1974 (2007)

Bleak, standard mills, the grey skies of Yorkshire

Thanks for that.

A slap on the back

And that’s that

Welcome to the pecking order

Handing over, one to another

Father, mother


Happy, Not Happy (2011)

I wake up, I log on

I close the door on the fucking sun

City scored, someone died

Someone likes someone I loved

I go outside

I move between a thousand lives

Amazed by their faces

Strangers I can’t talk to

And although I don’t much like to look

I like to think who I’d like to fuck

Happy, not happy

The rain looks like diamonds

Exploding on my eyelids

Replicated, in colour

On Candy Crush


A Flu-like Virus (2012)


The Halls mask an enveloping fragrance

That seeps through the pores of damp skin

A byproduct of a mortal order

The deadly emissions

of all living things


So-‘n-so describes, in detail, an erotic endeavor

He fucks some girl, three times! into my ear piece

Sputum defiles his interlocutor

Not once, but twice!

Get well soon, he says


Dickens, I submit, had a flu-like virus

When he imagined the ghost of Christmas Past

He travelled ethereally (like I did last night)

In the cold, rugged hands

Of his mother’s clasp


That’s your taxi to heaven

Don’t miss it


It was with her, in her arms

When I first hallucinated spiders

Crawling, all over the floor (and on me!)

We didn’t trust doctors

You can’t be sick, without your mother (full stop)


That , I think, is what I’m trying to say

The ill-design of the body

It’s the perfect accompaniment to

Wait a minute, I need to blow my nose

Call it a physical, psycho-tropical indiscretion

Flu transcends thought

We asked100 people and they all said yes

Sickness is a symptom of self-recognition

There’s a spider on my wall


No Kidding


A bed is the mirror of a frigid cage

The dream was encrypted for a man of your age


Not, only, because, it, always, rains in September

Everyday, it’s the same

In the tropics we look forward to winter

(In Dickens’s terms, life in reverse)


Taking the poor kids to the zoo (2015)


Ripped blue ribbons in your imperfect hair

“Yak bai doo chanee!” I want to see the gibbons

I’ll race you to the top of the steps

You can’t beat me because you’re laughing

The big kid has skin lesions all over his arms

He exaggerates fatigue and says he can’t go on

I lie and tell them the gibbons are a minute away

And think about what I was told in the morning

A third of these kids have HIV

But they don’t know that, yet

Some of them flinch when I hustle them along

Orphans, I’m told, children of no one, junkies, the dead

But when they find a slope of dry grass

They ask me to take their old knapsacks

Cindy, Barbie, Hello Kitty, ruthlessly bruised and dirty

There’s some kind of functionality, in a banking, for sliding

I hope it’s not too much of a rarity

I can’t help but pity them

The world functions, in moments

Above the grass slopes there are penguins

The big kid follows me in

Looking at a woolly mammoth he asks, “Is that real?”

“Yes,” I tell him

He looks at me suspiciously

I’ve lost half the kids

“Yak bai doo chanee!!” says the girl, smiling wonderfully

The gibbons, I say, must have gone home for Christmas

They are aware now I am as lost as them

But they go along with me, pretending

“How did they get home?” they ask

“The gibbons have boarded a plane.”

They purse their lips, and shake their heads like grown-ups

And for a moment I’d forgotten about the HIV, the ripped blue ribbons, lesions

Or that I was told to be concerned about bleeding

Or that everything they carried or wore was knackered and dirty

Or that the future in some schools, is a much more formidable enemy

The gibbons had gone home for Christmas

End of story


Getting along (2004)


My mother, the martyr, she was oozing from her self-inflicted wounds

Her plaster: whisky, beer, booze

The charity of disaster, her relief from the world

Kills her slowly, she has family, she has children to protect

I express my sadness in denial,

my defects are isolated to lies,

The trial of loneliness, she deals with it while

we seem happy, the family,

but it hurts her,

that we’re still young

She worked in a factory, she had no youth to speak of

On matters of joy,

she always remained aloof

History, it killed me she said,

and she found Special Brew

And you laugh at my injuries!

You don’t believe me?

