Posts Tagged ‘poetry crime’



January 10, 2011


I got the ADD from the TV, and ADHD from HDTV,

All them CDs, DVDs MP3s and LPs
And maybe smoking PCP, THC, DMT and taking LSD
Or maybe all that Phenylalanine and aspartme
ADDADD now I can’t think

It’s stuck to me like an STD, mental herpee-pees
Like gonoherpasypyhlaids this ADD
What has bin done to me travesty travesty this ADD
Can I have Ritalin and amphetamin to help treat my strange feelin’
Think i’d like to try heroin but i can’t i’m diabetic i’m on insulin

How bout that ketamin and mescalin ting?

BBC3 did a docko on the TVV spreading like the VDD
ADD maybe manmade like HIV, arguably
If you believe the conspiracy
Causing some controversy
Personally think that fallacy
Who I am though to tell you what to believe cuz I got

I haffi done tried the
Nicotin marijuana vicodin ecstasy and alcohol
But still got the ADD ADD got the ADD from watching too much TV

NEWSFLASH – click click channel hop
Find a fix gotta cop
Mainline jackknife paddywagon dogtripe
New and improved
Flick flick channel hop next fix gotta cop
What? What? What

ADD ADD got the ADD now I can’t think
ADD I can’t think
I can’t think
Can I shorten that to an acronym?
I can’t think better have a drink what’s that stink tastey wet pink
ADD I can’t think
Got distracted what was i spelling


The Pastor & The Prostitute

January 10, 2011

On the floor of the basement

The pastor kneels

Tears streaming off his cheeks to splash in the puddle of piss

Grown about him

Drool runs from his mouth

From the gap between his teeth

Wedged open by the barrel of the pistol

Held in the prostitute’s hand

She clicks her heels three times

*klik* *klik* *klik*



Poetry or Death!

August 16, 2009

Poetry Or Death!

Up against the wall Mother Hubbard!

This poem is a chance.

This poem is a silver six-shooter

Five chambers empty, one loaded

With a bullet that’s gonna blow the back of your head all over the table

1 in six you will be spooning your brains back in, parts lost forever


This poem is a decision

This poem is a doublebarrelled shotgun shoved in your mouth

Teeth clamped around metal

One side loaded with a cartridge of lead pellets

The other with words that’ll pepper the inside of your skull all over the ceiling

Forcing you to choose

50/50 chance

Poetry or death?

Chick chack


This poem is unavoidable, unstoppable

This poem is a shank

A rusty blade that I’ll stick in your belly

And watch you spaz and quiver on the tip of


This poem is bewitchment.

This poem is a voodoo shaman ritual

Where when I find the right combination

Of word and gesture

I will make you my zombie slave

Unlocking parts of you dormant for years

Enslaving your whim to my will

And you’ll never be the same again.


This poem is your death.

This poem is the death of who you were before you heard this poem.

This poem is your old body burning on a spirit fire

Your heart eaten by a maniac

Your head impaled on a spike outside your front lawn

This poem is the end of everything you ever once knew.



The Thief Of Poetry

January 30, 2009

I am the thief of poetry

Sneaking into Borders

Loading up from the desolate

Poetry section

Sitting drinkless in Starbucks

And drinking deep

Of the heady liquor

Of dead poets.


Rimbaud joins me for a while

And I call him a pompous twat

A hillbilly

Shooting poor Verlaine that way

He scoffs, tells me not to rock

‘The Drunken Boat’

He has some good lines.


Next is Baudelaire

And he bangs on

About wine and hashish

And I lap it up

Intoxicated on his passion

Overwhelmed by his words.


Bukowski chases him off

Plonking down beside me

Telling me to stop

Stealing his style

Hang in there and

Just be yourself

As if I could be anyone else.


Finally, Allen Ginsberg

Mooches in

All stoop-shouldered and long bearded

Howling poems at me

I tell him I used to like Kerouac more

When I was younger

He laughs and says: ‘Me too.’

He flirts outrageously with me

Holy cocksucker that he is

And I distract him by asking

Him to describe the Café Six


When they’ve all gone

And I’m exhausted by conversing with ghosts

I stand, and look

At the closed books

To be abandoned in this

Plastic store

Unread and unnoticed

And I imagine a great prison break

Fleeing the store, barefoot

Alarums flaring

Guards pursuing

An armful of tomes

Racing for the monorail.


They would all be so proud of me

But I do not

And I leave, emptyhanded

But not emptyheaded

This chained-book chainstore

Is the real thief

Stealing our poets

Claiming them as its own

But we know

Their words are for us

And we are not thieves

But emancipators

Liberating these poor dead bastards

Escaping back into the world

Our heads full of them

Breathing life back into the

Narcoleptic streets.