Sex
Ill bred
my body denies sex
like a wanton hot house flower
shunning the frost,
slick,
expectant on honey bees,
stuck on a sucker,
a pomegranate hooker,
syphalitic,
a pure rotten gender, soon
to disintegrate.
Pink love powder
fleeing in the breeze.
Disfigurement
is the greatest prophylactic,
yr sterile
on the account
of your ugliness.
Depth Charge (for Lynne)
Dawning chorus girls,
drowning frozen faces with
slipping false eyes,
your ability is outshone,
by an absinthe clot.
I think you regret
that you drink to forget,
all your rabid rememberings
sting like a sober sane faced ripper.
There's never a hill higher
than the trip to babylon.
Your bruised in spite of it,
but you'll never lose sight of it,
don't ever chance a date
with a tall dark grim stranger,
but accept a drink,
with a common misguided
rapist's grace.
Sitting Waiting
Let me go.
Please, let me go,
free flow down cast
plath pro.
I just can't go on,
impossible.
A good luck charm,
in the shape of a beautiful boy,
to have
to hold
but then lose forever.
Mistaken and Misshapen
I see you,
with your babies.
I see you,
holding love
like an urgent black concubine.
I can rock and sway,
in the unholy
numbness of wanting,
without even a regard,
for you or your
second sight.
But I'll love it
and I'll love you,
without you even wanting
or asking me to.
Woodlands
The night holds we three close,
certified by an enigma code
uninterpreted.
They search by glass torchlight
for our bodies in blackened brick tunnels
and dirty grey stackhouses,
woodland embankments
and lost ivy towers.
Sabotaged and encaptured,
we are forced to tell all.
We shall lose this bleak war,
and seep lost brown tears.
Nine a.m., 1945
The sun pulses,
playing with weak cotton
work smocks,
filtering skitting light
into part crystal vessels.
Glistening dust microbes,
perform again and again.
Shining and perfect,
balanced and symmetrical,
dancing and spinning,
in a spectral blind kaleidoscope
of spiritual glee.
There is a Light That I Think Has Gone Out
Suburban martyrs,
authoritarian badly bred Fathers,
crying frustration in a badly damp cause,
breeding hostility into every shape and form.
Propositioned dull houses sitting defencless,
unconditioned dumb teenager playing pretentious,
holding and scratching red bricked dead boredom,
fucking and slipping,
gravel pit seed whoredom,
asking out loud,
why?
bleeding, I'm bleeding
a cry, I cry.
You do as you're told in this town.
French Poles and Prunes
Tap the steel white metal pole
of uncertainty
along the unruled cold heights
of a thousand ghost children.
Higher, higher
third floor concrete
water falling
cold after hours
spirits uncoiling
the uneven breath
spiraling in cones
of sheer fright.
Lamp light
illuminate.
Wearing your Wife Like a Hat
Dirty american pictures
reeking hardcore boredom
with nothing better
than time on their hands
to impail their wives vaginas.
Mr and Mrs internet
slap and tickle
I can't breathe in here
blood and fickle.
Sleeping Runners
Running in ceaseless succession,
through bold and lurid
creaking speaking
shadowed plump stairwells.
Long dead wet sailors
whistle
and tell us old tales of the sea and the dead.
Tarnished burnt men,
standing creased double,
arthritic,
the bloodshot pulp eyes
once knew of war critics.
With felt for shy faces,
they smile,
sheathed in a mantle of glowing red spiders,
smothered with the overlap
of intricate white webbing.
The red velvet sponge walls,
soaked through with delusions
of deadly sleep,
habitual to all forms of death,
shimmer whilst I laugh
with outlandish precision.
The dusty bodies cackle
as my arms and legs fail.
A burial in Paris.
Untitled
Something is growing by my side,
a man of tasteless authority
and acrid perversion.
He looks like someone
I think I might have known,
me.
Someone is growing inside me,
a girl of faceless deception
and hateful character.
She looks a lot like no one
I think I might have known her,
you.
Nothing is left inside
as I remain,
as quick as a waning
sliver,
of light,
of luck,
of love.
Promise someday you'll return.
Please?
Jack and the Axis
Hollow avenues'
tangerine angora
white PVC stilleto
bulky chest freezers
(that peculiar smell)?
players no.6
grainy wet visuals
brown and cream plush carpets.
