was fun
but I've got to cross this river
to get my business done.
Saul said to Sarah,
Girl, button up your dress
your fathers on the prowl
your sins to him confess.
Enoch said to Joseph,
Guy, that was a blast
but I've got to speak to Jesus
to make his divinity last.
Jesus spoke to Krishna
You know, we both are alike
but I bet your congregation
didn't nail you with a spike.
Loki sat down softly
with mischief in his sack
he sharpened up his wicked
knife to place in someone's back.
Rama did a pirouette
as Bast slowly turned
to the tune of a saxophone
whilst Surt gaily burned.
Poseidon eyed up Brigit,
Lady, I like your smile,
indeed? said she with a grin,
come here for awhile.
Cronus and Zeus sat
and played a game of chess
with pieces made of jade,
Phersephone to impress.
Yemaya danced with Bishamon
she liked his Shinto ways,
Anubis fancied Balor
(even deities have gays).
Loki fixed a fire
and let the flames rise
he laid a torch to heaven
that lit up the skies.
Odin of the one eye
with his ravens and his son
rode out to find Obatala
waging war on everyone.
They poured libations to themselves
and drank their bellies full
whilst Yahweh said to Allah
'I remember you from school'.
Vishnu played a game of dice
with pilgrims and with saints
watched by tired Ixchel,
bright rainbows she paints.
Hades, bored of hell
sits and contemplates
Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos,
sisters and the Fates.
But Loki never can resist
an evil game or ploy
with twine and twig a plot device
more than Balder he'll destroy.
the deities are dancing on,
the deities dance still
they lead us such a merry chase
no doubt they always will.
for every god or deity
be they small or great
are but the stuff of fantasy
that mankind did create.

Letter to America

2007-08-21T02:57:00.000-07:00
Dear Bastard Offspring,

I know, I know, I haven't written to you in an age and the age of man moves so damn swiftly doesn't it? They say that time flies like a New York minute when you are having fun.

I just wanted to say, to let you know, that I love you. I love all of my offspring. Your sibling brothers and sister and mixed blood cousins. But I also love you.

Canuck, dare I say it, is even bigger than you but has never attained or made his mark in our global society quite the way you have, but then again who has?

Oz? Ha! What can you say about dear old Oz? Nothing bruises that boys ego and besides he does what he does and doesn't give a damn what any of us think, just stick another steak on the barbie!

Kiwi? Ah, so beautiful and, to be honest my dear, more like me in looks than any of my rugged boys.

Yes, I am very proud of all my offspring.

But you my son, with your muscle and your might, with your industrious mind and the enormous wealth that you have accrued, it is you that worries me. Just a tad.

I watch you with such pride as you swagger about the globe like a comic book hero in your gaudy red, white and blue, fixing this and righting that. Sometimes you heart is too big and, as much as you try, even you cannot fix all of the global families woes.

There is another side of you though that frightens me and like any good parent or friend, I feel it is my honour bound duty to let you know.

Sometimes you behave like a school yard bully.

You come across someone who doesn't do things the way you do and, without consulting any of us or going through the proper channels you go ahead and let that passionate heart of yours rule your head. You raise your big ham of a fist and smack it firmly on Johnny Foreigners face. You kick his arse from here to hell and back.

Son, violence is sometimes necessary when defending yourself or those you love but breaking into someone’s house, smashing and burning their furniture, breaking the arms and legs of their children is not an act of defence but that of a vandal.

Of a hoodlum.

I really do think enough is enough don't you?

You have left your footprint on the surface of the moon. A testament to your everlasting and greatest achievement. Do not leave your boot print on the face of Iraq.

Being the biggest and the best means that your mistakes can be proportionately as large. We all make mistakes and we all have to own up to them. I have. Remember the poor old Boers?
As I said, we all are guilty of making mistakes but we all have to know when to stop and when to put things right before they get worse.

Only you can decide.