But you know when you hear that bottle unscrew

When you find me unconscious

When I’m floored,

I’m thinking of you

The selfish, greedy, unloving family

You made me

You made this

But I’m nothing,

without you

Do you understand me? Love did this to us!

A family, the lies,

Seemingly, some virtue lies, in her tormented truth

She’s on her second bottle of whisky

She’s talking about love

Lack of, vulnerability,

pathetic it seems to me

I pick her up from the floor with my brother, he takes her keys

He scolds her, tells she can’t drive, I laugh, nervously

I’m trying to see something funny,

he’s older than me.

School in the morning

I want to get high

My dad ignores us, he works too hard

He recedes from violence

He hit us before, and it left marks on his hands

That’s mother’s job


And to speculate how we’ll both come to nothing

Two brothers in arms

I love him, but I distrust love,

because I know it’s harmful

Vying for affection, where there are only lies

There are tears in her eyes.

Tissues in her hands.

She wants to hold me

Why did you do this to me, she asks

Hate me

Leave me

I need to get high.

And then she died.

Does it get less heavy?

I’m almost 30

And still living through my mother’s demise

My dad he ignores me

He’s found love, he’s been roused

My brother still lives the life of a recluse

Still scared of our family,

An anatomy of grief.

Baked tears in the pantry

I can’t talk to him about this

No one will

It’s too serious.

My father

On a beach

In Greece

Released from his grief

In his 60s.

Still drinking, trying to forget his dead wife’s false teeth

The weight of family supersedes

These four folk [nothing as weird as folk mum always told me]

Provoke me

Even if I ignore it

Still there, in my dreams, she.


Animals (2014)


Blessed are those with sharp teeth

Swollen hearts, soft paws

Claws that can cut through sheets of ice

Blessed are those who can see, without much light

And if you’re happy enough just climbing a tree

You can believe, without much belief

Death is just a figure of speech

The animal is eternal


Bad Day (2000)


Selfish, arrogant, manipulative, ruthless

shotguns, flick knives, knuckle dusters, bats,

flash backs, car wrecks, break downs, Jesus,

Never being there when you need him,

blisters, ulcers, toothache, stress,

crack up, no back up, lack of, loneliness,

salvage, worthless, rubbish, despair,

pretending when there’s nobody there,

fucker, wanker, twat, cunt , dickhead,

small things,

nothing surprises you much, you don’t surprise anyone,

money, bills, build up, don’t show up,

your own funeral, work’s shit, it’s boring, demeaning,

no one listens, deaf ears, falling, drowning,

denial, all your life, in a bathtub, bleeding,

not succeeding, dreaming, kids smoking,

on the streets, grafting, crafty, stealing, dealing,

no answers, left out, forgotten bottles,

half empty, whisky, tepid, being sick,

on the carpet ‘cos you can’t handle it,

losing it, panic, limit, yourself,

to poison, when you’re horny, fuck her, shut up ,

madly, deeply, hurt, under your fingernails,

it’s hell, don’t want to talk about it, pathos, catharsis,

Narcissus, creepy, homosexual, junky,

outcast, not funny, coming down, paranoid,

I’m not paranoid,

hangover, life threatening, in debt to yourself,

we’ll work it out, it’ll work itself out, work out,

twice a week, you’re clever, meat, brain-dead,

bugs, thugs, derelict people in your head,

it’s chaos, not funny, scared to fall asleep,

oh no,

in a dream, I’m running, bolting horses, lightening,

striking, my skull, life’s dull, when you’re lonely.


Barnes Vs. Houellebecq (2014)


I don’t know how to think

I know how to act

I’m good at that

Acting is easy, perfunctory, determined.

A player, concerned, with the matter that surrounds it.


It follows the script.

“I bought two of them.” He says, “condos, fuck that, she got three.”

I’m lucky, he says, the wife – who he cheats on admittedly – is good at that.

I heard earlier, he’s sick, walks with a cane. Bad heart. He’s just 60.

I don’t know what to think.

I bought two books.

Barnes and Houellebecq

Barnes writes about love

The loss of

Houellebecq, so far, I’m just a few pages in

Sees people as paltry

Loss is pathetic

Love is an illusion

A bad trip

Desire is scenery

Scribbled with a broken nib

I don’t know what to think

Balloons in the wind

Some of us get lucky

And some of us sink

I guess Houellebecq would say

We are all born

With broken wings

I don’ t know how to think

Barnes vs. Houellebecq

Reality has no objective

And the subject is the sum of all things

I can’t buy that

You’ll see how I did.

