a man amongst giants dies
and now
there’s one less
worker in amid
the stinking artists.

go easy, old man.

the brow pushes forward making
the 17 year old version
of the 14 year old
you were dying to fuck
in your parents kitchen
look a little too much
like her brother
and uncle.
another reminder
life won’t be kind
when you hesitate.

no one ever sees the Beast
until they do.
then they become unable
to see anything else
when they’re with you.

that fucking island. i spent 5 years out there, ruining my lung and footwear with the damp. along the way i came to appreciate good coffee. problem was the stuffed bunch of cunts and zealots that make it. i got pretty good look when i worked the taps for a few months. typical service industry cattiness mixed with the paranoia of hyper-caffienation. i don’t know who i hated more, the customers or the staff. whatever, i learned a lot about what goes into good, third wave coffee. i learned even more about what shouldn’t. i left it, of course, no money and moved back here to whore my services out. there’s lots of coffee here, boutique swill served in fancy cages. bunk scenes filled with black death. i’ve taken to making coffee at home.

John and i were talking over pints.
work, work, work, that’s
all we share.
i asked “has this crash
slowed you down any?”
“not really” he said
“‘cept the customers want a complete
break-down of every side and cent
of whatever quote i pitch. It’s like
they want the work done
for free.”
i took a huge hit
and smiled in recognition. “yeh” i said
“i wouldn’t mind the needling so much
if we weren’t pouring over the details
in the front seat
of the their new AMG Mercedes…”

this liquor, here
it’s a nitemare
there really is nothing else.
as i was crawling back, unslung
from the horrible north
at 60km per
i was pasted
and doused
by a Tonka toy 4×4
that shattered
the little
visibility i had left
with the wash
of new fallen
pavement sludge.
in the tackle
of box-bed garb
i noticed
the work boot
turned up towards
the unending torrent
of heavy snow.

only a man
driven to drive
thru madness
to get
to the one
he couldn’t keep out of
would let a boot
that earns his fuel
get wet.

i raised my road pop
in silent salute
and wonder
to the desperate life
the alcoholic lives
along the modern highway.

maybe i’ll do a lid, a line, finish
this fucking Belgian whore
right down the gullet.
maybe it keeps snowing
because the little man in the clouds
knows the precipitation trapped
in my heart
under the fat
and the booze
and the junk.
maybe she’ll throw me
down the keys, cut
me a long one, cut me a drift
away from the love that died
while i was playing gardener
and hard saint. fuck.
i hope i never
let me down again. too expensive to die.
this run has had the highest cost yet
and i’m no where near the end.
no rehab revival, no thoughts on God
just cunt and drink and cut and bleed and cunt
and kill and fall and forget.
theres still someone else
i need to be inside of, and
someone else
i’ve got to be
but he
can’t lay stone, or
guzzle gasoline, or lie
or kill or drive
my blood-red pick-up straight
up the lamp pole
thru the purple curtains
and right on into
to the next
sister of mercy.
i take water where i can get it.

ten years ago
the enemy was so easy to see.
casual Friday and the cult of denim
stole the uniform.
now, the Money
looks an awful lot
like me.

i was in there
for some crime
you cannot even imagine, but
what they could actually hang on me
was less than nothing.
they knew it was more
but i wasn’t holding, and
i wouldn’t give them
the sweat off my sack, so
it was decided;
detention,

my term was to be served out
in those shallow, horrid walls.
14 days
Janitorial duty
after school
until the task was completed.

she was an old horse
the school janitor. i had half-believed
that she was the one
who’d turned me in.

we had a common room, back then
sort of a student lounge
with stereo-cassette player
and a locking door.
every night after
half-a-dozen waste baskets
i’d steal the coffee machine
out of the teacher’s lounge
make a pot
and sip
and listen to the tunes
i brought in
until my cut-off time;
7;30 p.m.

about the 5th night in
she used the key
opened the door
and caught me
in full-recline.

i expected the knife.

she reached over, turned
the volume down

told me to keep it quiet.

she dropped the can
of condensed milk
on the lino counter
and closed the door
behind her.

that detention was very effective.
i learned two very valuable lessons.

my enemy
was not on staff, and
my most negative behavior
would always meet
with positive
reward.

just run thru
another nitemare season
another street light disaster
and i found my way
between the world’s oldest whore
and the one that got away
and the clap, and the shiv
and the needle and the damage
and the land mines
the vanity, the pig, the gun
the fucking money grubbers, the temple
of the silicone cunt
and the rotten prick of death, and i walked
out the other side knowing
those death holes, the talentless whelps
covet that which i throw away….

so, how’s your winter been

…miss me?…

these streets don’t need my blindness
’cause all the ugly things
in the nook
won’t be able to see over
the mountain
of aluminum and glass.
it’ very thirst work
here in the dark.

that light was just
simple harassment, you
didn’t deserve
the heavy hand. she said
she said hello, pay
sure.why not
yer a good guy.
guy, where’s my
wallet?
the chain, the
what?
she doesn’t mean it
it you must forgive.
it’s the blade, always.
drunk? naw
play the big money
leave on your own
doesn’t mean
you didn’t have fun…..