Your loving parent,

Albion

murakami in pastels

2007-08-21T02:56:00.001-07:00
there are times when, and you must know this, that your spirit rises up like mercury. silver shot and liquid and your word weave fits so perfectly into our waking dreams that acquiescence to your sprite like soul is the only affordable mode of being.

softly, softly, catchee monkey.

down past the golden dunes where the surf meets the fantasy of your piquant prose i tumble meekly into the milky void.
pure.
pristine.
where the white winds whip passionate droplets of emotion like snowflakes taken and enlarged from screen size zero to screen size seventeen ten zero zero by seventeen ten zero zero.

snowflakes in brittle spring sun.
snowdrops in bitter winter winds.

you compose your magic out of sinuous cobwebs titanium spun but with the fragile feel and look of rice paper. a captivating concoction that leans upon the rickety crutch of realism as it bends our thoughts like malleable plasticine into a lantern lit frame.
like vapour trails that look as though they were made of chromium but in reality are fragile lace.

shadow dancing on silk curtains.

an epiphany of you.

for a fistful of your imagination i would cast my soul into the void.
to follow in your footfall is an impossible task as the road they take leads us into the heart of the sun and beyond and i am but a hollow icarus.

a shallow shadow in the pastel shades of you.

rauchen

2007-08-21T02:53:00.001-07:00

she smoked her cigarette

like a german cabaret singer

with strangely angled limbs,

her head thrown back

dietrich style.

irregular angles,

with wrist and hand counterbalanced

by the crook of her arm.

art deco personified

as a human reference point,

forming an oblique shape

as smoke trailed

around her neck

in a wispy imitation

of a necklace.

ribald refrain - particular second - Maureen and Marvin

2007-08-21T02:51:00.000-07:00

Maureen Tucker was fat but it was her fat that attracted Marvin. Her breasts swung like Saturday shopping bags. Pendulous and rhythmic. He loved the way her flesh rippled like cold custard when she was naked. The way her belly folded in on its self to hide her navel.

They would go shopping together at the local mall. Maureen would wear a long dark coat that hung down her back. She would place Marvin between her butt cheeks where he would sit in comparative luxury hidden by the long and dark coat and then, at a given signal from his true love, he would sit up and stick out a scrawny arm and shop lift goods from the frozen food section.

They loved their trips to the mall did Maureen and Marvin.

ribald refrain - particular first - Marvin's Poem

2007-08-21T02:49:00.000-07:00

"i've got a fat mamma with an ass like a cow,
she likes to sit on my face.
and when she does me, she does me and how,
she puts my neck out of place."

limp

2007-08-21T02:45:00.001-07:00

i am told that the trouble with having a large penis is that you appear to walk with a limp.
to counter this strange effect it might be wise to carry an umbrella.

fish

2007-08-21T02:35:00.001-07:00

is it possible for a fish too drink so deep that it could empty the seas and flood the deserts with its piss?
to say i was scared by its size and shape is to say the first man was simple.
in it self that statement is stupid. a gross over simplification of the bald facts. i was very scared. shit scared but then again who wouldn't be?
a fish with jaws the size of manhattan and the arse the size of manilla would frighten even Bishamon. and trust me, he doesn't scare that easy.
the sun rose red on the scattered isles and the winds howled their protest at the coming winter and the tiny fishing boats bobbed up and down upon the swelling tide like corks in a fat mans bath.

the fish was spiteful too. and that was another factor to consider. a huge fish with an attitude. would you fuck about with something like that? something big 'n ugly 'n mean as spit? well would you?

well unfortunately for the people of Kwangpo they had no choice. the gods had gone. no one believed in them any more let alone worshiped them and so they had left their pantheon and had retired to the warm coast of florida as fake second hand car sales people. they lived snug little lives in their retirement condos and no one bothered them overly.

but this fish was another deal entirerly. it was big trouble spelt with a capital B.

the top guys in the good old US of A got out their big guns and their big bombs and aimed them at the sky in a display of might and muscle but the truth was not even their much vaunted power could even begin to phase this mother fucker. something had to be done. something quick. question was what?

when something this big and bad is heading your way firing what amounts to pellets at its impervious hide will only provoke it more.

the wise beards sat down and scratched their heads and shoved their hands deep into their pockets only to find loose change and their scrotums to scratch.

you see these are the facts as i see 'em.
us humans run the world in the way we see fit. we pay lots of fake compliments to a host of bogus gods but in reality we couldn't give a rats arse about god. we don't, if you want the honest truth, much care for ourselves and we gaily go along fucking up this and fucking up that because who the hell is going to stop us?

the answer to that of course is the fish.

but the one thing a gargantuan fish needs is plenty of food and when it has consumed all the atlantic has to offer and then done the same to every other ocean and sea and river, what then?

again, mankind got lucky but one day, one day our luck will run out and when it does who are we going to blame?

a fucking fish?