“I was fucking livid,” he says, about condo acquisition.

People do strange things.

I’m out of here.

And I still don’t know what to think.


The Battle of the Bulge (2011)


Chaperoned by innocence, the most confident man is a clown

Feelings are foolish half the time within reason

The child is a man, as the man is a child

You hope you’ll grow old and become indifferent

To yourself that is, not the pains of the world

But most of us take our last breaths screaming

You came in intrigued, and you left absurd

It’s a tough life, not knowing its odour

Its colour, its matter, its half-baked truths

And as much as we furnish ourselves with meaning

We’re meaningless troops on a battle of the bulge

Slaughter for stories, grist for the mill

Fragments of history, yet historically dull

Brilliant theatre my best critic raves

Who’ll lie with me when I’m deep in the grave



Counter Clockwise (2014)


The noble fleas suck the last quart of blood from my arm

This could lead, so I’ve read, to shock, unconsciousness…or death

However, in the spirit of ‘change’

I’ve decided to let myself bleed


On the surface of things, I must say, I have no objection to peace

Happiness, so I’m told, is fleeting anyway…too fast to address

Thought is folly

Anyway you look at it


Soi 13, Thonglor (2014)


Given these regular, normalised, spacial infractions, one would expect a fatal reaction, from the street.

Chaos is more predictable, than death

Which is,

A good thing, I guess.

Disembarking is always a struggle.

As hard as it is.

It brings temporary relief.

The lavish girls,

in their almost ideal coteries.

Sucking in lung-fulls of first hand nicotine.

Spitting, progressive?

Cultural sanctions, on speed.

Social upheaval.

Songs from the projects ‘nigger’, and the names of their houses, if not madly French, then suitably English.

Everything that glistens is utopian.

I imagine Plato taking a selfie.

Which form is seen?

I’m not joking.

That’s a serious question.

I think.

Not that I don’t like it.

I’m just indifferent to paradise

These days,

I can take it, or leave it.

Did you ever see Mr. Benn, on children’s TV?

A one dimensional man walks into a changing room

Whereupon he becomes

A different being

Some part of history

That was the 80s

Misguided, perhaps

But then history

Is three parts bullshit

Which brings me to Soi 13

A room for changing

Reliable it seems

For an animated man

With a strange sense of history

I’m not sure if that seems harsh

Or if I even mean it.

Reality never realizes fiction

You either press delete

Or wipe your eyes


Just ‘cos that’s what’s entirely expected

Join in.


‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you’

And the next part is wrong

So I’m led to believe.


New Year (2014)


A bone dry performance in the chrysalis

During the final stages of sleep

We are the most creative

You dreamed you were a boxer with glass fists

Your friends threw water in an unlit ring

You danced for a while, but eventually slipped

Your hands exploded

Into tiny fragments


and pieces

In every piece of the broken glass

A memory flickered from the past

Life scattered all over the floor

Twinkling like forbidden stars

Each part containing

Love, hope, fear

and loss

The beginnings and endings

Of motherless oceans

The most vital organ

that somehow: isn’t yours

This is the twilight of the final dream

Outside people are screaming

Throwing water from the backs of machines

Happiness in the simplest things

Hysterical roadside attractions

Memories coming into being – and then fading

Proposing the notion

That everything that will ever exist





In the chrysalis you know what it means

To be everything, and nothing

That the mind is a place of rogue trading

And that truth is a currency

An idea

One often worth believing

Only if we accept

Its value rests

On the strength of feelings.