Five way
snake-like electricity
slipping the ripper,
quietly.
Epping torn forests
dirty grey bleak skies.
Gaunt.
Red and yellow sacking
frayed fleeces
spunk; thick with a vague passionate
memory of the sixties,
blood.
Fist.
Shoe.
Hammer.
Black clots in the frost,
cardiac sister
rain, so slight
peppered,
a mere perspiration.
A dead hooker,
eyes towards heaven.
Dark Nights in the Outback
Possession of a weak man's body,
blue, black and green.
Blood spilt sheets,
run amock on a thunderous night.
Forks of mustard electricity
spike the hairs of horror,
that shield us from
the onset of night terrors.
Memorial
A coffin's grace
the gun was loaded,
a dead boy's face
the verse exploded,
into a compound
of shattered stolen subliminals,
ripe plastic
into night,
into darkness,
into sleep,
déjà vu,
dead longing.
Brighton
Stealing your kisses
and covering your name in paper.
Squeeze your persona into a brown glass bottle,
and we'll launch you to sea,
from a pier in the thirties.
The cobbled streets
have hurt my feet,
and I'm secretly scorned
by this reenactment of your falsehood.
Far, far in the distance
a blue boy bangs a tambourine.
Kissed fur shines, moist
with images of bergamot, narcissus
and burning cedarwood.
I'm seedless and barren,
so we can dance far into the night,
hot on the heels of Evelyn and Isher,
then flee with old passion to a cold midnight beach.
But my forbidding promise
to bear you no young,
is unwieldy no more.
We can celebrate our misconduct
and kiss as lost friends
with the salt in our hair.
Ruby Watch Towers
Flaccid society,
curriculum of an idiot.
Whispers blind to heed,
where the joke's role reversal.
Prescriptive abuse imunity,
falling on the ears of no chosen.
An incantation in light siver rain,
to lengthen our hair double threefold.
No one talks to those girls,
stay away.
The sly weeds
in the dark beds chatter,
the moon crowns the night,
with music and amethyst.
Timing immaculate.
All your slow siblings,
laugh and cut stoic,
whilst you and I dance
a cone of pure velvet.
No one talks to those girls.
Stay away.
All the Johnsons
You unearthed him in your heart,
whereas,
I could not even begin to start.
To dig,
to uncoil,
to let his peak and whiskers unfoil,
for I am terrified,
that, like you,
I might love him.
Love and Pink Death
Pink.
Magenta.
Cerise.
Coral.
Echoes.
Reverbs.
Feathered and ink weathered,
with startling zinc colorisation,
in a waterfall of forever endeavour.
Pink and dark,
light and stark,
scrying for colour
from blue nettles.
Cannibals and haloes,
stories and fables,
have you heard a pigment scream?
Rhetoric/Prehistoric
I smell children, deep in the upper emerald chasm of your flagging boyhood.
A boiling squadron, hearty with the knowledge,
of capitalist murder and misapprehended spandau carnage.
Licking your lips, rank and rotten,
double barreled gimp faced swingers delve
deep into japanese electronic pimp chastisement
and emerge shining left fold.
Red and black pigmentation cling a shade holier than
celestial possession.
Tooth.
Heel.
Foothold/foretold,
embalmed adrenal sock monkey.
Learn to dig before we can walk,
learn to suck before we can talk,
sitting under a yew tree, silvery and china blue,
soaked and numbing, a bad skag's crippled overhue-ultra altar poison.
Recoiling from the starry onset deceptive threat of a future eradication/apocalypse.
Glass replaces all plastic in an indulgent act of consumerism.
Paper factories gleem under a cardboard backdrop.
Glue.
Bone.
Sister.
Even place/semen trace,
black pearls of lavender jet swing with irregular clarity.
Under a heavy veined purple sun, bound and belted,
shot to fuck,
Wolverhampton railway announcement,
commence, murder, big band,
ripper, ripped and ripping,
slight hand,
foot and mouth,
we're told there's every need to shout
in a world of annular repetition, spite and ammunition.
Where not even a pin prick should aspire to listen.
Shoot the mother,
rape the father,
a hostage of bondage, sado masochistic autistic.