William Michael Hindy

2007-08-21T02:33:00.001-07:00

william michael hindy declined the friendship of humans from an early age preferring to co-habit with rodents and small birds. he would feed his friends with small particles of himself until one day nothing was left of william aside from a warm memory and some toe nail clippings.upon his demise his mortal remanants were gathered and placed inside a small shoe box and buried deep within epping forest whereupon small birds and rodents feasted upon the damp carboard.

moontide

2007-08-21T02:29:00.001-07:00

its warm in here
when reality slides with the rusted wing creak of dry insect flight.
i am holding a burning match but the light ain't bright,
nothing is right,
nothing is right.
i used to talk to god but she went away without a word or a kiss goodbye
and now napolean without shoes
rages at the walls with his plastic spoon held high.

at night they speak,
as lightbulbs do,
with sodium dry tongues that tell of life before death in the rancid cobweb dusty corner plains of my room.
sweet little room.
wank stained sheets,
piss painted floors,
shit hole room with rubber walls and no sharp objects.
its cold outside.
but the wind cannot touch me here nor her without legs
who dribbles and drools and sits in a puddle of memory. . .
. . .
. . .but it is cold outside?

malcom midwitch and his magic monkey melvin

2007-08-21T02:27:00.001-07:00

malcolm midwitch had a monkey
and he loved the monkey like a son.
he called the monkey melvin
and was pleased to note that,
as time passed,
the monkey looked more and more
like malcolm and, indeed, malcolm
looked more and more like melvin.

one day in the late autumn
when the heat of summer passes
slow and the chill of winter
beckons swift,
together they dug a hole in the
middle of malcolms garden.
and the more they dug,
the more they wanted to dig.
and the deeper they went,
the deeper they wanted to go.
after a time they would climb
back up and sleep in malcolms
bungalow that had been their home
for the past many years.
and as dawn broke they would rise
and would breakfast and,
after a second cup of tea, they
would climb back down the hole
and begin to dig again.
as the winter turned to spring
and spring, green, verdant and
virgin fresh, in its turn burst into
summer still they clawed their
way deeper and deeper and deeper
still until, one day when the tunnel
was lit by a tallow wicked candle
and the light cast grim shadows
on the moist walls, malcolm died
and the monkey, melvin, was left
sad and singular.
but the monkey, melvin, used old
man malcolm's bones to build a
shelter within the tunnel walls
and he slept within his tiny
refuge and wept awhile for
he missed the old mans company.
the morning dawned high up and
dimly distant, and looked like a pale
disc of gold as viewed from the end
of a long and hollow tube.
melvin lay huddled within the old
mans bones still holding his dead
friends jaw and, when he opened
the jaw it turned into a gateway
that led into another world, a parallel
universe that was as bright as polished
brass and as warm as hot custard.
melvin passed through the gateway
and was never seen again on this earth.
and for years, whenever anyone came
across the deep hole in the ground
that lay in the garden of dead malcolm,
they would say that is the hole of malcolm
midwitch and his magic monkey melvin.

again the dream

2007-08-21T02:23:00.001-07:00

she spreads her black wings thick like treacle dark night
and confiscates my dreams with nightmare hosts
that fly my mind to harrowing dimensions that smell of disorder

and brackish streams that bubble confused ghosts that rise

upon fibril wisp thin smoke and formulate fear

into stones or boulders that move to crush my solitary stick/totem

that stands central grim and trembling whilst watching

the host shuffle-shift inexorably toward that singular item.

am i that stick?

and if so,

what of the stones,

that manifest their shadowed forms in my sleep,

what of them?

the fear of childhood nightimes revisits me in apocalyptic visions.

dad

2007-08-21T02:21:00.000-07:00

i have the echo of you

still with me,

reflected in my mirror.