Hardware (2013)


Designed to malfunction

Every breath

Every sensation

is wear and tear


A scuff on the pages of history


Planned obsolescence

The problem of pain

A crisis of conscience

The fact we don’t work


The movement of a pen

Is a precious moment

As for fragility…

I have a great admiration


Senescence begins

at birth

It’s hard to accept

Our stake in the earth


But now I know

That memories are angels

Not demons

As sometimes

We are apt to say


Everything is vital

No one is spared

The components seem trivial

Until they break


The Small Things


Life is a rhyme without reason

As are seeds that fall from trees

Scattered in the ashes of hĭs′tə-rē

It’s mesmerizing

A bullet of truth lodged between spines of dead grass

In the heart of the earth

A finite member

Of an infinite arch

A smoldering ember

Of broken stars

Caveat Emptor:


Life would be the earth’s biggest blunder

If it weren’t for the fact that we love

Which should give us reason to wonder

If there’s more to the story than is written in our blood


Until Death do us Part (2013)


I thought I was the master of the womb

When I was just a kid drowning in a bag of blood

You’ll get what you need, just enough

You’ll find out soon

The parameters of love


Home is (2012)


In the top right corner of my handheld device


The Mound


Each has a part in the deformation.

A place beyond will…that,

if compared to a feature of the animal kingdom,

would look something like… an ant hill.


A worker, without appraisal,

steps out from…what would otherwise be…a fastidious line.

‘Oh God…how can it be…we created a monster’

His right to refuse,

is his right to comply…!


At the heart of the mound nothing changes

The progenitor blinds its young,

And sends each one to its rightful station

Where it toils madly until the work is done…


Each has a part in the reformation,

Such as skin ages around a skull

The bullhorn touts the sounds of freedom,

Freedom on the ant hill…


When someone asks what are we making,

And they halt under the creepy sun

…for a second their hearts stop beating…

And one is not all… but all is nil.


Freedom is not worth persevering…for

with all its guileful charms

It’s a knock-off…enslaved by…the imagination

A wily oasis

that does one harm.


Step into my monstrosity…I mean ‘ours’

The conclaves of our terrible mound,

And believe me I’m not joking,

When I tell you there is… no way out.


The Clinic


The billion dollar hustle

A man walks out of the clinic, the spiritless foal

Methadone script

Hands in pockets where the pennies roll

He went there in trouble

A fraction of himself

He walked out whole

Heroin for experts

A tissue, a tissue

They all fall down

It’s the hustle

TV and Tramadol

Prescribed madness

The season is blue as hell


The City (1998)


Shellfish on rollerblades arriving home from work

Cockroaches surfing the net

Unemployed blowfish tapping for change

Egg stains on frantic chickens

Corn flour stacked in mounds

Two lambs set fire to newspapers, as rabbits fight for their rights outside the governor’s house

Some spiders spill out cackles of laughter

There’s a bee still stuck in the lift on the 15th floor

An iguana passes a five for a ten and vanishes into the crowd

“Two for a pound” shouts a furtive looking monkey

A tortoise snubs and moves on

An emaciated lion is struggling at the curb, talking gibberish through broken teeth, just as a horse strides past with annoying apathy


Getting Ready For Work (2007)


Swinging from the monkey tree

Dog bolts, I’m concussed

Home from school three days on the settee

Joey Deacon is on the telly

We were all Joeys in those days, in performance

Acting out Cerebral palsy

Looking over the author, the spaz

Who was putting me off my chip butty

He made stuff on Blue Peter

Disabilities were comforting

My mum said I was lucky

The ballot box is drawing nearer

The Miners’ strike on ITV

Mother loves Thatcher

You wanna a nigger for a neighbor, she asks?

No one on the street votes labour

What’s a black face to me?

Get a trade, she says

Like that’s what everyone does

Granddad was a miner!

He had a black face

And a Gollywog ashtray

I stole his snuff

My first insufflation of drugs

I’m not sure where he voted, if he did

He was better off dead than pitied

YTS, 39 quid a week

Keeps the stupid holy

You’ll get taken on my son

You get credit for slavery

Pay poll tax… I’m just a kid…

Now you’re on 90 quid a week!

Truth is I don’t want to work

Not like that

I’d rather take LSD

Can you get paid for that?

I don’t care about Thatcher, or Major

On Fridays I see things

On Mondays I sleep

What’s the point in anything?