The source of all evil shall harm her,
pray on bloody knees,
shut up shop and fly home.
Special of the Day
Blood blossom
ylang-ylang
cigarettes
johnny, fighting
foreign café
american breakfast
larger than life.
Flowers on a wall
a skeleton in a closed closet,
sunny side up
Overt sexuality
morbid curiousity
eyelid examination
russian tactics
false floor façade
johnny, kissing a boy
woman of the ginger glade
man of the silver moon
kiss me deeply.
Rose garlands
prom night '74
Born Again Obselete
Council house private service,
nightly fist, mighty twist,
4678,
the seventh session, but two.
Pumping tiny steel babies upstream,
orange flowers,
three channels,
concertina,
love blooms,
blood looms,
summer '77 heat wave platoon.
Springs re-enact,
then tightly retract,
with tall spunk orders
and hipped hair a mullet-o.
(Slap happy Daddy).
Spanish fly,
drips dry,
over drizzled tar baby erections,
slick with warm metallic trails,
of a fuck and motherhood.
Meet the '70's and bear it.
Red Hotel
one:
Red hotel,
The bloodied brick hostage,
Livid with daylight,
Foaming ruby seas,
Spent and brittle,
Velvet props and sagging beach huts,
Cracked from countless frothing lashes.
Dark creatures,
Rooms with jaundice,
You and I,
Bent double,
Afraid of ?
two:
A visitation,
Three seraphim,
And the demons rush in,
Where greed fears to tread.
Caution.
Through a black lined slit,
They've hit,
so I'll spit,
A thick skinned flurry,
Of tiny beaded men.
three:
Mother.
I.
Killed my totem.
I.
Let her out.
To lick,
The winter clean.
Girl
I'd be such a dumb fool
to tell you my fears,
for you'd package
and preserve them,
and haunt me for years.
Zzorocin
She had marching promise, our soiled Lady Grey,
He held bondage hostage, choking pleated pain.
These vintage volumes,
Dark with the European colourisation,
(of a paricular hue).
April fool, occultist's tool,
Contort into life,
From the offspring of your sacrament.
Push, push, push,
A push too far,
Oh how you pushed again,
Now only flags illuminate,
Your rotting trans sexed montage,
Nothing but fodder,
For the depletists in life,
Who were content to covet you.
Dark doors shielding,
But alas, not wielding,
An abusive paper maldoror.
Sickness thrives and flourishes,
In defensive chastisement.
Come in now, your spell is terminated,
But you, sickle comic lover,
Choking nazi suicide brother,
Still hang in terms of endearment,
And black/noir pun.
And Christa ?
How many times did you find god ?
Slick, on the hypodermic ended cold linoleum
Steel petroleum lemon sparkle dropper,
The poison of her choice.
For it is not a black sun,
That glares on these swamplands and islands,
Reknowned for anything but you,
Sweet Päffgen.
I hold you both close,
In a heart that plays host,
To a twin span as cold as my
Deadly lust.
Sleep sister.
Sleep brother.
For this love you are responsible.
Brittle, Broken and Dry
Stripped.
Without these
vices,
I am defeated,
naked,
pathetic
and helpless,
to the forces
that propelled excess,
all along.
A cruel twist,
I believe,
that vice
is as sweet
as sugar.
Belial Abiding
Hell has an entrance,
for I have seen it in my dreams.
Hell has an exit,
for I have departed,
unredeemed.
A Filter of Night
Soft;
A pause in the night.
My peers;
redundant ivy, a scurrying rat
and an
upturned supermarket trolley,
just a
tangled cold mesh holding night
its prisoner (it doesn't really care),
blur and churn from my
purposefully induced state
of bombed dead-weight.
Torpid paralysis
bleeding through my ice cut temples
and into my head,
then
into my heart.
You, like a saint,
washing and bathing your
wax like legs,
ask for nothing more than the
conventional necessities
of life,
whilst I,
crave, nostalgic and non-plussed,
nothing more than the
world's most profound extremity,
played out dumbly in all quarters;
a forest fire
to kill all enemies,
the world's deadliest drug,
100%,
scarring my face,
intimacy with an animal,
boiling my body,
lepers' inadequacy.
