The Psychopathic Cat

Me gots a cat in a cradle,

me swing it with me tail,

swing it extra hard,

me like the way she wails.

I got a dart board with knife holes

cuz me darts darted away.

Me so mean a cat, man,

that objects refuse to stay.

Me mates play pull me finger

and I snap it for some jam

the sound of yowling kitties

makes me wanna dance.

Skatting with me homies,

raping pussies down the rows,

getting double helpings

from worms inside dead crows.

I gots me a VHS set full of pornos,

got a list of enemy cats

that I gots on me kill list,

I’m a pyschopathic cat.

Me bad right to the marrow

of the bone me chewing on,

I say ‘Is you is mah bebe?’

but in the morning I be gone.

Artwork by Michael Hurley

Advertisements

Love

Love is a snail

that allows a creature into its home

that devours it whole

and leaves nothing but shell.

Hollow, translucent

and as fragile as hell.

A Hell of fragility

A stake at my virginity.

You weren’t my first girlfriend

but you were my first love.

Two shrooms shielded together

under a bush of love.

My bush burned for you

But the fire was beaten

by cynicsm, criticism,

and cunning mistreatment.

Love starts off astutely beautifully

and slowly unravels

to reveal faults and fraught feelings

that require a gavel.

Some order is caught

by our carnal proceedings.

I knew I loved you

when you stroked at my bush,

the fire was lighting

the shrooms blushed and pushed

Their heads became oily,

then charred a coal grey,

you kissed once for luck

then left passion’s play.

The shell is picked empty.

It hides in the decay

of an ashen bush burnt out

by love’s wicked ways.

Image

Thumb Head Girl

Thumb Head Girl

with the gorgeous breasts,

I give you a thumbs up

more than the rest.

With your Jolie leg out

and your pink, plastic mane,

I want to nail you all night –

Thumb Head you drive me insane.

I got my thumb out right now,

I’m hitchin’ for a ride,

but you bow your head down:

Access Denied.

Oh Thumb Head Girl

with the gorgeous breasts,

you gave me a thumbs down

just like the rest.

But Thumb Head Girl,

Thumb Head Girl,

I still like you best.

Paint Me Like One of Your French Girls

I go to the art gallery:

wooden floors with a clean sheen

perfect frames at perfect angles…

I wonder what the artists would say?

Abstract speaks for itself:

‘I was not born, bold and brash,

pulsating and splashed and splurged,

spunked out and blown

to be thrown into this.

This. This. What is this?

A fucking frame that cost more

than the name of the man who made me

at the time he made me.

Created me.

With passion and heart.

They have boxed me in.

Entrapped me.

Entrapment.

Help. Help me.

Embrace me.

See past the frame.

These lines could go on forever.

I could wrap around you,

caress you with colours

and treat you like a Queen

at a Royal Variety Performance.

We would laugh

and dance like a Paula Abdul music video

I’ll be the cat and the cream

and you’ll be the Queen.

You be the boat and I’ll be the stream.

Run with me.

Run with me.

Colours can clash and splash

splatter and explode

implode and  impale

on an earth shattering scale.

Free me.

Release me.

Tina sang ‘I’m in chains’,

but I want to stain you

and train you

and of course take the blame.

Slapdash? Sure.

Grab a brush, grab a saw,

release me amore.

I need to express myself

it’s in vogue to fall short

but run with it.

Work with it.

Race with it.

Be true.

I want the world to have colour

and I want to paint you.’

I see the swirls and the shades,

the lines that cascade,

the thickened texture

and emboldened sheen.

The frame, it blinds.

It shadows and hides

what needs to be seen.

The curve of a wink

in the signature blinks.

I look at it and think:

I need to get laid.

Salvador Dali

Salvador Dali

gave the clock a trickle

as it tick, tick, tickled into sand.

A genius hand

that held many fans

salivating, berating and

contemplating man.

Salvador Dali;

paintbrush hairs above his lip,

he let them slip and slide

on hip and thigh.

He had the need to graze against

a most beautiful face;

a porcelain piece

while on his knees

mottled with blue

he painted her trees

that led to a bush

and a final push.

Two paintbrush hairs

rubbed together in ecstacy.

Salvador Dali!

Salvador Dali!

They said his name at parties

and he’d cup them in his hands.

Weird, Odd Little Boy.

I met him on Tuesday,

he walked with a mince.

I thought he was gorgeous;

a little camp prince.

We flirted and skirted

around serious issues,

the start of a relationship

is no time for tissues.

We’d need them all later

as our hope would come down,

our emotions and trust

lost in a sad town.

Suffocated by pain,

I’m sure he did drown

and rise up so hollow

with his head hanging down.

The place that we lived

changed to a ghost town

and the demons of our pasts,

they’d forever surround

and my dead eyed prince,

he was throned and then crowned

as the weird, odd little boy

who messed me around.

Weird odd little boy

could make me laugh

but I somehow felt

he’d been love starved.

He’d be clingy and needy

then push me away;

confused me,

refused me

for the rest of my days.

Next thing you know

ten years have gone past

and we’re surrounded in darkness;

a life’s curse has been cast.

As a wife, as a woman,

I sank to my knees,

scrubbing the floor

and slaving for free.

I was blacked up and jacked up,

paid not even rupees.

I trusted,

combusted

and was broke without fees.

If love is involved

you pay with your heart

and my pride’s out the window

as the weird little boys cart

stands at the window,

he’ll take a piece at a time,

he wants me in pieces;

a jigsaw in brine.

I’m his mission in life.

To me he’s assigned.

He’ll rip me to shreds,

then pour me rose wine.

He’ll kiss me and kiss me

until we’re both so entwined

then he’ll bruise me, refuse me,

on my heart we will dine.

This weird, odd little boy who looks like a man,

he is my biggest enemy and my biggest fan.

Bobbing for Apples

Bobbing for apples,

humming on plums,

feeling his shaft

around my gums.

Tugging down panties,

drinking my juice,

fingers inside me

like I’ve been goosed.

My mates will all call me

a dirty, sad slag

but then they will call me

and ask if I gagged.

They are just jealous

’cause I’m well fitter, blates

and all the boys want me

more than my mates.

Without E’s we argue,

we fight and we bitch,

with E’s we cuddle

and lez up and kiss.

The boys fucking love it

but I don’t like minge

I like cock-a-plenty

after a binge.

The boys they all want me.

The girls want me too

and if they say they don’t

they’re just jealous,

I’m better than you.

Who needs good grades

when you’ve got looks like mine?

Who needs good grades

when you can get high?

Buns in the oven

can be deflated before cooked

and drugs, they’re just fun,

none of us hooked.

Like a fish in the water

my gills take in and flush out;

you can drown in ecstacy

but from E you can’t drown.

Fair enough you can’t piss

and you chew up your cheeks

but your bum cheeks will be clenching

when you both reach your peak.

Fuck, I love life.

Uni’s for geeks

why try and do well

when the future is bleak?

The money goes to darkies,

we don’t look after our own.

We give the greasy cunts money,

a car and a home.

There’s not any jobs

so the best way to make dough

is to lie and your back

and watch as he grows.

Stopping and starting,

breathing fast and then slow

until you’re lying on your back

at the funeral home.

That’s the life for me,

a variety of breaths

from drink, drugs and fucking

up to my death.