My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;
‘We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee’
poet.
So to you I said ‘I’m ill’
‘Care to spill?’ she hisses.
‘Yes’ I said
My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
‘Prince and King Godber’
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded dwarf on a throne.
She responds;
simple, penile, surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain’t slept…
Small cock? Na cock, but let’s not go into it tonight,
naked.
In her dreams he’s laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn’t know till it was too late.
The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire
Pain. Passion, Nighttime.
‘Do what thou Wilt’ says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.
I did, I do, I do – boom boom. no one laughs.
She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don’t you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair
so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to kill myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.
Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.
Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming fuck this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half pissed,
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that’s saying something.
Come and bathe yourself in my immortal quim, she bleats
‘look it up in your encyclopedia of shames’
you’ll just find a picture of a woman.
It’s intoned meaning
It’s poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.
screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, vomit on the doormat.
Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna kill us.
Already has.
Fuck it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don’t go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.