Work demeans us,

if all it does is keep us in money

When it feels like nullification of dreams

I don’t want arthritis

Scorched lungs, I don’t want to be angry like them

Mills make me queasy

Life should be easier

Work’s worse than I imagined it to be

Work’s for the absentminded

It fills space where a vacancy’s not needed

Some grace in labour

And I’ll consider getting out of bed

Thatcher was bad

As a worker I might as well as be dead

Call work an attribute to living

And I’ll rise in the morning

When I produce something,

that keeps me from feeling like death

And vice versa

Imagine that

Apolitical tit-for-tat

Marketing with good reason

Selling my soul for the next generation

I’ll clock-in when there’s virtue in labour

If being skint was like haemorrhagic fever

Something contracted, not sanctioned

Baroness Thatcher…I’d could deal with that.


Exit Bag (2012)


Ok, so there’s a plastic bag wrapped around my head

The impetus that led me here is too difficult to say

But I’ll state that lost lovers, mum, dad, dead

Makes it’s easier to drift away


They told me this is the most painless method

I knew a guy who threw himself in front of a train

I think this won’t be too bad

I hear there’s not too much, if any, pain


I spent my last hours with girls

I brought, and bought them with me to the grave

They were only there to hammer the nails

To finish the man that I had made


In fiction life goes to rest

But let’s be honest we all die pending

Having lost everything but hoping for the best

At least I died with a happy ending


I wrote my own suicide

I made the exit bag

Millions I spent on lies

But at least I didn’t die sad

I fucked my way to kingdom come

And I don’t even believe in Jesus

But I believe pleasure comes before god

Even if dying is not easy


I bought the bag and strings and gas

I told my neighbors everything

They laughed and thought I was going to last


The news reports said I was dying

Diabetes, and the rest

But in truth I was partly lying

I’d had enough to be honest


I wonder when they find my suffocated head

Will they write about me as they should

About a man that wanted to be dead

But was conscientious about there being blood


Will my cousins come and see the body

Uncle, john, who spent all his money

Will they think I was selfish

Having died horny


I’ll tell you about the exit bag

It feels funny in your hands

It’s playful but also cheap, bad

but it doesn’t cost much money


I’m dead now and well forgotten

My niece took my tv

The hooker that may have my son

She‘ll soon get over me


Christ I didn’t die in pain

I lived in sin for years

I took my life not in vain

I took it because I was scared


I couldn’t come up with the final word (2012)


Extempore fantasies, retired realities

Online friends, working up a storm

A herd of imitators, amateur photographers

Taking pictures of a misshapen world


Woo hoo, self-perpetuating

Give the dogs bones

The fractured self is too outspoken

Fragile lives are gigabytes


Everything sent is broken

Anything accepted is chosen


Post bags of poison

Filling your inbox every morning


Flood this ghetto with life affirming junk

Nullify tomorrow with yesterday’s lies

Addiction is rife especially in the evening

Here we all are, sucking on the pipe


Recipients of too much information

Overdosed on too many words

Fight fears with emotions

Suckle on the tit of technology’s


Five Star Hotel (2012)


Watching old junk, washed up from overseas

Talking about what they’ll have for lunch

The fine nuances of luxury

How they are surviving the credit crunch

How when friends drowned, they breathed

And they floated on their buoyant rumps

Brushed ashore by a kind breeze

The flotsam of our queer system

The conquerors of swimming pools

Who having crossed the Indian Ocean

Tip tired mules to bring their beers

These observations I often sanction

A bottom feeder must pay its dues

Though naturally I get sick on plankton

And so don’t spend much time down by the pool


Social Media (2013)


Form, not essence

A contrivance of unreal days

A heart as a sticker

Crude thoughts skin-graphed on yesterday’s page

Personality as a cult

Something you get roped into

Submerged, like an acolyte

If I’m the mark,

then you’re my mistress


Hangover (2011)

Time, it’s sponsored by total depravity

A hangover is means to a just cause

Desire is a beast, but then so is gravity

What you gain from doing, you pay back in loss


Consume my energy

Trespass against my heart

I was fucked last night

I’m sorry


Rainy Season (2009)


Little hooves tapping against the window pane,

the rain washes dust from the balcony,

I hear it’s still dark in San kampaeng,

the perennial blitz is here again.

The fog was scared off by the screams,

the motorcycles screech when they slip on the streets,

at times like this we love sleeping—-the storm resuscitates the barely breathing.


I (2011)

A custom made star, that’s what I am.

