Can’t Love, Can’t Hurt

Walking down Main Street,

the breeze brushes leaves,

autumnal colours scatter by me.

Feeling so empty,

this shadow strolls through the blocks,

a ghost haunting Main Street,

taken too many knocks.

In a maze of gold colours,

the leaves dance on the ground

and party around me

but I’m all alone now.

I try to find words

but the silence is sweet

the wind whispers to me

‘Don’t you miss body heat?’

Walking down Main Street,

this jugular block,

this place to see lovers,

and those that have taken hard knocks

in life, they walk by me,

with barely a care,

either hand holds or hand outs,

I place paper there.

Walking down Main Street

the wind whispers four simple words

that follow me forever:

‘Can’t love, can’t hurt’.

I Am a Woodlouse

I am a woodlouse.

Sometimes people ask me:

‘Got wood?’

or if I am feeling lousy.

I find neither question

particularly amusing,

but then we woodlouse

are not known

for our wonderful sense of humour.

We are actually known

for our ability to roll into a ball

but only the genus armadillidium

of our species can in fact do that…

so there.

Image

I am a Parrot

I am a parrot.

(I am a parrot! I am a parrot!)

This is apparent.

(This is apparent! This is apparent!)

I like repetition in poems.

(Repetition in poems! Repetition in poems!)

Did you know sick as a parrot,

(Sick as a parrot! Sick as a parrot!)

is an irrelevant saying,

(An irrelevant saying! Irrelevant saying!)

because I am fit as a fiddle.

(Fit as a fiddle! Fit as a fiddle!)

Now get lost

(Get lost! Get lost!)

And get parrot a cracker.

(Parrot want a cracker! Parrot want a cracker!)

Cracker.

Jack.

(Get me a cracker, Jack! Get me a cracker Jack!)

and I’ll get you the gold.

(Get you the gold! Get you the gold!)

We parrots can read maps,

(We can read maps! We can read maps!)

didn’t you know?

(Didn’t you know? Didn’t you know?)

No.

You didn’t know

(You didn’t know! Didn’t know!)

but it is fact.

(It is fact! It is fact!)

Parrot want a cracker.

Parrot want a cracker, Jack.

Image

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.

He offered words to the birds

because their coos were too crooning.

He offered the knife and fork a small spork

because the spoons, they kept spooning

and through it all, the world,

it keeps moving;

as somebody wins somebody’s bruising.

Bruised cheek, last week,

she can not talk, she can not speak.

Black eye, don’t know why,

the only break she gets on sheets.

Get her breath back, count to ten

then it’s time to fuck again.

Aint got no love, aint got no friends,

got no Mother, it’s men, men, men.

And where is he as spoons do spoon

and little black birds groove and croon?

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,

my oh my, is the world starting to pay.

Plenty of sunshine, boiled grass looks like hay

no food to eat now, so let’s pray for rain.

And the black’s don’t have souls until ’76,

and the towers, they crumble, like fallen twix.

Have a break, have a kit kat as you kill the world

and the rainforest dwindles, palm oil is like pearls.

The world is our oyster and we suck it dry

and get more fat on our backs from eating food fried.

As we get fat arses and doubled double chins

we chuck it all in one bag, fuck recycling bins.

He offers words to the birds

and a buzz for the bees

but where are the crutches

for that whore on her knees.

People get trafficked

and there are millions missing,

for Him to find them

would be like going fishing.

He sits with a line

that is hooked and the sunk

in this Hades realm of lost souls

that are drugged up or drunk.

They can’t grab His line

because it’s not even there,

invisible and hidden

they think nobody cares.

To bite onto His bait

would be like a mouth full of cock

and these poor little choir boys

are sick of having that shock.

Whose to blame for these paedophiles

that can run amock

and throw women in prisons

and keep them locked up?

It’s the Jews,

it’s the gays,

it’s anyone but themselves.

What does He think when he sees this?

Religions in bad health.

In fact it is dying, critical, comatose.

It’s been dying since Chaucer

with the priest whose nose grows.

Not literal, but cynical,

they are all lying c*nts.

Anything to get money,

they pull stupid stunts

like saying “to get into Heaven

you must pay your way.

There’s an entrance fee on the door

or down you go with the gays.”

I’m sick of this fear

and I’m sick of their lies,

Catholicism and cynicism

hold hands in the night.

Do you think that priest prays for your soul

as he counts up those riches?

Does he fuck! He’s a pimp,

and you’re all his bitches.

So Zip-a-dee-doo-dah,

zip-a-dee-fucking-day,

let’s pay the bigots

and let’s hang the gays.