but i can

i’ve fucking paid for it and

it doesn’t always do this;
this far south the wind
will kill you.

blow out the pilot

kill the bird

and the buzz

in the middle of

the fucking sky…

where’s my drink…

it can take your heat and
it can remove your means.
it can send the seat of your heart
over the soft borders
to the South, and damnably
to the West.
those fucking mountains pose
an irresponsible appeal.
it isn’t tears;
those are droplets
that the ice has let out

like a little cry

to soak the glass as
the truth invades.

very cold shouldering all that booze

one finger, two
thumb.
it’ll just be one
more drink, and

that stewardess

with the golden ass

can’t screw

any better than this ink.

the meat will right itself

so push the fluid past the lips

into the page

and this fucking thing will land.
let the wing drop
serve the sorrow.
you’ll never bring her home

from that young cock

with that

long, sad

sober fucking face…..

when she straightened her hair
the pearls off the bar lights
made her look like a God-thing.
that halo was as empty
as my pint glass
’cause i knew
she hadn’t a lick
of pigment
in her eyebrows
without the fashion
of the pencil.
i am a known Dualist.
i kneel
at the altar
of the pulled cork
and the perfect fruit, with only the
slightest touch
of feathery, lemon-yellow down.
i puked my reverent betrayal over the cat-box
as she worked out the score
of what my worship
was going to cost her.
never finger a liquid
you do not intend
to fully
ingest.

i wish i had a river
i could skate my way outta this redneck drudgery
no more diesel afterbirth
or homophobic slurs, or songs
by Sarah McLaughlin on every other radio station, but i’m trapped
my mutual deception and bodies of water that won’t freeze
and wageless slavery and emotion dependence
my generations week sins of soft socialism slowly eroded
down to nothing
but consumer fat at an ugly trough
pretending we are so clever and much
more humane
than our southern neighbours( this is the lie)
trapped, in my own uselessness
as H1N1 moves mercury thru the system and hides
the horror of the common market, as
the snow erases civility
and the season eats up the credit
we continue to eat, fuck, shit and pretend
that the whole farce isn’t almost up.
big screened, fake titted, four wheel driven
trapped and totally fucked
as the last vestige of liberty
is swallowed with the egg nog.
the war isn’t over
and it never will be.
hoho
ho.

nimrod in his family wagon
burns by me on the ice slicks.
“idle-free Alberta” sticker in the rear window almost
obscures my view
of him, blathering away
on his fucking cell phone.

cuts you up
Blogged by J. as Uncategorized — J. Fri 9 Dec 2005 12:51 am

nick the thumb
thru the nail
jab the dogs
into the knuckle
pierce the skin
see the meat
the pink
crush the skull
under the weigh
of myoptic nightmares
coat the mind with
fields of dead-white
powders
dull the cock on
razor sharp hips
dull the pain, downing
quadruple brandied candied cocktails
righteous up on the stink of
good smoke shit
hits from the top
of the Pops, from
the bottom
battling the band
the bottle, the bobble
husband to the wife
finally a father to the sons
the memory of one
being forgettable, and one
missing Mother.
took four shots
and fell down dead
now the moon shines over
the grave of John
and the Walrus.
25 years gone, and still so close
it doesn’t matter
how they try
and, the fuckers
they keep trying
to cut you up.
still, you remain
the tacked-up, coked-up
primal screaming
’cause the dream is over
man-boy
celluloid
plastic fantastic
only.

R.I.P.

in the middle of that great gallery where
i was diminished amongst
all the images, tiles, mirrors, sculptors that i
had longed for i
walked, sick
with grapefruit-sized welts
upon my face and arms
two days away from
blood poisoning.
it took too much cash
and enormous fucking balls to do Paris alone to just
lay, prostrate
on the boat.
full of good, cheap wine
heavy black espresso
and anti-histamines
i made it
3 hours
before the nausea
got the best of me.
it was for the best.
being alone
full of tears
and snotty under the nose is
no way
to look upon
the face of God.

or maybe
there is
no other way.

there and you were never mine any more than you were any oneelse’s you are one of that rare breed that belongs solely and wholly to themselves even when someone else is desperately and deeply inside you inside you in all the ways you hope a thing wil get inside you deeply with resplendent vigor anticipation and inspired
movement
you put your hands upon me above those gorgeous ancient laquered slats that were once a stable floor like a maddened maddening physician, yes it’s true i needed to be handled held healed for my wounds had grown so deep and

as you parted your bare thighs under and along my shoulders bracing my swollen head up of that floor working, teasing, kneading the ache out of my Atlas my Axis my soul i fell prostrate into your strong hands that held my whole life and teased to tear my whole life apart
your fingers were thorns in tangles in my hair as you stretched me out pulling me tight upon your rigid frame i could smell the musk of you body the scent of you i would forever know even in the dark
i closed my eyes against the coming of lust the coming of release the burgeoning hard-on propped deep into the leg of my pants i tried and failed to ignore the depth of you breathing as the heat from your middle became moist under my head and i fought the real need

to flip, on that hard floor

and bury myself in you
with all the vigor
your efforts
had made a demand.

