martijno

I'm a poet. I can't even speak normal language. Is it because I smell of onions and sump oil Is it because of my unadorned Caligulan contempt For certain aspects of modern life? Is it because of the black-doved wing-beat of my peculiar triumph Is it because of the fall of my gait? Is it because of the memory of all the things we could have had and lost And written films about Only to have them picked over like scabs By a scavenging skip-bum in a flat quiff? Or is it because of the scar on my palm? Is it because I rude you muddly Is it because we stomach the gruely forfeiture of a pink concourse Is it because of the make your own chemical weaponry set That bubbles in our lower depths Giving off brownian sparks of spasmodic emotion And hacking up magenta plumes of toxic love mist? Is it because of the sixpence in the pudding The candour in the toffee Is it because a great big fat unbearable dread of nothing Interdicts the regurgitating cistern of your swollen crow? Is it because distance (the enema) breaks the heart with torpid languor And all i have to do to make you miss me is be any bloody elsewhere? Balls pond road Tokyo one of the royal hangouts. Norfolk. Mont blanc. A jeep. Screams veil my haunted yearning Planets gas and drool in awe Razormade by cosmic barbers Given like a dolls hair cut Carved from stardust piss n pritt Empty as a perfumed fishnet Full of gone and rough as guts. 29/11/2008