not remotely

i’m not one of those pretentious poets
that will grow his hair all long and wear a leather jacket to facade his uncoolness

i’m not one of those pretentious poets
that will scream the virtues of non-conformance but secretly resents every fucking rejection letter

i’m not one of those pretentious poets
that will overact a recital to cover up that i can’t write for shit, but after the champagne and canapes and schmoozing, i still wouldn’t mind a blowjob from the brunette in the front row with the glint in her smile and the ralph lauren frames
in the cloak room, or
in the car park, or
on the bus on the way back to her apartment,
where she’ll let me make her
squirl and screee

i’m not one of those pretentious poets
who needs valium to wash down his beer to write, anything, remotely

hey.you.

hey

you there
captain depressed, mistress misery
you’re not so special

your sister is the same
your neighbour is the same
your doctor is the same
your congressbitch is the same

we just have different liquor
we just have different muse
we just have different time
we just have different blades

my tonic is yours
my pill is yours
my writing is yours
my drowning is yours

we’re not so special
reverend nightmare, secretary of distate
you there

hey

urquell

Five a.m.
First Urquell
Already instead of
Snoozebutton
Call in late/sick/excuse/
Hide someplace for the rest
of the day.

Eight a.m.
Fifth Urquell
Already buzzing but there’s no
Snoozebutton
I am anguished/fearful/weak/
Run someplace for the rest
of the week.

Eleven a.m.
Tenth Urquell
Already crying and ready for a
Snoozebutton
To shake/wake/tear/
Myself someplace for the rest
of the rest.

trumpet

o, the beacon’s rise!
over and kissing my
sand and my surf,
you herald for all eyes
to hear with trumpets and cheer,
it’s a new day!
it’s a new day!
it’s a new day!

well sun, you can suck my Dick
Tracy, you fuckin’ woke me up!
peeking through the fuckin’ blinds,
when all i wanted to do was snore
away the dread of having to rise
to another pitiful day
of my life.

now stick your trumpet up your ass.

Emotional Diary

Tuesday

6:12 am Acceptance

6:15 am Anticipation

6:34 am Disgust

7:19 am Acceptance

7:51 am Anger

7:52 am Relief

9:08 am Surprise

9:12 am Joy

9:34 am Love

11:38 am Acceptance

12:22 pm Disgust

1:43 pm Disgust

3:59 pm Anticipation

4:07 pm Relief

5:12 pm Joy

6:42 pm Surprise

7:32 pm Lust

8:11 pm Joy

8:47 pm Love

8:51 pm Joy

9:33 pm Lust

9:34 pm Joy

9:37 pm Acceptance

9:42 pm Disgust

9:56 pm Sadness

11:43 pm Fear

aghast

I was eating my chips and vinegar when a boy of, oh, about six years old, whirling his little chicken legs as fast as they could whirl, came running past me. I tell ya, he was a happy little fella; he cackled and clucked away like a chicken. If I was stoned that day, maybe I’d be telling you that he was a chicken.

Anyway.

Then I cracked open my Bundy. Ginger beer of course, not rum, it was still only 2 after all. The rum starts at 5.

Anyway.

Then this big fat woman came along. I could hear her puffing and gafuffing from a way’s away; she was no chicken, that’s for sure. And I tell ya, she was not happy Jan, not happy at all. She called out to the chicken boy,

“Come back Johnny, come back!”

He didn’t look like a Johnny to me, he looked more like a Scotty. Johnny’s are two-shoes, and this chicken didn’t look very goody goody to me.

But anyway.

The big fat woman heaved and hurled herself to where little Scotty had stopped, and she was mad. She was all red and aghast in the face, while he was bursting happy and joyin’ the face. It was pretty funny to look at. I wondered as I chugged my ginger what she was so freakin’ freaked out about, so I watched them like a sticky beak as they walked back past me. I wonder if chickens ever actually get sticky beaks?

Anyway.

When they walked past I kinda worked out why the fat wheezing oompa-loompa was so freakin’ freaked out, and it wasn’t because she was afraid of little Scotty-Chicken-Johnny-Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy-Boy running away. It was because he was only about six, and she knew that she’d lost him already.

Anyway, those chips were pretty freakin’ freaky choice. You outa’ get some from there; just two bucks for the chips and a buck fifty for the Bundy.