Life isn’t about
what you can
it’s about what
you can live
I think laying in
bed at 11am on
a 6 hour early
the sun shining
and my stomach
groaning for food
thinking about the
girl at work that
recently got on the
I always wanted to
and one night nearly
though she’s fucked
and I know there’s
nothing I can do
buildings growing and
birds talking in the
telling me things I
wish I could understand
while the old men sit
on milk crates under
and the children ride
imaginary horses to
far away places
and I keep telling myself
everything will be alright.
Hot off the bumper of a winnebago
Ouija reads market quotes with a practiced
slide, desperate looking for payoff
to vacation—but all she gets is
sale paper sanity brainwash—
we bought big & are selling
cheap—all you save is
MONEY—promise of a lifetime—
best time to get fingers in the till
up to the elbows and play the slash
& burn game of capital weed whack,
leaping on board bull wagon
for a revolutionary way to clean,
World Bank giddy with pleasure dough
like wrestling naked in a bucket of ice water,
a skip in the step and a cell
phone in every pocket–yes!
I want it! I love it!
I’ll take it!
Behold, you are gentrification,
you are American Dream–
you are poverty’s pick pocket,
the marked man on the other
side of Zorro’s midnite—
but Ouija predicts collapse of shapewear
revolution, reading letters on the big board
that spell shit for bull, reading
“In strikes are dreams,
in capital, only desperation”—
Ouija flips down the paper &
gets hell back to
He’s learnt to laugh insanely… quietly.
Bites his wrist and winces his eyes
when his own cleverness gets too much.
Removed the right-hand pocket lining
from his unfashionable, dribbly trousers.
Armed with 13 sheets of toilet roll
and a damp beige face flannel
he sets off giddily upon his nightly rounds.
‘Well, someone has to tuck Mrs. Jenkins
who lives in the old Victorian vicarage
into bed now her husband’s up and left’
he chuckles to himself wickedly
as he WD-40’s the back garden gate.
He shimmies with half an erection
to the spare side bedroom window.
Where at an extremely awkward angle
he manages to catch her flossing hard.
The full moon sheen upon white buttocks
sends him squirting lucidly
and reaching pathetically for his inhaler.
Drainpipe clinging desperately
with just shins and ankles,
he momentarily blacks-out
and then catches himself
just before slipping and falling silently
upon his very own freshly made wet patch.
He said he was into hardcore
and I asked him if that meant Viagra,
he seemed a little young for all that
but you never know
and he laughed and said he was a punk
which explained the leathers and
I had thought him one of those performance artists
that drink warm animal piss from recycled juice jars
to old Donna Summer
but he reassured me
he was not that,
and that hardcore was more
of a lifestyle
like eating organic
the habitual arms dealing
of half ironic war
ensuring the poor
have more bullets