Thursday, 21 April 2011


There's a mountain in my mirror,
but no face
I am off of it.
A thousand empty scotch bottles
dotted about the floor
and beer cans fill my bed.
At least, that's how it feels
in my liver, in my head;
everything aches
especially my feet
but it's impossible to care
when the world looks as it does
right here from my porch.


The drummer sat up. Perched high upon his stool he stretched his neck out as his head reached for the microphone that hung stiff and lifeless above his kit. Either side of him sat the towers. Amplifier upon amplifier. Stacked high. A daunting presence that cast a shadow over the world. You could grow dizzy trying to focus on their peak. Appearing to touch the ceiling, they threatened to burst through it with the first notes that were due to be played. Trapped on the stool, he felt the butterflies flutter and bounce from wall to wall inside his stomach. He swallowed hard, suppressing the gut-wrenching nausea. He held his sticks lightly and rolled them in his palms as his hands trembled from wrist to finger-tip. The years had not been kind on his nerves. He closed his eyes and, breathing in deeply, he prepared himself for the impending explosion of noise . . .


Monday, 18 April 2011

True Love Ways

Her dress swirled
as she moved
in front of he,
the one she so adored.
He was tall and wide-
her eyes found his
and he smiled-
her best friend
with Irish pride.
He was handsome
with his shirt buttoned
and shirt tucked into
trousers just the way
she liked it.
More handsome than
she had ever known;
he made her feel
much prettier than
she had ever known.
She was drawn to him
shy and coy
and into the night they danced.


I’ve taken too many pills,
I’ve been awake for too many days.
I stare at the line
that traces
the figure beneath my sheets;
she lays still
and I know I got my share of good luck
and I know she’s treated me well,
but she has done too many lines-
her cocaine habit,
out of control,
finally too much,
and I weep a solitary tear-
put ice and whiskey
into my glass
and swallow a handful of pills.


A cigarette hangs from my mouth
and a tear rolls down my cheek;
my hand trembles as the
phone slips through my fingers-
I inhale hard until the red tip
reaches its end at the filter-
Everything goes numb
and I collapse to the floor,
to form a fist
to punch anything hard
to split my knuckles in two.
I can still hear the voice
at the end of the line;
it wants to know if I’m there-
I am here.
I don’t want to be
but I’m here.
I just wish my daughter still was.

Fallen Apple

The church looms over my apartment with only me and the cemetery’s dead bodies for company. I stare out of my bedroom window and watch the rain stain the stone of the building a deeper grey. It is grim and depressing. I need an escape from it and so I watch the rain fall onto my window and imagine it how I did when I was a child, sitting in the backseat of my father’s car. Times were better then. Life was sweet and my stomach was full. I didn’t realise it yet, but I was truly happy as I gazed, care-free, out of the car window as the world flew past.


in a club
and I am drunk
in a neon haze-
just searching for that somebody
who, tonight, doesn’t exist-

Suburban Garden Scene

I sat there in the garden, bleary eyed, hung-over and unable to focus my mind on anything. The morning rays of the summer sun beat down on my face, coating my forehead in a thin film of sweat. I was too hot and too uncomfortable to try to read so I simply tossed my book on to the garden table and poured myself another cup of strong coffee from the pot that was keeping pleasantly warm in this uncharacteristic British heat. Turning my mind over and over I searched desperately for something to fill the void. I was empty and alone. I was bored. Gazing to the end of the garden my attention was drawn to the activities of the birds feeding from the five-day-old bread that I had tossed out for them. Alone at the peak of the bird table was a large pigeon feeding furiously on the crumbs in front of him. Either side of the table perched patiently on the garden fences were the smaller birds, a species I do not know the name of; standing, hopping, hoping, and waiting. The pigeon was having none of it. The smaller birds remained there atop their fence looking desperately and hungrily towards the bully sat upon the mountainous throne of food that he currently lorded over them.

The Girls of 5th Avenue

She had paid for my bus ticket and she had kissed me passionately for the entire ride back to her stop. Tonight it was our stop. She spent a lot of the bus ride with her hand in my lap, caressing me lustfully. This came at a price of course. I’d have to stand up on a busy bus and try to stagger off and ignore the stares I was bound to receive. We had been jeered by various jealous strangers on several occasions and now they would get their final farewell show. The perverts. Standing up, I tried to rearrange myself slyly and I could feel the heat. Tight fitting jeans are never a good idea in these situations, but hell, I like the attention.