My lights go out early,
and I wake up, prematurely,
slick and sweltered,
flushed with frustration of
nothing to do but the,
repetition
of playing again.
(aftermath: hands, breathless, unlit,
vexed,
drunken pen,
sleep reeking of
sliding doors and deep pools of the
aloof.
Asleep,
here I bathe).
Delerium
Snow/chalk
Tinsel/education
Masculine/monster
Scents/hills
Rain/school
Window/disinfectant
Lunch/golden angels
Ivory/paper
Plastic/candles
Icing/melting
Cockatoos/faeries
Piano/crystals
Flowers/mushrooms
Quickly/tommorow
The Province of Devoid
Collosal prodigious ambience.
Void of hollows.
Unoccupied, deserted, destitute.
Black, damp and
Resounding.
Reverberating.
Reflecting.
Cold, frozen
bleak stagnant sighings,
Hang, lynched in nothing,
But nothing,
Of nothing.
But, for the Sake of the Banal
Feeling intrepid
In the face of the
Discontented.
A leaden Saturday morning
Leaves nothing to the imagination,
As it
Forces its way forward
To a
Saturday afternoon.
Seeing double,
Under the
Sodden swaying guidance
Of an
Intoxicated Saturday evening,
Leaving nothing for moderation
As it
Floods its way forward
To poison.
A Birth in Cold November
So,
this is you,
and how small
and heavy you seem,
exhibiting all the flesh ridden possessions,
of idle sleep.
Merely fresh from the breast,
and the slowly formed flesh,
of in utero.
But I fear the worst,
for you're already a devil,
in effeminate clothing.
And you are a boy,
a congregation of twigs, dolls and
smoky plastic paraphernalia,
leaves, clay, flotsam and things.
This glass is too small
for my tiny crazed hands,
so I'll grate it over my teeth.
Purple Dawn
A bruised abdomen,
Cynics studying and leafing through haemotology,
Stilettos sunk deep in the fleshy folds of belly button scars.
The night shifts whilst buckling under the grand weight
Of every single secret,
Of screaming addictions, of mute deadly terror,
Of near slaughtered martyrs and childhood affliction.
If I heard you at the door I'd worry,
For a terrorist's attempt at a japanese whisper.
Cup your hands and bring them sparkling to my mouth,
Let the onslaught of half eaten insects initiate you,
In the name of the iconoclast.
Fucked in the name of the extremist,
Missed in a game of bereavement,
Bound, tucked and folded,
In a half hearted attempt at braille or origami,
There's the object of my limp affection,
And here's a portal to my stale attention,
Love it,
Preserve it,
Pet it and kiss it,
Your insight, in flight
Can become your best redemption,
They'll love you,
Then curse you,
And follow you forever.
Shunsuké
The final descent of your white hair,
down,
ripe and ready with the
total intent,
of trading your life for beauty.
Your ugly old spirit,
crisp and starched,
like sun bleached bone,
Your putrid sexual annihilation,
your immoral portrayal of feminine degradation,
your preference and preferral,
turning,
towards cheap red and white alien shores,
whispers, dreaming Yuichi,
and effeminate whores.
The sonic hot clash,
of death against
nature,
against spirit against
beauty,
against youth.
A lethal injection,
quiets the mind.
Unwelcome Mental Interloper
The fretful anxious industrial particles
Of the day,
Sting and interpose violently in
Non union and hostile accordance.
The senses and nervus fabrica,
Still cling and throb,
With stalking noxious essence.
Unable to shake off or answer,
Incessant mundane ponderings and
Compulsive brainwave wanderings,
Of "Will I", "Won't I",
It will take me hours,
To prepare for sleep,
And hours to recover,
From sleep,
Like steel in my body.
The Stigma of Morphine
Appeased,
I bring this gift,
with vain hope to heal
this rift,
and win you over,
in the form of a single white candle.
A miner's child,
buried years deep,
needs air and mould
to even begin to digest
lead and rock.
Diseased,
I steal this gift,
as a hopeless medium
to cry over,
this single jet black candle.
My hands smelled far cleaner,
before justice dyed them blue.
Untitled
The inanimate will never betray you,
become friends with
an object
Inadequacy can never vex you,
make love with
simply nothing.
e-mail: vaughan_watson@yahoo.co.uk
visit: Crow City Books