untitled

It ebbs at the edge of my memory
on the tip of my tongue,
lurking just out of sight

It's my carrot


My wires coil ever tighter
because my screw is not loose
and I haven't lost lost my marbles

(just everything else)

LENBEN

Soul

Cradling my soul in my hands I move forward with trepidation, petrified I might trip and send it skidding across the unrelenting floor. In my hands something precious. A part rarely seen out of body. Soul in hands, heart in mouth I move forward, wishing I could embrace the fear that shudders through my being.

My soul an underdeveloped child wrapped in the warm embrace of my shaky fingers’ steepled roof. A scant protection from the elements but all I can do in this panicked state.

JC

What am I going to do with you?

What am I going to do with you?
Fill up the kettle and make us a brew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Sit down beside you and wait for your cue,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Listen to you carefully as I know you are few,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Stand up above you and wonder the view,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Touch your skin gently and wipe off the dew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Study your skin tone and worry the hue,
that’s what I am going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Listen to your day with Support Worker Sue,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Lift up your cow mask and laugh at your moo,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Encourage you promptly to go to the loo,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Pinch my nose tightly and say ‘smelly poo’,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Feel my frustration and call you a Jew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Feed you to lions for a good chew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you

What am I going to do with you?
Slice you in half so you become two,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Slice you up neatly and cook you,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Put your pieces in some beef and ale stew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Melt you down quickly and box up the goo,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

What am I going to do with you?
Mix it all up and start you anew,
that’s what I’m going to do with you.

M☻g

June 2010

Soul Numbers

I like writing poetry with words
and numbers.
1,
10,
100,
1,000
10,000
100,000
1,000,000

A mountain of numbers each one symbolic in my mind
Ever increasing numbers of my dreams.
One
Ten
One hundred
One thousand
Ten thousand
One hundred thousand
One million.

The same mountain
parallel in words.
But different in my soul
and different in my dreams.

Words in numbers can’t fill my soul
Like digits of numbers fills my dreams.


M☻g

109

109
One hundred and nine
That would have been lovely.

1009
One thousand and nine
Definitely do-able.

10,009
Ten thousand and nine
Scary but a climbable mountain.

109,000
One hundred thousand
With Nine thousand
Odd figures not included
(at this stage).

100k
Just meaningless figures
On a page of
An unknown life
By an unknown man
Who lives with me?

100k
One hundred thousand pounds
Struck heavily, pulverized
Into months and years
of debt that
I don’t know
I never knew
But should have.

100,000
One hundred thousand
Building daily by interest
Accrued by institutions
Who neither know nor care
About me.

23,400
Seconds sitting in crowded waiting
Rooms hopeful for advice
And praying for salvation.
Avoiding others eyes
Wondering.

100,000
times
Are they as bad as us?
Are they fucked too?
Are they as old,
As tired, as desperate,
And probably homeless
As me.

Mog

Blocked

There’s a space in my head that’s aching to be heard
an echoing want that fills my nostrils
with the bitter flavour of ineptitude.

A freezing silence follows when my mind fears to tread,
in a space so personal that my throat constricts my body heaves
and waves of inertia brake off my bow.

I am an open sore oozing my stagnant creativity
over the world, a grotesque monument to my own cowardice.
I slink into the shadows of a mundane existence

hoping like hell the small part that feels like home
will not desert me because of its under-use
and my abhorrence of well earned attention.


This is just a little something right out of my head. Not great I know but it says something about how I feel right now. Any comments would be good.


JC

Poo in my Pants

I have poo in my pants.
It's that brown persistent
skiddy that comes
from ineffective bottom
wiping.

Why does it always
happen when I wear
white underwear?
Or is it just not
noticeable on my black
ones.

Guess the only answer
is the sniff test.

Three Cherries

The Morning After

My craving lasted all of two minutes. As the warm liquid flowed down my throat I knew I had made a mistake. The toxic concoction hit my stomach and it convulsed instantly. My body heaved its contents back up to my throat feeling more sinister than it had on the way down. I made it to the sink just in time to revisit my bad flavour combination on the stainless steel surface, splashing minute droplets up the sides I would have to rinse away later. The sight of my own vomit set off another chain of heaving that retrieved leftover food I did not remember eating.

It was the last time I would let Dave pay his rent in weed.

The kitchen was a blur of light spots on my vision as the convulsions slowed to a stop and I sank to the floor. The cool tiles felt good against my bare legs and I wondered how much better they would feel on my face.

I lay my head to rest gently on the cold hard surface of the tile and momentarily shut my eyes. The smooth surface felt magical against my skin. The hard unyielding surface let my cheek meld to its form its resistance reassuring against my unsteady body. Its strength made me vulnerable, fragile somehow. It felt as though someone could come along and squash me like a bug against its surface and not leave a dent. They could pound my head repeatedly against its unyielding surface until my vision blurred into nothing. Or had that happened already?

JC

The Sphynx Who Fucked the World

Frozen mid-pounce into recumbence
The failed twist of a tongue
Strangulates to cleanse the master race
Spawn of Chimaera told it true
An equinoctial marker of evil,
Not a goddess, but a demon
Paralysed by brilliant rays
of an omnipotent sun.
Waiting for the day the darkness comes,
Sphynx beast will stir awake,
To cross the bright beam threshold
to let shadows strangle fools; laughing.
Her plastic allegiance with man
Ripped forth from the womb of Mother Earth.



Luna