and the morning shave,

that stings me awake,

brings into sharp relief

a startling image of you.

for the mayhem brood

2007-08-21T02:20:00.001-07:00

you are the snake oil for my charm.
you are the muscle for my arm.
you are the backbone for my spine.
you are the reason, you are the rhyme.
you are the dovetail for my joint.
you the question that makes my point.
you are the sunshine and my shade.
you are the forest for my glade.
you are the key fob for my chain.
you are the signal for my train.
you are the cloud that patterns my sky.
you are the wherefore, you are the why.
you are the fretboard for my string.
you are the song that i must sing.
you are the butter for my toast.
you are the letter that i must post.
you are the journey i must make
you are the drug i long to take.
you are the gift that birthdays bring
but more than that you are everything.

.
you are the surf that breaks my shore.
you are the nail that hooks my claw.
you are the dust that drifts my plain.
you are the light through my window pane.
you are the chessboard on which i play.
you are the window that frames my day.
you are the haven from my storm.
winter wet and summer warm.
you are the glory in my defeat.
you make the stars in heaven complete.
you are the lungs that give me breath.
you make sense of my eventual death.
you are the gravity in which i fall.
you are the reason to make that call.
you are the words that i must write
and in every sentance i delight.
you are the scent of my perfume.
you are the secrets of my room.
you are the joy that living can bring
but more than that you are everything.

and in my time of dying

2007-08-21T02:18:00.001-07:00

and in my time of dying

when whisps of my soul drift away

tendril thin and moonshine pale,

and my light glazes then fades

like a lightbulb that hangs dead

and dim

but still connected to the power

that crowns all things,

that connects all things,

i will pass from touch

and taste

and scent

leaving behind nothing

but the ache of rage mixed

with a denial of life

for in truth we are here

for no other purpose than

to live and die,

and not even the bitter sting

of loved ones loss

can change the way of things,

nor the invention

of deities or heaven

can alter the facts of life and death.

paper cuts

2007-08-21T02:17:00.001-07:00

cut their tongues into slices like string,

like thread,

like ribbons of flesh that you can

then use to bind their lies to the

teeth of their bloodstained fictions.

for these are the purveyors of propoganda,

who mix fantasy with fact

in large doses along with

sex and scandal

but who dress it up as honey honest truth

when, indeed, the honest truth

is that glorified lies sell

and who better to create this big brother

society than those who

shape our thoughts with

the insincere diatribe of media manipulation.

words by cocaine jesus

night beach

2007-08-21T02:15:00.001-07:00

when night invades this hollow plane and drifts the hours from twilight to dawn break as the moon and stars lay awhile hidden from the suns fierce embrace that scorches grass, sand and thought like shells upon an empty beach that is littered with the soiled spoils of passing ships that scratch the blind night like sunken skeletal fingers whose bleached bones point toward the closing horizon as though they were the guiding compass point of some unearthly device that steers lost souls back home to a heavenly abyss.

silver cast.

shadow falling.

sky painted grey-black-blue.

dark and sombre and heavy as old mans brows and as silently eerie as the death of sparrows.

forever rancid

2007-08-21T02:12:00.000-07:00

little cherubim

what shall we feed you with?

lies and deceits?

served on plastic trays

that bargain with your vanity?

that plead with you to capitulate

your honesty and integrity,

the better to serve

the modern world that

tolerates no diversity,

unless it is of a corporate kind,

and offers you the hand of cruel commerce

so as to bind you with desire,

and yearning,

so that all that is left of

what was you

is a corroded memory

like a rusty gate hinge that

creaks on movement

and moves as by reaction and

lives its foggy life

with a charred hope

that is buttered with the lard of a

nations dreaming

so that you drift your days

contented with your little

bit of england that comes

sliced and diced and manufactured

for all to defend.

a better way

but someone elses way.

forever rancid.

bite sized and baleful

2007-08-21T02:11:00.001-07:00

despair comes in bite sized chunks
that are hard to swallow but easy
to chew but just like vomit the taste
is stale and as bitter as bile and black
as secrecy.
for peace of mind it is better to avoid
the unpalatable attraction of the modern
worlds working practise that can only
plead gross insanity and that preys on
and plays to the gods of avarice and
corruption and power.

the dream beast

2007-08-21T02:10:00.001-07:00

using only a surgical knife
sealing wax
and arcane artifice
they removed the cerebral cortex from the infant child
and by merging it
with
the hollow husk of a cetacean
and some albatross feathers
they created a manequin of sublime amd remote nightmare.

they had no name for such
a creature
and named it not
for it was delightful to work but frightening to watch
but by casting it
soft
in dappled shadows of dusk
they implemented a new
and terrifying beast of gargantuan and robust dream.

the dream beast.

for whoever...

