cunning and stunning stupidity

watch the ball fumbled
and bite your tongue
until your mouth is full of blood
swallow it down and turn it into fire

the liar
and the idiot
shackled to each other
in their dishonesty

they are dropped bricks in the road
they are missed steps on the journey
you can see them dusty
still trying to kick dirt over the traces
crocodile tears on their faces


flaming the fans, fanning the flames

and if you wrote by the fan playbook
you would be a sinking feeling
you would be a cliche concretised
you would be a recipe book

burn the fans
and surf the backdraft
look to the weirdo in the corner who laughed
put a weirdo fore and aft

break the stories into chunks
we were once the visionary drunks
we were in the coffee shops
we are in the eye drops
we are seashore splash of jazz
by not listening, became the nazz

insomniac reproductions

fight club xerox machine
i don’t sleep much
you should sleep more
some nights i have insomnia
isn’t not sleeping much insomnia?
don’t drink so much coffee
i stopped way before bedtime
and it’s a choice between being awake
and uncomfortable and somewhat alive
doing something helps
i never had a problem with sleep
great, and that helps me how?
the clock ticks
the AC’s tics
the cat purrs
the wife sleeptalks
the legs dance
the belly rumbles but food is a bad idea
you get up and do something
and worry about work the next day

rental blues

you tell me about renting nightmares
the hoarder and her disorder
the leaky roof and the injured boarder
the odyssey for the movie and the sub
that you took an hour and a quarter
the return and the verbal slaughter

the girlfriend that started it all
with the cat that shit in the tub
how she was a drunk an a slob
and how you couldn’t live with it

a groundsman with pettiness encroaching
slaps a note on your illegal bike
the ridiculous accusation of alligator poaching
intruding on your garage, which you do not like

three cats with no litter tray
laying down exhausted at the end of the day
no way to kill the stink with any kind of spray
you tell him you’ll have to be on your way
dogs in the back room need to be fed
you let him know they’re pissing on the bed
separation anxiety is what he said

moving again, in need of another bunk
you turn up and your host is drunk
tells you his story of a DEA bust
shows you the AK47s to gain your trust
now you know leaving is a must

it’s a blues song, kinda
but a little bit weirder

where i’m at

i am not sure where i’m at
sat here under fedora hat
just a man who owns three cats
thinks philosophy, sometimes scats

i used to make pretense at whisky priest
just another diner at the feast
i stopped thinking less of myself at least
shirt pressed and trousers creased

do i have confusion on what i do?
have i followed the line right through?
is there something wrong in what i do?
something new i never knew

i am not sure where i was
half not true and half because
i buy the lie of things unneeded
take the negativity and feed it

i cannot fall into that trap
i need to remember i have the map
i have no need of self-defeating crap
the world will not fall in my lap

cone connect

the cone falls
around phone calls
plugged into a machine
and all the meshed cogs
what are the odds
yesterdays retching wretch
is back in the dial
with extraneous data; no smile

the numbers we needn’t find
woken from slumbers we don’t mind
all it requires is talking
as easy as walking
or running opposite directions
do you make the connections?

living with the damp

cat in heat
soaked carpet
towels to wash
dishwasher tide
cat puke alarm clock
this smell of hanging damp

i have to circumnavigate
carpet swamp sogginess
to fill the coffee pot
in the bathroom

those silent cats
gingerly stepping around
who made not a single meow
to alert me to their greatest fear
that the water was rising

i gave the rug guy
a gatorade
because for all the water here
it was a dehydrating day