Poem: To Poetasters


There is no such thing as ‘light verse,’
Only the putrid stench of indifferent thought

This onslaught of banality shatters my tolerance,
The fragrance of flames licking to sulphur
As I sit in a furnace, devising torments,
To punish the flaccid carelessness of your empty sentiments

A wounded fury, woundingly furious,
I cannot think on the subject of publication
Without arousing tears of desperation and anger

How can I be calm,
When you feeble poetasters
Drain all blood and fury
From the emaciated corpse of poetry?

As your limp-dick words
Sprawl from the arsehole of hypnosis,
My lexicon grows rank with hateful profit,

In pursuit of genius,
I find none here,
Smashing my testicles into a hard-boiled throat,
To smother you with a tablecloth as meaningless,
Unportentous, as your verse,

I shove my thoughts into your dull labyrinth,
To boil my genius in the clogged bile ducts of your notes,
To wish against kindness,
In the lowest tiers of the Inferno,
Mediocrity will receive the keenest retribution

A little boy imagining his passing sharpness,
May have the rigour to change the world

Poem: Killers and Lovers


How I hate domesticity!

How different is a mansion

From a mausoleum?

An old manor house

From an indefinite pissoire?

I shit upon your mansion

And creature comforts

Trembling as I indulge

And reject my own

The IV Drip

Percolating piss back into your bloodstream

A day outside

Amongst the trees and bees

And all the curious little insects

That land on your shoulders

As you try to read

The sky wrapped around your head

Like an infinite turban

Which you wrap

And unwrap


Just for the fun of it all

Then inside:

Perfect claustrophia

Sun-denying hallways

That commit the blasphemy

 Of making nature an abomination

It nature is an abomination

Then let it be abominable!

I have seen the squalid King of Vegetation

He is hideous

Like an unripened toad

Fortifying himself on the death of his own children

In a cycle of beauty and sick

I see the corpses

Swinging from the branches

Of that strange pine wood

Where skinless flesh

Just reeks and reeks

That’s the sort of abomination

I can really sink my teeth into

No the abomination

Of sterile homes

With its perfectly clean surfaces

And doctored opinions

Its etiquette of sadism

That takes out the whips and chains

As soon as the curtains are closed

What of the Bacchanalia?

What of the insane pagan revel?

In which man becomes as wild as nature

And nature as wild as man?

We think of domesticity

As a feminine discipline

But it was the birth of civilization

With its patriarchal control systems

That made people the slaves

Of senseless comfort

How about being comfortable

In a bucket of blood?

An acre of pus?

A woodland of war?

Or a thousand dead miners

Choked dead in a geological womb

That was never meant to be tortured?

How delightfully comfortable!

As comfortable as sweat shops

And the child sex trade

Of vacuum cleaners

And designer lobotomies

Sure to furnish the coffee tables

Of the bleakest of homes?

I just feel comfortable

Perched on this razor

Like an indestructible pigeon

Cooing its own remorse

I come together with you

With booze and knives

So we can start to revive

What our domesticity has killed

Ugly Father Domesticity

With his good home

His respectable job

That polishes the balls of tyrants

And keep foreign children in toil

With his cut and dry opinions

Informed by newspapers

And anaesthetic chat shows

With his prim short hair

And uncomfortable clothes

Tailored by boredom

In a blood-soaked back alley

All the right magazines

And a mucus-filled nose

Fuck yourself, Father Domesticity

Take a knife

From your Ikea-ordered kitchen drawer

The same ones you use

To butter the poor

And kill yourself

Kill yourself like a scone

Like a Victoria sponge

Like the bloated lack of meaning

In unhappiness’s eye

As it wishes it were as blind

As it was omnipotent

I have seen Wotan

Old One Eye

With his aggressive Cyclopia

And intrusive ravens

Sent to spy on the world

But he has not seen me

He was too busy

Playing on his Smart Phone

As I refined my senses

To that of a trained killer

So I know when to pull the rug

He brought in Marrakech

From a penniless pilgrim

With seventeen daughters

And just one son

To slaughter them all

Killers and lovers –

Who can tell the difference?

Both need fiercely refined senses

To be effective at their purpose

So I’ll take another knife

And keep it under my pillow

Just in case the night makes me passionate

And I want to bite your neck