2007-08-21T02:08:00.001-07:00

i count the lines on my hand
and watch my footprints in the sand
and all my schemes as yet unplanned
as they float upon the breeze.

they talk of me in tones now hushed
with words that ramble and are rushed
like toilet paper to be flushed
as i crawl upon my knees.

those humble servants of commerce
who genuflect and promptly curse
i wonder who is really worse
the beggar or the thief?

the lines are so clearly writ
and in those lines i have to sit
my brain and soul can't benefit
from this lack of belief.

they tell me that the trouble is
i'm far too old for this young mans biz
i've gone to seed and lost my fiz
like bubbles in the sky.

any employer now worth his salt
will wash his hands of any fault
and tell me i'm just not his sort
and that's the reason why.

but i simply don't accept these truths
from the mouths of callow youths
whose infant eyes i'd like to bruise
with my fist firmly placed.

experience and ability still
are a worthy tool and priceless skill
and far from being over the hill
it's my industry that's disgraced.

money street

2007-08-21T02:05:00.001-07:00

they are washing the blood off of money street
in the heat of history
and the corruption of time
where parables of virtue
fall on deaf ears
and the holy sinners
weave cloth from guilt
whilst blessing the dreadful of
the anguish and frail as
they coat the sacrement
in poison and oil and chase away the dull ache
with vinegar and cigarette smoke
that falls like feathers all grey and white
onto soil that is as black and as ugly as crime
and shuts out the truth with railway sounds
that stutter and splutter and then stop.

just stop.

rooks

2007-08-21T02:04:00.001-07:00

when rooks gather

it is called a parliament.

in a circle collected,

one at the centre,

arcane and sinister

they listen in judgment

then they either leave

or kill the one.

cold

2007-08-21T02:02:00.001-07:00

words now frightened and cowering shiver in the fear of an unknown tomorrow that beckons with bloodied nails and glassy eyes. an edge of doubt slips its needles of discomfort into my spine and I drift out somewhere alone and dark like the wayward child of a broken home.
we are meant to dream and desire.
we are meant to breathe and smile.
we are meant to live and love and not be subject to the cold calculus of commerce with its inhuman complexion and its arid heart.
this place,
this haunted tenament ruin of a life is a bleak refuge and is in itself not living at all
but just the last vestments of stagnation.

rice cakes

2007-08-20T22:35:00.001-07:00

i'm dancing still
in the tainted night
when violence stains my subterranean soul
and thoughts of you confuse
my days
with memories that crumble soonest
like fantasy in daylight
like rice cakes in the rain

words by cocaine jesus

still

2007-08-01T08:59:00.000-07:00

i'll take the words like butterflies
and pin them to my page
to reflect all the frustrations,
the ambiguities,
the rage,
that persists to rail and rise
in me
like cloying grains or pearls,
the constant thought of emptiness
as loneliness unfurls,
another flag,
a blacker flag,
a banner raised on high
that cuts the truth and seals
my fate
on silent diamond sky's.

the desperation of the days
where very little has changed,
and still a promise
told long ago
has me engaged,
where all is one and one rules all,
no colour,
no religion
no hate at all.
and age will not pacify
nor temper tone this heat,
whilst prejudice
and ignorance
are still there to defeat.

muse

2007-08-01T08:57:00.000-07:00

with a slow blade i cut into my flesh revealing my floating rib which i grip with anointed fingers and then snap with a sound of random violence that crackles with a harsh clarity as i take my broken bone and try to layer it with tendon, tissue and epidermis and then breathe the breath of life into its chaste lips. my eve. my angel. my xia.