Cupid's Bullet

Draining the dregs of his drink and kicking the chair in, he took her by the hand and led her to the door at the front of the bar. It was nearly closing time and they were out of money. It didn’t matter to them, though. They were already drunk enough. They were drunk on liquor and they were drunk on lust and they were drunk on love. It was to be a perfect midsummer evening. Even the stench of stale beer and old smoke that still clung to the barroom walls had a beautiful aroma tonight.

Broken Balcony

In a world of sex and heartbreak there is little room left for the romantic. He knew this and there they sat, on the floor of a balcony – two young lovers – holding each other tight. Beneath them the world lived and breathed as they stared at the London skyline in the sweet, summer night. Sharing a cigarette, they didn’t need to say anything to each other; he just held her close. They felt totally comfortable together, even though the stone floor of the balcony was cold and hard. He wanted to protect her from the evils of the world and he wanted to make her feel safe in his arms. He knew he was far from perfect for her but was determined to be the best he could be. He would do everything and anything he could for her. She was his princess and he adored her deeply. They shared a connection that he had never felt anywhere else and nothing could top the way she made him feel. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that it would last forever, but that only made him cherish these moments of happiness even more.

Lady Luck

Jerry, you dumb bastard! You dumb fucking bastard! You lost the ticket. You lost the fucking ticket! Four and a half million pounds sitting on those little numbers that you picked and you lost the fucking ticket. Well, there you go, Jerry, you’re penniless; you’re destined to remain penniless and that’s all you have ever fucking deserved! Go to the pub and drown it out. There’s nothing else to do. If you were a better man you’d find another way to deal with it, but you’re not. Well done Jerry! Here we go again. It’ll be just you and the bottle, forever. You had your out, but you had to go and throw it away. That ticket is gone and there is nothing else. Nothing. Fuck. Oh Jerry, how did it come to this? You are a stupid son of a bitch. God damn you Jerry, when will you learn? When will you fucking learn? What’s left now, eh Jerry? Stare into oblivion. Stare into oblivion and smile that greasy bent-toothed smile of yours.

Walking Home

Was I seeing things? No. No I wasn’t. She was dressed as a Christmas tree. It’s that time of year; the last Sunday before Christmas and people are doing strange things. For me it’s the morning after a party and I’m just trying to get home. One foot in front of the other. Desperately trying not to fall over on the ice and snow. It’s cold and my hands hurt. I don’t mind. Frankly, I’m too drunk to care. I’ve got this bottle of Jim Beam in my hand and I’ve been swigging from it as I walk. It’s been a welcome change from the usual rot-gut whiskey I pour down my neck. I walk on. One foot in front of the other. Staring at my shoes. Daydreaming. Repeatedly telling myself not to fall or slip (I might be drunk, but I don’t want to embarrass myself). My hood is up and it’s keeping me warm. With my earphones in I am separated from the world. Tom Waits is singing to me with his wild take on jazz, beat poetry and his voice. “For I am a Rain Dog, too”. That voice! It is a voice made of gravel and nails and I cannot get enough of it. “You’ll never be going back home”. We’ll see about that, Tom. But I have always been out of my mind. I walk on. One foot in front of the other. I take another drink and let out a small, quiet growl. It tastes good but it burns. I don’t know if I am more drunk or hung-over. I can’t be sick though. It’ll freeze in the snow and never go away. I don’t want that on my conscience as well. My feet are consuming all my thoughts and I don’t want to take my eyes off them. I have to though. I look up just in time to realise I’m about to walk into someone. A guy with his beautiful child nestled in his arms. I feel bad and apologise profusely. He just smiles, places his hand on my shoulder and says “Don’t worry, it’s okay. It’s okay.” That makes me feel worse. I would’ve been happier if he shouted at me, told me to watch where I was going and try to make me feel bad. He tried to be understanding. Sympathetic. I reeled in his pity. I hated him for it. He couldn’t be nicer but I hated him for it. I guess I’m just a bad person, but then again, I don’t want to care about that and I’m not going to. I’ve just got to get home. It’s too cold to be out on the streets. I walk on. Take another drink. One foot in front of the other. I’ll get there eventually. I walk past a prospective employer and he looks at me in disgust. So much for that job then. Life is just one foot in front of the other and we’ve all got some place we need to be. I take another drink.

Lost in this World

I lay in bed with my eyes closed, daydreaming of another life. I stand outside my record shop, with a cigarette in my left hand and a tattooed spider climbing up my arm, watching the people roll in and out of the front door. I’ve taken up smoking because I quit drinking and I need a vice – it’s okay though – I don’t smoke much. In truth I only took it up to convince myself that I’m cool and I will do anything to make myself feel cool. Even if I am the only person who thinks it.