I’ll burn out before I’m done.

We’re all suns of distant mothers, lovers of insignificant others.

A twinkle in the galaxy, a flash in the constellation of ME.

You’ll never be grounded, you’re surrounded by objects you’ll never fathom.

and to think we’re just bad lights in the galaxy.


you’re a star for the time to come, you’re a fire, you’re a son.

A collection of flammable gases,

watch yourself fade as time passes.


The Night Bazaar (2011)


Sweet, repellent perfume

Drifts through the isles where the needers want

Where the wanters need, where we all walk on

Where the tourists, touts, and sad rose girls

Come to wear their place in the world

Where fag smoke binds to fake DVDs

Where every film sold is sold to the police

The flower girls they pay their share

Taxed by coppers, me, you, and her

You can dial a number and save their souls

And leave them to the inconstancy of the developed world

A world where we ache for Rolex, Tag Heuer, Omega

Given a chance we’d all like to be superior

And so we set forth to our five star hotels

And we smile at the girls from whom we didn’t by a rose

With embellished wrists and a DVD

We sleep with a stopped watch and a blank TV screen

Tomorrow the Night Bazaar must run on

The same cop who looked nervous will be still nervous with his gun

And the same girl will wield her sad dying flowers

But the tourists they‘ll change, they’ll change by the hour


Sentiments written on a tissue (2012)


Adjectives are easy, G –O – O – D, it just means good

H – A – P – P – Y, that means I’m glad

S – A – D means I’m in a bad mood

I’ll tell you a S – T – O – R – Y, story, and I want you to believe it’s true

T – R – U – E, that’s a deal I’m making

Between me and you

Y – O – U, that’s with whom I’m communicating

I, that’s not easy, but it’s a name I use

W – E, we is a strange one

It’s supposed to mean us

We are born thinking, but without words to describe what we see

Before we can speak

What we S – E – E has no meaning

It’s like wakeful D – R – E – A – M – I – N – G

But the dreamer is mute

Words given time, T – I –M – E (even stranger than we), can help us describe where we’ve been

What we’ve experienced, or seen

Except words are mischievous, they’re always up to no good

They’re not like breathing, we learn them, like we learn how to cook

But we don’t know what we’re making

We just say what we think we should

And what we P – E – R – C – E – I – V – E, perceive

Is not so much about truth, than it is about us (in this case us is singular)

Ah, the story, of course it’s about love

As every poem should be

L – O – V – E

Love is where words are always far slung

Present tense S – L – I – N –G, (v.t)synonym: hurl, or shoot as if from a gun

Love is a feeling that describes the relationship between I, you, we, us

But is it more like bleeding, than just saying what we’re feeling?

B – L –O – O – D, blood, that’s what the heart pumps

We’re also told the heart pumps love

Can you bleed without thinking? Can you feel without speaking (at least to yourself, not to us)?

You appoint words for feelings, but are words good enough?

E –N –O –U –G –H, who knows how much that is

So when thinking about this I – S – S – U – E, issue, between I, you, we, us

This issue of love

I write my words on a tissue (Am. Eng)

This way, when I’m done

My S – E –N –T – I – M – E – N – T – S, kind of like feelings, I can use to clean my ass, arse, and bum (n): vulgar


Ecstasy (2010)


Something happened, you’d like to think, when you were six, seven, eight years old