she

2007-08-01T08:56:00.001-07:00

she's my knife and my mirror, my incense and candle wax, my vision of the future, my history and now.
she's my eclipse and my rainfall, my scent of spring and footfall, my hearing and my breathing, my heartbeat and my pulse.
she comes to me on tv screens, in adverts and in echoes, in the depths of my despair, in my moodswings and my rages and my sulks and abuse.
she is the pillow in my nightmares, my holidays and paychecks, my smoke and my glass, my continuity and forgiveness.
she is the anchor in the sudden storm when all else is broken, a lifeline and a grapevine, my contact to the world.
my lust and my confussion, my love and my companion in this fucked up, darkening world she is the sunlight and the daylight, the starlight and the moon.
she is the start, she is the end, my one time lover friend, she is the only reason that I need, my oblivion and my god send.

words by cocaine jesus

libation

2007-08-01T08:55:00.001-07:00

the crimson bottle
performs a throaty note
as wine fills the glass
with a blushing promise.

hands flutter bird
like as crystals clink
a libation to the gods
of love and friendship.

reality

2007-08-01T08:54:00.001-07:00

she drifts into my view with candlestick and rosary and a crazy haunting verse that she shouts over and over accompanied by a set of twins who throw loose change out of the windows of the horse drawn carriage into the awaiting hands of the crowd who surge forward on a tide of loyalty and longing only to break apart like fragile easter eggs as the clergy pass by dressed in robes of satin and tamarisk leaves that adorn their canopied cowls like brutal butterfly wings captured by the silent sweeping sands that rise dove like about the hands and heads and hearts of divine providence as the ringmaster gleefully leaps into the centre circle writ large by the spotlights small that dazzle the eyes of peasants and pilgrims and stain the warped factor with untidy metaphors and criminal nouns that group collectives herd into subtle rows of desultory sundowns which spin and crash across the vast nothingness of time and space and hurtle into blessed oblivion and the undertaker walks in strange days with a hawk above his head and on his arm a peacock that shrieks like the pained cries of tortured children who are filled with the abject fear of lonely evenings just like the whores of tomorrow who combine lust with calligraphy and re-write the words of love and passion and empower the pornographic priestess with amulets and incense and tattoos that she wears on her thighs for gentlemen of disrepute to lick and fondle while in the darkening sky another star rises to eclipse the fading dawn of yesterday and all our sad goodbyes are driven deep down and underground where moles hide their blind sight from the god of something who speaks in tongues that no one understands and his stanzas sound like curses and his curses sound like waves and his waves that fall onto desert plains that are barren of life and drift away from reason like the scales of dragon tears that fall soft and simple onto the sweet honeyed lips of the innocents who cannot dream but who nightmare fidget among the thorn brush of paltry reality praying for peace.

words by cocaine jesus

love is the stranger

2007-08-01T08:53:00.001-07:00

she was a demon in leather
she smelt of strange perfume
her eyes were closed as i
lead her into my room
her veil of mystery was thin
so i tore of her disguise
she thought she knew me well
but lifes a surprise

my my
i heard her cry
don't waste your life on love
'cos love is a lie

so we laid back in love
and i fell into her arms
we rose and fell like a tide
that no god calms
she burnt with a passion
just lke a living flame
i knew her body
but not her name.

my my
i heard her cry
don't trust in love
'cos love is a lie

we said our farewells
then went our different ways
and i've never seen her since
though i've searched most of my days
i remember her well
the shape of her hips
her eyes full of fire
the taste of her lips.

my my
i heard her cry
don't live for love
love is a lie.

words by cocaine jesus

a song with out melody and only lyrics is like a beautiful wine glass bereft of wine. if anyone has any merlot or shiraz to fill up this empty recepticle then please do so. please let me have a copy of the end result though. xxx

solo

2007-08-01T08:51:00.001-07:00

there is a part of his heart that is damp and dark and covered in mossy leaves that smell of soil and moonlight and if you brush your fingers across the acrid mulch it will part with a soft moist squelching sound and you will find buried deep within the pungent corruption a timid and a frightened creature with large liquid eyes and a hot desire to love and to be loved and also a creature with a savage bite and a wicked claw that it uses to rake a protest and to scar the heathen world with its fear and its fury and its loathing and its singular lack of comprehension for so brutal and ugly an existence. the stars spin and the oceans rise and life goes on relentlessly and remorselessly claiming victims in a vortex of unfeeling and disquiet as though all humanity can be reduced to a set of improbable whispers echoed in the still silence of a sterile dawn that blinks blindly into the shattered dream of universal longing.