Let’s say Jews killed Jew Jesus

and the Roman’s saved the day,

let’s say the Holocaust never happened

and in a holiday camp they stayed.

“Yeah, they’re a bit skinny,

but that’s just their race.

Too fucking tight to buy food

and put it on plates.”

And that’s what sticks in my throat

and makes me choke,

that these issues of seriousness

are a big fucking joke.

And the people that matter,

the victims,

the dead,

they are forgotten and scorned

and put in their beds.

Shooed like a child

with wild thoughts and nightmares;

“Darling, Auschwitz never existed

now get up those stairs.”

How can our children

learn empathy and love

if we won’t learn from our mistakes?

Instead we are innocent, Gov.

We can’t teach children the past

if it is emotive and sad

but we let them play violent computer games

and question behaviour bad.

And what does He think

when He sees the ghosts of the dead

who lost their lives for nothing

and for Him they were led.

Does He feel guilty

as he croons with the birds

when for those lost and missing

He can’t give them the words,

or the chance to jump out and escape

like a Jack in the box?

Instead they are winded back in again

and the door is then locked.

To Him I do ask,

do we learn and get better?

Or do we keep repeating

the same mistakes forever?

I listen, no answer,

what do I expect?

I’m just a fish in the water,

hungry and vexed.

Swimming for answers

and diving for truths

but these truths are old

and so is this news.

“Zip-a-dee-doo-dah”

God softly croons

as the birds twitter and tweet

and the poppy’s do bloom.

One day we’ll get answers,

maybe one day soon

but for now the birds sing

and the whores sit alone in their rooms.

Stranger Danger.

The pigeon was so recently free

from its cage beneath the tree.

It had been in the urban wild 3 days

like an innocent child, but grey.

The two legs had begged for his return

but to return to that cage made his pride burn.

Everyday he saw a cat that sat,

that smugly smiled and raised paw fat

but this pigeon knew this cat was not  friend but foe

because it followed pigeon everywhere he’d go.

One day the pigeon was cornered, caught;

and the cat, it smiled and raised its paw

and paused for thought as the pigeon scorned:

“He must have a million spores of evil spawned

within his skin and that is why he does begin

to everyday destroy my day,

get in my way and make me pay for some sad deed

that I’ve betrayed, for eating breathing, being grey,

much to my chagrin and dismay.”

The cat it smiled, lowered its knee that is the cradle

for the seeds. The seeds that burn, the spores that blister,

the pigeons life saved daily by a split whisker

of possible fate or divine intervention

of those hairless two legs we don’t mention.

Not part of this world, they live in houses,

fridge cheese, boil broccoli and have spouses.

The cat, it sat and smiled with wolvish glee

and tensed its evil spore filled knee.

It pounced and punched so playfully

this little bird so recently free.

The pigeon squealed, an uncooked meal

and the cat laughed and mewed a great deal

“You think the two legs can save you now?

They can’t, they won’t. To work they bow.

9 – 5  is when you are mine. Mine to catch

and mine to find.

You think they care about you, little bird?

Or will run to your squeals and sorrowed words?

This garden’s mine and so are you

so this game is forever, until you lose.

There is no honour, is no truce,

to keep on fighting there is no use.”

He raised his paw without pause for thought

but the pigeon fled and cat had caught

his hand in pale and sticky pigeon poop

from getting too close to the coop.

The cat began to scowl and mope,

to get pigeon today he had little hope.

The pigeon smiled and spread its feathers

knowing he would get peace never.

This garden was his little home

and to not be here was to be alone.

The hairless two-legs were his protectors

from this evil, feline Hannibal Lector.

This cat was cruel and pigeon was new;

he needed to learn quick at this school.

If there was one rule to remember

it was to talk to smiling cats never ever.

ADAM

They say it started with a big bang,

but it was more the spider web

that linked the sparsely twinkled stars

to create the constellation of your name.

In abstract art it would be:

a red tinted triangle

a duck beak coloured circle, slit down the middle,

an electric blue pyramid

and two golden arrow points, connected

and part of your crown.

Your Majesty,

resting above your head is your destiny.

You were once King of country

in this paradise of Eden.

Simplicity was not enough.

Submissiveness was not enough.

Reading the story of your life

on the fine print of your hand

was like making your name

out of the shapes on a Kandinsky painting:

ADAM.

How do you sleep when Eve’s legs are closed

for the night

and Dawn’s golden tresses are hidden in slumber?

You gave your ribs for her creation

but never call the morning after.

Eve,

Eve,

get up off of those knees,

he should never have stolen from that tree.