Crush, Crush, Crush

 Crush, Crush, Crush

 

Crush petals, crush life.

Thumbnail blades that gutter face,

eviscerate and slice.

 

Mill sugar, grind spice.

Twirling jagged tushed turn,

crumbs drop down for worms.

 

Pestle air, mash water.

Thrashing corn and blessing chaff,

blistering all before.

 

Buttered burns, clagging taste.

Flaked smile upon painted face,

splashing hot liquids.

 

Knead hands, treading grapes.

Sealing juice into stoppered vats,

congealing clotted jelly.

 

Blot light, wracking dark.

Gutted words from paper slit,

disembowel and part.

 

Gullet Time, squeeze Space.

Crimson maw must eager gnaw,

compact and embrace.

 

Kindness come, kill in kind.

No exit will they ever find;

cruel the ribbons bind.

 

Crush. Crush. Crush.

Crushing arms. Crushing weight.

Crushing lungs to suffocate.

Crush must turn to hate.

This Small Round Mine

 This Small Round Mine

 

Jouncing amid swelling azure tides

this small round mine gyrates.

 

She neither beats in fitful surges,

nor retreats from repellent urges,

but, by and large, sitting fixed,

running rapids slow, slow, quick,

in such things as schemes are made of.

 

Her dreams to rise full fathoms five,

in stirless overtures of static drive,

weighing up six inches thick,

plumbing deep with graded stick,

shatter iron-fist bulwarks full gloved.

 

Bookmarked, her drifting destination

lies some way off north by west.

 

Yaw and pitch in smokestack grey,

to breast the tides for closing bay,

perhaps every distance diminishes,

as night curtains light extinguished,

sets dog watch by daylight saving time.

 

His are not plumes on ghostly stage,

no ashen fingers turn unwrote page,

trace hieroglyphs don’t paint in pasts,

nor will they break that senseless staff

or unburn logs that bind love’s rhyme.

Scented second thoughts are flakes

of soft sieved sugar onto cake,

no symmetric pattern can ever make.

 

This small round mine likely closes,

jaunty amid gathering swell.

 

How one upon the other acts,

awaits magnetic fields to attract,

will countermeasure cataracts.

This unspoken pact with sealing wax,

in abundant vein of rich motherlode,

may come together and explode.

I Think We’re Alone Now

 I Think We’re Alone Now

 

 

Now, where does this end?

it’s quite too much to take,

slamming on iron anchors,

tugging up stiff handbrake,

a dual pedalled, two foot,

hard shoulder, emergency stop,

half amused, half shocked,

lifted up before he’s dropped.

Still, now she’s lying on his sofa,

left side on and back fronted,

a perfect fit, all unreaddjusted,

one arm flung, up and over,

shading eyes from burning sun,

sandals that she keeps here

on the tiles beside her slung,

while the hooks and eyes

busy imprinting her salty skin,

embossed tempting patterns

that throb and ache within.

We’ll take a cup of human milk

swirled kindly into coffee,

cramp and pinch of blushed guilt

blooms red across your body,

know gaze of wrathful God above,

scowls upon this stolen love,

he fits inside her like a glove.

Wrapped both, peaches unflatten,

as fast rivers flooding his head,

brooks to cease all babbling,

complaints remain unsaid,

shrugs, sighs, takes his hand

and lead us both to bed.

Later when all do sit alone,

now ticks time enough to moan,

they’re reaching for the phone.

Ding Dong Bell

 Ding Dong Bell

 

Neither you or I are even to blame,

but it came down to it all the same:

Barbed wire reprisals and comeback attack,

with far more tits than tat,

although, combing through scrawling crap

and amongst the table scraps,

there was no lack 

of tawdry, bottom feeding, tasteless flack,

and doesn’t it shriek volumes

about the perpetrators?

Backstabbing turncoat traitors both,

all seeing, all doing, cluster munitions,

scrutinise media for stray social admissions,

like a filibuster in cannot trust her,

cannot trust him, with skin, paper thin,

and smiles so weak they did quake.

Let fly our unexploded ordnance,

in a mass campaign of carpet bombs,

croon weeping panoply of war songs,

scream headlines like ‘Gotcha!’ all over

the flag white milk cliffs of Dover.

Like hanging up my two pinata

then carpet beat the shit out of that,

sneaking snakes, 

fanged with creeping past tenses,

striking hard in reckless offensives,

their venom callous

that flows up, viscous bile from stiff gut,

recycling, pumping, recycling,

pumping, in cracked bitternut child senses,

punching out smiling teeth of pretence,

scattershot drugs of bottled-up contents.

Now cat’s eyes look up from the bottom,

turned something good to something rotten,

it twists its torment in the dark:

mostly gone but not forgotten.