we are not alone

hold out your hands

we are not alone

this is not a haiku

2007-08-01T08:47:00.001-07:00

beneath the pale lids
green eyes stir in slumber
a butterfly awakens.

fingers trail pink folds
a flower blossoms
a weeping scent of orchids.

words by cocaine jesus

nightwatch

2007-08-01T08:46:00.001-07:00

i lick the clock
spittle hangs heavy and tacky
the passing of time is slow
a dull process
a plodding beat as thick as tar
midnight paints me black
pains me silent and still
all movement a sin
your body wreathed in dream.
my open window beckons
the pinprick stars
raindrops play a cool note
an echo of blue
a frog croaks a moonbeam
a ballad in green
beyond here
a promise of dawn
a lifetime away.

words by cocaine jesus

broke

2007-08-01T08:44:00.000-07:00

flat slow and weeping willow drift
a ladies comb full of dead hairs and dandruff
the monkey climbs the tree
the monkey eats the fruit

the city bleeds into desert sand
my heart fills with wonder and blood and awe
she pukes away her demons
she stands alone and angry

ring a fence around her soul
to keep in the spirit and to drive away a hollow trick
flash eye captures her
attitude like cactus needles

two eyes two fingers and a car
a bus ticket a bust trinket a desire for love
the razor wire keeps
the wolf away and drooling.

corruption

2007-08-01T08:43:00.001-07:00

moths flew out of her mouth like a vomit of wings
insects beating a buzz tattoo
they hovered over her belly
rotund and bloated and black
her eyes opened like the mouth of a cave
hollow 'n sightless
a slack face weeping skin
yellow/green candle wax melting
her body was now a bag of filth
liquid corruption
the stumps of toes chewed away
a feast of rodents
of slow decay
flesh and bedding melding as one
a movement of legs
a tide of tiny bodies
apartment flat rancid filled smell
cartons of noisome milk
grey maggot cheese
carpet cat bones and fur
framed picture traps immortal image
an absent prodigal son
a memory of family
electric light blinking like a stupid eye
an epileptic signal
a silent scream
a siren warning to the common community
to the custodians of fake sympathy
body in high rise crypt

words by cocaine jesus

love as breath

2007-08-01T08:42:00.001-07:00

this cannot be love
i hear them say
this flying of fur
this scratching at flesh.
this cannot be love
don't be absurd
this shouting of names
this war of cruel words
how can this be love?
when love is divine
it is angels in flight
it is valentines night.
how can this be love?
when love is supreme
echoes of moonlight
slivers of sunlight.

but who are they?
what do they know?
of this passion that binds
of this connection like glue.
but who are they?
that sit and judge
bound by convention
chained by rules.
this is true love
like gods true gift
this bruising of tongues
this grinding of teeth.
this is true love
a flight of fate
blessed by conviction
blessed by belief.

this is true love
as true as death
this aching of souls
this blinding of sight
this is true love
as true as breath
this briefest of kisses
this brightest of light.
this is true love

words by cocaine jesus

city

2007-08-01T08:39:00.001-07:00

i am the dark of the city. the bloated spider that shuffles. cobweb ugly and spun for miles. i am the stain on the subway. the blade in your rib cage that twists like a drill. concrete and glass. chrome and steel. i am the scent of the alley. man piss and fear that lingers in gasoline corners. a regal old lady who rustles her skirts. noble and distantly remote like ice on a hill. i am the dark of the city. a shadow that reflects the passage of time with tarmacadum tears and neon stars. smell the garbage that lingers in cabbage strewn gutters. hear the sound of commerce tolling the till with cheap ale and perfume and cigarette smoke. there is random violence. there is loveless sex. there are bootheels on pavements cracked like old make-up. there is black and there is white and there are colours in between but nothing is grey in this grey situation when the rain fills your brain and history calls. and tomorrow follows on the whim of the underground. and the newspaper vendors shout the same old new news. i am the dark of the city that creeps out of tunnels. that sneaks into green parts for fresh air to breathe. the rats have wings and are fed by the handful as they climb up on high to shit in your ears. and the river gives chase to the mirrored cab lights as the dark of the city pursues young ghosts.

