Shower

Jet stream spat from the head
splits, one half sprints towards
the walls, one half congeals
and sweats across my limbs,
sputters into rivulets,
tracing creases over leather.
Steam curls into curtain
mould, black spots that dampen,
drop. Tub lips drip froth out
of spots fallen, lather
lost, soap stains. Plug hole hair
rafts, buoys, teased in a pool.
I feel beats, so small, burst-
ing on my kidney, my
vertebrae. Water runs cold,
I gasp. Runs hot, I scald.

Vultures

I, hawk-eyed, dyed
brown shellac, pull up
keffiyeh, cloth over crisp,
overdone, cover nose, two
lips, to make a sheikh
out of my self. Break
the top two joints, roll
battered, spine shattered,
down dunes, double vision
makes two new moons.
Do I squint? do I splint,
bandage, tear, mend, join
hands? barter in the market
with mesopotamians, hop
the barge, butt the blunt?
Ashes from an urn, spilt.
Two vultures drifting down
see Jericho rebuilt.

Ecdysis

He finally abides, hands grey,
among cork and silk and carpet,
always smelling vinegar, or
cat's piss, or Vicks vapour,
or kettle crust or fog.
His hands have felt every
facet of this coop, this
kennel, every mahogany root,
sagging armchair, dust pan,
greasy mirror; each silent,
poised trapping of monogamy.
He is tired, too many bones
to prop, scars to balm and
sigh, too little open sky, dishes
to dry, glasses to clutch and drop.
Days uncoil slowly as the milk
and eggs spoil. He stoops and
creases into a chair, his skin
is tight and slack, thick and thin;
he wishes he could be a snake,
shake it loose and start again.
At night he never strays far
from his lamp, his floor, his
opened door. He lies awake
and watches gold-dust pass
the beam from dresser-top
to wooden boards, and breathes
his way towards the dawn.
And if he dreams, he dreams
of colors falling, rain and snow,
of children, laughter, beauty, no
late departed photograph,
no love, no curtains drawn
around his house, he has time
for them on purgatorial afternoons.
No, if he dreams, he dreams
of a wind, a breath, a tune twisting
on summer air, a thirst, a life;
of a dumb renunciation or
a tulip wilting in his hand.

Awake

There is light
through leaves
again

Green sacking
on scaffolds
twitching
dry

Dust like chalk
gathering
in the crotch
of the curb

Smiles in dresses
shirts and ties
wait for busses
shield their eyes

I watch the sweat
surprising
their faces

Oil glistening
on fleshy
cheese

The cars glint by

I stand
and scratch
my balls

This morning
there was a bird
under my window

Sun and song
shook me
awake

Jack Horner

Should I be some
painted lunatic, slurping
Milton through a straw,
holding the door, for
some well-read tic
to stick his pins in?
Would I look fine
reading lines, juggling
baubles in the corner,
little Jack Horner,
sucking dick for
a gold star? hooray!
Who could want more
than to be the prick
they kick against all day?
No-one can tell me
how to blow my horn;
in, out, bruised or mend-
ed, consenting or wrought,
tranquil or distraught, form-
less or tune-less or wrong,
coming, going, or gone.
Teeth to teat, beat
the words no flunkey's
going to eat, the meat
the dogs are biting off the bone;
go home, sit alone, and
sunshine? Trot along,
go write a fucking love song.

Under the Sycamore Trees

We are two, you and I,
a mask and a cracked saint.
Or are we many? Or
are we one? A laugh,
a cloud out of a grave
that Zarathustra saw,
a thousand masks of children,
angels, owls, fools, butterflies,
a burning bush, a saxophone —
no, you are just a man
from another room.
Close the drapes, do not
step on the kitchen tiles;
you'll slip, they'll hear.
I'm scared of you, but
he's dancing double time
doppelganger steps across
the room, and where's
the crime in being frightened
of yourself? And I'll see you,
I'll see you in the branches
that blow in the breeze.
I'll see you in the trees.

Under the sycamore trees.

Hang Over

I am just an un
named tea. stain suck-
ing-glass-out-of-hand,
coughs, up lungs in
a dish, fin, ger, ring,
hang. over. shirt.
be tween
hours, com.
fort brought
by showers
and wind sin
ging rind of or
ange round ring
fin! gers. cheeks
dead ring! ers
for holy cows
,sapped up and sac red,
(skin on bone)
a horse in a pen
all alone

6am

aHH
STOP
Trees are. shi
ning birds are
sing. ing kids
are co. king
dawn is com
ing ke. babs
roast. ing buds
un, fold. ing
more sun morn
ing tongue is
stretch. ing out
to meet a
tramp. A squin
ting tramp a
blin. king tram
p a perso n
try, ing t
o re
la. te
to
so. me
1
plE
S
M
I
S

*elf

m
or

than.
it.
StoP

Nightswimming

Feel bubbles flood
the corners of my
eyes, hands pushing
through fluid night.
Breathe out all I have
and break the surface,
gasp, shout, pant, flop
down from careless
streets onto my bed.
Dry my hair, shake my
head and really laugh,
throw stones out the
window for crabs to
scuttle at, sit in my
cave and let sand fall
through sponge fingers.
Feel the reach of my
arms, possibility in my
bended knees and soles.
Remember the lights
that blinded me when
I made the last length
and swallowed water,
when I touched the
bottom and thought my
decade old lungs
would burst. I'll
dream tonight of coral,
weird fish, or some
siren on another shore.

Pipspit

An abs-
tract sub-
lime temp
du jour-
knees, plays-
crypt page
ripped out,
I am
left gasp
grasp gha-
sting like
a fish-
sure moul
-ting -dy
rot
ten
apples
into
paste

Saturday Night

We sit. Emaciated mares
braying plumes of steam
to cloud the passing of
a winter sun. Gathered
here to pile in corners,
bags of skin and brittle
bone, we laugh together,
spiny twisted insects,
throwing pale Bowie poses
crazy across the walls.

Lit by candles and christmas
lights, brawling in the halls,
tapping ash into beer cans,
we sit. Someone mentions skag,
we look at our hands.
We should be pissing from
the rooves, blunting our horns,
but we're fed America, we'll live
our bit parts and bloat and choke
on fast food, and be glad.

I step out on the street
and taste chlorine on my
tongue, I rub my eyes
and yawn. I'm still young.
I grin, and gape in all these
lights, and feel my face go
numb. I'm Belial's son,
I'll grin my skeleton
grin, and move on.

Saturday

This song, this wind is cool
on my bones, as I stand
at the edge of the day.
This shirt is course between
the tips. Folded in my
fingers, a sail set, a hand-
kerchief, not a surrender.
Money for a quiet mind.

Down the street, a blod clot
woman shouting the neighborhood
down, she's proud. Her anger
is curling through the far window
of this evening, and somebody
has done her wrong.
Some work attire, some smoke
without fire, some stupid girl
who has the key to Angelo's door.

I cradle my aching arms,
throw a cover over this
beautiful day, this yawning
beast that lies down, a lioness
in a grassy hollow on some
endless plain. Another time,
another place, far from any coast.
I take a sip, hug my knees
and listen for the distant rows
that break at every hour
between the bricks, behind
the many curtains, on the worn
carpets of Cypress House.