Cold beyond feeling,
a dampening of sensate ways
toward surprisingly soothing
glacial numb comfort
that adds up on this icy plane
where crampons tread carefully,
creakily advancing where
heartbeats ride addled blows
of slow arctic perambulation,
hard breath writing cloud messages,
your gloved hand in mine
tethered for safety together,
insulated beyond simple touch,
climbing to heights unknown.
There just ain’t no fucking about when I’m on the hunt.
As soon as that ‘Blood Money’ is safely in me bin,
they’re as good as fucking brown bread.
Knives, shooters, axes… I’m a walking/stalking nightmare.
No questions, no conversation, no pleading…
makes me sick anyway, pathetic, whimpering cunts!
Have ‘That’ & shut the fuck up & hurry up and die
so I can get back to me roast beef & horseradish sandwich.
Leave no witnesses behind, ever…
if they’ve got relations visiting, fucked mate…
Nosey neighbours stupid enough to come out for a butchers
then a-fucking-butchering they’re getting.
Even the pets are having it… dogs, cats, rabbits, gold-fucking-fish…
I even throttled a bashful pair ‘o lovebirds once.
Whatcha mean, cruel? I’m a fucking ‘Killer’, you muppet!
Anyways, I ain’t taking any chances, know what I mean,
you’ve seen ‘em futuristic films, scientology an all that crap,
soon enough they’ll be able to nick ya
from the last image that those animals eyes saw, fuck that, mate!
I shave & wax beforehand, absolutely everything,
I find it quite calming & pleasurable… even the eyelashes.
Then I take off me kit completely before leaving said crime scene,
after throwing petrol everywhere and torching the gaff,
I stroll out bollock-naked like The Terminator to me getaway car.
There’s no trace of me any-fucking-where, truth be told, like…
Eh? oh well, they caught me coz I can’t keep me fucking trap shut
about how brilliant I am afterwards… it’s a-kinda pride.
But, then what’s the point of being so fucking good & clever
if your not then able to brag ‘bout it… am I right or am I right!
note: no animals were harmed during the making of this poem.
They looked like a couple who’d spent
a weekend that was supposed to be
like “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” but ended up
as “Last Tango in Paris.” Driving down
narrow roads like wide lane thoroughfares
in top down rental paid for with stolen ID
credit cards with no place in mind as good
as a destination with a double bed in it.
His arms dealer eyes are affixed on nothing,
hers on what can only be seen in rear view
mirrors. Nothing is certain where they are
headed, where they have been like Alphaville
in white, gun slits and turrets in the walls
instead of windows. Instead of a bouquet
of red roses, he supplies sticks of butter,
destination maps with no co-ordinates,
and a false keys to mislead even the most
intrepid seekers after truth. The moving
pictures of their lives diverge even where
they intersect. The one who dies is a figment
of someone’s fever dream, the other is a
passenger in a car.
in the face
of the loud, fat child
in the got freedom? t-shirt
the old man trying to spray me
with his garden hose
the lady trimming flowers
and pulling weeds
with her wide ass farting saturday morning
in the teenagers on the train
playing rap full blast
and the prick blowing smoke in my face
the cop on the corner
watching me cross against the light
on dogs and cats
bending in tall weeds to shit
in the glare of old women
past their prime
and men still trying to relieve their youths
the slothful in restaurants
drinking gravy boats of fat
as the big game plays on infinitely
the bored and stuck on the bus to work
waiting on death or retirement to come first
in patients watching bad television
in waiting rooms of the damned
the men killing the sun in dark bars
on the liquor store kid
as he takes another one
of my hard-earned twenties
in the look of contempt
on the deli man’s face
another lost afternoon in america
as we standoff over lunch
right before he asks me what i want
all i can see around me
all i’ve ever seen around me
are miles and miles
of dead meat.
I ride through the night with
Nothing on my back seat but
A copy of James Truslow Adams’
‘Epic of America’ and
A loaded 44. Calibre pistol
The one was for attack
The other, defence
But I was ready to use either
At a moment’s notice