words by cocaine jesus

tuscon

2007-08-01T08:36:00.001-07:00

the chrome on the fawcet was dull and smeared with the grime of days if not weeks. outside the window crows gathered on the telegraph line like widows at a funeral. black eyes, black beaks. silent and watchful. inside she hovered over his thin body and slowly thrust her sex into his face. looking down at his skinny white legs and his hairless white knees and his skinny white, hairless and flacid dick. the viagra patently hadn't worked. too much cocaine. too much alcohol. too much excess. she longed for the release of orgasm to shake her body with its violent hand but his tongue, so often used to utter endless amounts of drivel was as useless as his lifeless penis. she allowed him the dignity of minutes and then she climbed off and leant against the icebox where, by her own hand, she finished the job. teeth biting into her lower lip. watched by a framed madonna. the painting was old and worn and faded and from the painting, had she seen it, the head moved and the madonna's eyes watched her. from the corner of her eye the woman, now sexually satisfied, looked out at the sink with its piled up heap of dirty crockery and the crap covered fawcet. fascinated she observed as the chrome bubbled and corruscated and then slid off the steel forged tap down onto firstly the dirty plates and saucepans and then, snakelike, shifted across the draining board where it moved under a cupboard that had a deepening shadow. beneath it it stopped its fluid motion and formed itself into a perfect oval shaped egg. she blinked bovinely and lifted her fingers to her nose taking in her own scent. musky and dark, like her own soul she thought. a desire for a drink, a hard drink of bourbon came over her but she pushed the thought and the need away. gazing again at her motionless lover she noted that his eyes had glazed over and had now spun round and were looking unfocused away up into nowhere. his skin was parchment pale and his cheekbones were sharp enough to pierce his fragile flesh. his tongue, lolling and white and covered in a ghastly greenish fur, hung out of his mouth and lay long and dry on his chin. from his mouth a ladybird crept and then another, followed by host of red and black spotted bodies. they looked like a dribble of little spots of fleeing blood or spittle. they scuttled down his chin. she hadn't noticed before but between his legs, drying brown and bloodied was a pile of excrement that was alive with white flecks. white flecks that moved. she wanted that bourbon more than ever but thought that a bath would be of greater benefit. moving away from the icebox she went into the bathroom where she hunkered down onto the porcelain bowl and relieved her self. the sound of urine came as a long hiss. there was no tissue and so she got up and ran hot water into the tub. the tiles that surrounded the tub swelled up like the belly of a preganant woman and then shrunk back with a shuddering scrtaching breath of a sound as though air was being expelled over rusty razor blades. one tile made a soft "plooping" sound. maybe drive to tuscon she thought. she had always liked tuscon. she clambered out of the tub leaving wet puddles where her footprints fell in her wake and she walked toward her bedroom to get a towel. the puddles formed into one larger puddle and followed her. she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body. tuscon? yeah tuscon. buy that red floral dress. maybe get that big, broad black belt. then maybe drive awhile. outside the crows gathered. widows at a funeral.

words by cocaine jesus

december

2007-08-01T05:28:00.001-07:00

treacle drips like crow black tar
darkly secretive deeply secluded
a mystery of whispers that bleeds night
a lack of light
a lack of white
as thick as time and as slow as pain
compost heavy
tampax sodden
silence corrupts beating ravens wings
tick tock
tick tock
a brood of baleful blood bats
a flight of grave stone dread

words by cocaine jesus

silence

2007-08-01T05:27:00.001-07:00

An absence of sound like stillness in a void.
Stars come crashing down.
Random colours and contours split apart like atoms.
Flimsy, fragile, tragic.
There is a judgment of trees more solemn than saints.
A moment when time spins into illusion.
Ride the illusion.
Ride the chaos.
Continuity warps as fingers of expression twist the pysche.
Malable and magnificent, a utopia of self.
Breathe belief.
Believe.

words byCocaine Jesus