i don’t give a fuck whom yer guest editor is, they can’t fuck my girl and probably wouldn’t want to( althogh every one else does) i gotta get the roots outta this thing and the strawberry blonde in the seat next to me holds me personally responsible for the downfall of her sexual crescendo and the end of her innocence and the death of everything good and she’s probably right but what the fuck do i care except to say that you shouldn’t knock on my fucking door even if you’re on fire and i don’t care for your basic humanity but i am awful fond of that great yellow pink divide in your frame and would burn the rest of the rest of the world just for another peek at it’s brilliance i know you think this fiction but thats only because you’ve never seen that tart yellow pie cream miracle as it spills upon your face your face your chest your cock your life and bleeds in and stains and ruins and validates every thing everything every other thing you’ll never feel between this and death and this and her tongue in your mouth on the back streets on the couch on this plain in this life or any other a miracle by any other name…….

sick for so long the winter of that place had made me a eunich, the constant rain the drudgery could take any mans balls but the raven gods of sick desire brought a dark-haired thing to pull my cock along my cock that had so long sat like a tired lonely soldier sitting in wait for the next set of anxious orders she
was looking for love
in all the wrong places( obviously) and i always occupy all the wrong place ready
with beer and sword to sing all the right things
into the gapping awaiting miracles, hungry for all the wrong things the heat
of the bar may have made a difference
as did her enormous mouth, tits
and ass and i was blinded, as i’ve always been by
the next incredible thing
to come across my lap,
i shunned friend and foes, alike
then sucked at her foreign lips
outside my strangled apartment
until i thought
my pant leg would explode
with obvious erection.
as i slipped the key into the waiting lock she
asked the simplest
most absurd question;
“do you
have a girlfriend?”
and, with the easy lie tied
to the tip of my penis
eager to get her inside
inside her
my stupid fucking fucking mouth
found a moments truth
and there
outside my poverty door
the night ended.

all that mouth, holy tongue
vanilla ass
peach cunt
and amazing tit
sagged away from my stoop
with the weight of my
ugly truth.

an hour latter
i mopped in my poverty bed
as the waiting phone, rang
in the other room.

full of fidelity

and sick

of the whole
fucking farce.

down so down low long gone wasted away in the heat then the miracle occurs. another someones someone let the cherry become a friend, lets the sheets roll back against the entrance we were all born in. fingers point and probe into another mistake we can;t just walk away from( stiff cock as glue against the logical escape) then the tongue becomes involved in another come-stuck nite, then the whole place reeks of lust and we’re on the back streets until the end, and the end is never easy when sampling the unknown, the others goods, the goods so sweat and ripe and wasted by foolish attendants( why would anyone, any fool let such a pink beast as this sit, sat alone in this heat) hot, wanton, vagrant amore, heavy with drink, drunk from the bottle , the lip the hip, the loose the tight the hunger the night will end before release and really, release is the last thing on our minds because along with the coming of the sun and some strange, immortal moral compass, release must mean the end, back to drudgery, the dirge of commitment sex, the old side-shuffle hump done under the cover of bored darkness, just when the frictioned engagement against the unlikely sight of something so like our own desire has finally and wholley set us free, release will bring only orgasm, loneliness and the return to those beings that leaped us upon this unholy crumplled matress in the first place…

this last sip of the newest bottle is truely
magic. i know nothing
nothing of the waves that pass
the tides are
as far from me
as the moon

this type of poesy is
vomit.

i often puke against
the last page of the night, it’s the easiest whore, the last one left against the lonely wood perch of
the disgusting barstool
we
share the desperate love
of the last sinking note of the ale, the lager, the
pilsner
we write the same hope of darkness reprieve
we sink the same tumbler

i do not pray to rise above.

she is the we
of ultimate
consumption

as the gold foil
of my last bottle
falls prey to
my hunger

she will make the same plan;

latch on to
another consumer

anxious to grant
libation
to the hunger
of desperate thirst
that knows no
relent…

gods oven burns the city as i struggle to lay plans and schemes to get what i need done while i have access to an extra pair of hands. hangovers and resentments pile up in the corner as i stare in hatred at my unringing phone this thick windless day rolls over into a gross night body sticky head swims in dull ache this heat wave must break my patience had burned away and i’ve too much left to get done…..

did you know
that a 12 hour old
Corona
will light up again
almost like the freshly capped
if placed
back
in the fridge?

no?

well

good.
this doesn’t fucking matter.
and neither do i
this old writer
said that
we must escape
the “comfortable line
to hell with the reader
get down to the dross..”

well, i’ll tell ya
when you’re considering
ancient beer
as a real option
to bed
or sanity
you’re in the thing
pretty deep.

morality
is the last ugly cunt
at the end of
the 4 a.m. bar
and
i’m no preacher
so put
the old bottle
in the fridge
and find the courage
that haunts
me now.