Boom Boom Boom
Here we go, here we go,
I say I say
boom boom boom
I say I say
here we go, here we go
boom, boom ,boom
diamonds kill
I say, I say
diamonds ravage
boom, boom, boom
I say, I say
shave’em
cut’ em
I say, I say
boom, boom, boom
diamonds kill.
Grandfather
His face, once a diamond shaped sheet
free of any creases
tilted on tip toes
now hangs low like a hammock.
His hair recedes like the horizon
while the hair in his nose grows like weeds
and his neck plays tuneless music from the flesh accordion
that mixes the middle c with the b and plays d by mistake.
He puts Beethoven on
and takes out the Turkish delight
before fetching his slippers
and as he travels up the stairs the smell of Brill cream
goes one step ahead of his shadow.
And in the interceding space between his shadow
and his self a world of broken pens and unfinished manuscripts
lays untapped like a fountain of hidden gold.
Playtime
The leaves on the Beech outside my window
play like naughty school children at an adult’s dinner party,
making faces as the wind re arranges them.
Up and down they go
playing pirates and princes
with the leaves that coil and uncoil
with the ferocity of sex.
I lie in bed, eyes closed like steel shutters on an off license
and dream
of sea horses and ravens.
The underground
The days crumble like brie
as I loose all moisture
becoming dryed herring-
I am lost in a bed of crumbs.
The nights play face painting on my eyelids
sketching purple lines where salmon skin should be.
I am underneath everything I could be;
men, shoes, houses, walls, graves
and am unscaled and boneless like a gulled cod.
I am smothered with butter, and armpit juice that oozes into my pores
and settles like a thick curd on top of cream.
As I am pushed forward my arms swing as if in dance
looking for air to catch as if playing baseball.
Nothing comes though and I fall.
Feet splayed, hair up in the air
and make up swiped clean
as if a blade through the guts.
I am a fish.
The love of a paedophile
It was the pallor of her skin,
the natural rose tint in her cheeks
and the way her eyes shone like green LEDs
that made me fall in love with her, not her age.
At six her nipples stuck out from her flimsy dress,
hard and pointy like chocolate stars.
Her skin was as smooth as a chestnut,
her lips as moist as her cunt
and tinted the colour of her clit.
I took her from Hamleys, with promises of toys.
She did not scream, did not kick so I knew she wanted to come.
At home I unravelled her like a parcel until she was naked.
I opened her legs and cunt, which was as closed as a peanut
and as tight as a stretched elastic band, a mini tulip to devour
and sucked
while she sucked on her boiled sweets and cried.
Her vagina tasted of salted cream.
And when I laid on top of her she writhed like a worm until she bled.
Drying Fish
The azure disc hangs low,
rubbing against the water
that moves in tiny coils,
as if made of a million snails’ shells.
On the beach
a house’s walls haemorrhage,
leaving its’ veins bare against the elements
that encompass it like wolves to deer.
In front of it, a clothes line full of dolphin bones,
cod scales and shark tales dries in the sun
that attacks the bones,
in an attempt to tan their alabaster colour.
To the left of the fish,
against an ashen wall a woman in a dress
that flutters in the breeze like butterfly wings
is encompasses by rising dirt that scrapes her thighs.
In front of her dressed in blue trousers and a blue top,
a child plays hopscotch in the sand,
splattering sand against her clothes,
turning the blue mousy.
