Thank you

Words hurt and purse through lips
that once kissed while hips tilted and hit
the right places – no room or space
between us but now youve seen the light
It stings and it sings to you:
A portly cherub needling and wheedling
right between the eyes;
I roll mine and sigh.
I’m glad its clear about your ex
and that boss you really like.
I applaud you for your honesty
but these thoughts dont catch us out
could you have been a bit more quick about it
Because these talks right after fucking
are a bit of a kick in my complex
because sex should just be fun
especially when you like,
or you thought you liked someone.
So now Im back to the beginning
while you pine for old, I pine for new.
You reopened old wounds with my hands
while you bit mine fresh open,
so thank you and fuck you.
Thank you for the lesson.
I learn more every time
I date a girl stuck in some old world
and I dig deeper into mine.
Thanks for giving me my sanctuary
thanks for giving me my space
thanks for making me sound like Morissette
O disillusionment, o consequence, o charity,
silence.

godivaalanis

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.

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.

Passion

Passion,

what is passion?

To Bratz it is a passion for fashion

but for me, it’s deep.

It’s sleep,

but it’s you sleeping next to me,

being with me,

day in, day out.

It’s you, Ali.

It’s the bongo beat of her heart.

It starts,

it beats, it barks for me.

Animalistic,

I bite and it eat whole.

I slip in her skin,

I greet her soul.

It’s the beat of her heart;

we are sinners.

We are not each others firsts

but to this we’re beginners.

You’re a keeper,

you’re a winner,

you’re my nightly dinner,

not fellatio, cunnilingus,

cum on my fingers,

entrench them and drench them

in who you are and what’s inside you.

You’re you.

You’re you.

And I’m inside you.

We are circles,

flowers,

spurting and squirting,

your vagina sneezes and squeezes me.

It gives my fingers a hug

then lets go,

your heart slows,

glowing with the radiation

of post coital love.

This mini death

is not enough

so we do it again

and again.

The circle doesn’t end.

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.

Whispers in a Jar.

Hard, dry, crumbling ground,

quietly cracking from the explosives

hidden, breathless beneath.

Sixty years before

small, grimy, gentle little hands

in the darkness before dawn

had dug deep, with determination

to hide something  within them.

It was a secret that

wouldn’t be known  for six long decades.

Those children grew

into stunted, tortured, twisted bodies

that could not escape

those harsh, tense touches in the night.

Lying in bed,

they wait for the creaking crack

in the door to grow in size

and for the shadow to flirt with the ground

and the decision of whether or not

to rape a child.

Eyes surrounded by puffy wrinkles

still wait, with the covers

pulled up tight to their chins.

The home for children

was meant to be a haven

of safety and security;

but instead of colourful crayon

drawings  placed proudly on the walls

there were whispered words

written in light, shaky hands.

Light enough to be almost invisible,

these children were hidden from a world

not yet ready to understand.

In that day and age such things

did not exist

and were easily missed  by blind eyes,

milky with the dew of patriotism and ignorance.

Sixty years on and those brittle,

broken words are finally heard.

They escape from the cracked jars

they had been banging on,

burdened and buried under the crumbling ground.

Like a phoenix they rise

free from those lies and the perversion

of people who were meant to care.