Culled from the classroom, crying, left out in the cold

A hijacked existence

Makes all the difference

But ‘difference’ is a not an objectifiable word

You go back further, the tragedy of birth

When by chance you were cursed to inherit the earth


+ – whatever, it’s an endless recipe

No one gets out smiling

Screaming doesn’t warrant impunity

A man is born every second

And when you close your eyes

Nothing happens

Shipped off, a parcel of worried flesh

Sold to market of emotional damage

Dry your eyes, it’s not going to change

The only thing you hated is hatred itself

This gave way to self-loathing

A cornucopia of feelings is little resistance

Blunder has no real meaning

Meaning itself is a stage

It’s strange

We’re not worthy of dying

Memory is incapable of finding its place

I’m bored of history

It’s a terrible pain

But this might be last night’s ecstasy

I hate this feeling (hate again) of being so attached to the brain

Youth with all its vulnerability is at least lively

Growing up is just chips left on the plate

I don’t want stability

Leftovers=fallen memories

Middle age reeks of middle men

Sperm is awash with lies

It tells the story

A proper fantasy

Last night will never be lived by anyone but yourself

Now that’s lonely

I’d like to think memory meant something

You know what I mean, an ending

A narrative worth subscribing to

A bust head

A mother grieving

History holds back all the good stuff

Those trips we took when we were sixteen

How do you become your own


Reality is perfunctory

Dreams are dynamic

I’m spinning on a rock in infinite space

Subjected to black and white brain chemistry

Childless, fuck you, I had my children


I’m sponsoring youth

I’m 38 years old and I’m still a kid

None of us are going to heaven

Play it like you mean it


I might be corrupted by the brain

If that’s the case

Can you imagine what time does to the brain

Yeah, the kid has a moustache

I see old people

Crying on the moon

Give me a point and I’ll give you life

Tit for tat

Love just means trouble

I’m tired


YouTube (2010)


The lost scrolls, I’m ashamed to admit it

I lost control, and I clicked on the image

Siamese twins, dog-woman, despair

Apocrypha, hit stop, before we see what’s there

Surcharge the poor, humiliate

Send forth legions of collectable filth

Damage yourself in the worst way

Find solace in our collective guilt

Dredge the council estates, the talk shows

The world’s most exposable

Half a brain, three legs, a spider

Hit truth, find snippets… the web gets wider and wider

I can’t pretend not to be turned on by violence

I endorse peace, but I endorse it in practice

Give me a moment with a severed head

I’ll say I’m disgusted but I’ll watch it again

What is this obsession with the obscene?

Can horror succeed in giving us relief?

From what, the perfunctory day?

Or the relief of knowing we don’t live this way?


You Must be Kidding (2013)


That’s a snake bite

I’m bleeding

I’ve been censored

But that mosquito bite on my arm

That’s a virus, that’s more worrying

More cause for concern

Tap, tap, tap

That’s the door

That’s a prison

That’s your freedom (bound in a nut shell)

Where did those dreams go?

Why did your lines of reason (online?)

Evaporate, like snow?

WTF, WTF, What the fuck!

You’re not a spy, you’re a spider

Truth slides down a porcelain slope

That’s the bath tub

You’re slipping

Lies are footwear, for a corruptible world

The spider, on a mirror

His reflection’s absurd

So we edit, edit, edit

Amend, retract, revise, burn

The spider’s washed up with the dishes (broken)

And the clauses have stopped his breathing

Enough is enough

At least in the media, the Nation, or the Bangkok Post

His blood supply is cut

He’s forgotten

He’s got no friends in jail

WTF, WTF, what the fuck! I just looked again

I had eight legs this morning

Clip, clip.clip, slice, edit, recant, it’s too late

It’s astounding we’re not all climbing the walls

Oh well, chin, chin, cheers, happy birthday

Cake, drugs, soap operas and cars

I take solace because knowing the censor is always too late

The future is perfect, because the past can’t wait



Obsession for Men (2015)


Take me into your unstable embrace,

Hold me in your fractured arms,

Your lips leave splinters in my face,

My Marionette, I am lost without your charms.


You call it Lust. I call it Wonder.


I’d like to write my name on your skin,

‘I woz ‘ere’, a branding burnt into your heart,

I’d like to be I, not just him,

When I rub your neck I’d like to leave scars.


You said you don’t believe in strings,

You said love is a disorder,

I have, in my time obsessed, about such things.









































































































About thetotaldepravity

I am a journalist and fiction writer and that's all i want to say.
This entry was posted in Poems and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Poems

  1. Really nice stuff James, but consider breaking them up by year, theme, whatever logic puts four poems in one section. Poems are delicacies packed in small boxes, not dumped in Xtra Large bags.

  2. dickholzhaus says:

    Just a test. I commented before but WordPress wants me to become a follower which I already am. Maybe this comment will grease the link.

  3. dickholzhaus says:

    Wonderful poems, in co-operation with James we made his poem ‘Happy, Not happy.’ the narrative for the video promoting my novel Metaphors of Death. Watch the video: http://youtu.be/6lPU3_6apPE

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