Where Do You Find Them?

Where Do You Find Them?

Stripped of his protective husk
of agreeable friends and doting acquaintances
a man must maintain composure
poise and decorum to the bitter end

as a rule of thumb, society demands it of him
even the ill-equipped and socially inept
know this.

Anyway, since you ask—
she dropped him off in the middle of nowhere
throwing him from the car bonnet
roadkill, carrion for the crows

She tore off down the highway
picking up hitchers and was long gone
he didn’t remain there for long either
some amateur taxidermist got to him
and stuffed and mounted him
in an unnatural clumsy pose
with a permanently startled
open-mouthed expression
a plastic cockeyed gaze.

He was propping up the bar in my local
staring both into and away from
the immeasurable distance of his hand
to a glass of beer
-that’s where I found him.

A DOG-EARED PAGE

A DOG-EARED PAGE

He had the jowls of a sad hound
eyes like a frightened puppy
a bark louder than his bite and
the nervous laughter of a maniac
on a psychologically damaging kill-spree
a burst of laughter that begged like a hungry dog
for praise and approval

sought applause for quick wit
ironical quips and the generalised uncouthness
that drifted in the wake
of a misplaced childhood.

He trailed behind his alcoholism
between bars and interventions
and gigs on the local circuit
he had skill with guitars
a way with words
And a brain—
Which made him dangerous.

He had something to prove
something to sate his appetite for acknowledgement
that he had the gall, that he had balls
that he could have had it all
but for the moment
-he had fuck all

but for intellect
and the arrogance to abuse it.

Truth be told
we always loved
a good story
a dog-eared page
a dear friend
and
that bastard.

Being Human

Being Human

Life in a bleach bucket of sanity

kills originality dead

creativity is misunderstood here

life is wasting here

with every swoosh of the mop

I lean a little closer to lunacy.

 

Normal has no imagination

every day is spent

‘sane’

and sane is the word you give to people who

live in bubbles of nonchalant pride

self-satisfied, leading cookie-cutter lives

on life’s conveyor belt

of mass-produced lies, fakes and cheap makes

no surprise.

 

Normal wants perfect

all perfection has flaws

and normal wants to look like advertisements on billboards

sane wants to feel justified

sane is bullshit

delusion

sane is neither yours nor mine.

 

it’s a laughing lunatic buckled into a straitjacket

of standardised expectations

mediocre ambitions

sacrificed dreams

crouched in a padded cell of temporary safety and comfort

staring out through the barred window

weighing itself against a ward full of case studies

shuffling around patiently

waiting for medication time

whose grandiose declarations of sanity

are suspect at best

and you realise you’re just like all the rest

only human

after all.

 

 

 

 

 

The Can of Worms

The Can of Worms

He spent too much time

in small rooms behind closed doors

opening windows, inviting devils in

tossing off personal failures

with a frustrated heart

rolling with each punch of the pounding fist

of his broken mind

to ever realise that by his own hand

he killed us all.

 

Fond memories draped in sheets

are locked away

in storage now

gathering dust in corridors we never dare walk down

and those voices we hear echoing back

grow more paranoid and telling

and stack unsteadily

against the back most walls of our skulls

ready to come crashing down at any moment.

 

What a noise it could make

what a mess.

 

This can of worms

we keep a lid on it

it’s old news

it’s water under the bridge

it’s any cliché you can choose

to put a sticking plaster over it; try to forget about it.

 

 

Denial—

he knows the curse of his shadow

he built this pitch-black crime scene

the blue lights have been and gone

and the sirens are faded now

and the jury have said their piece

and after a narrow escape

life goes on as

—normal?

 

All the bulbs have blown here now

There’s no light in our eyes

and no flashlight nor candle can shine bright enough

to ever wash this place clean

and here we are

gagged and bound

by an unspeakable truth

complicit in his lie of innocence

a lie we wish we could still believe.