found this in drafts and liked bits of it so i'm posting.

pray for me, bukowski
ferlinghetti think of me in your
liquid
fluid words
thought that does not trip on thought or
metaphor

no need for a name
a brain
no need for anything but cadence

rhythm toppling over rhythm
in and out of rhythm there is
rhythm

like a bass line rolling over a smutty scene
like my life
playing out
in stacatto beats
too fast for me
too cracked for tomorrow

pray for me, kerouac
your freedom speaks novels

and ginsberg
while you are fucking
sucking
pray for me and
think of me
lend me a thought
an ear

for i was once a young lover
who hated
i hate
i fear
and drudgery will win

pray for me someone
anyone
with ties to a city
a song
loyal to a person or
thought
stuck with something and not trying to leave

pray for me
won't someone
pray for me thru tears
thru laughter

pray because i smoke around the wheeze i give myself
pray because i break love when i can
cut ties
and run

pray because i am lost
and lonely
and loved

here's a gem. stumbling across blogs you keep forgetting exist is always a pleasure. looking back and realising you can post again and no one, not even you, will care about it.

that place people find themselves in around the age of twenty.. the one they smile at years later when everything is stable and not quite how they expected and they've seen enough and done enough to undermine that lingering teenage angst with a determined complacence?

i'm in it. sometimes i forget that it's a delight to be so unsure of yourself.

WWTWD?

sometimes you have to flick the filth off
it's so thick, weeks of stained grace
and favour gone wrong
faith forgotten in the face of
an every morning armageddon

toes that bleed through dirty socks
a blanket that gets pissed on
every time you sleep
hair you'd rather pull out than
suffer the stench of

on days like these few things are important

but don't forget to ask the question,
"what would tom waits do?"
as you hunch in whino prayer
over a friendly bar
finding clues in that same old outline,
a hopeful ring of condensation
that some chump who came before you
left behind

verily, my dear
i want to fuck you like an animal*
and
if i may;
if it is not too forthright or
bold,
if i am not overstepping a boundary
or four:
my bed looks good on you

my room frames your face like
the perfect haircut
which,
if i may;
if it would make you smile or
blush,
if i could say without sounding too keen
or heavy-handed:
you can boast as well

you could get lost there
in those sheets
and they could get lost
in that smell of yours

you could sleep heavy
on pillows still hot
from stories we passed across them,
tall tales of tiny lies and big fear

and i could watch on
writing poems too formal
in words too weak
to explain that
verily, my dear

i want to fuck you like an animal

sometimes i
talk to my dog
smiling
because he don't know
or care
what it is
i got to say

but i tell him
i rattle off my stories
changing names to protect
those innocent bystanders
reluctant witnesses
playing shadow to fear

i tell him
i say
you watch those ones, hound
they'll never help you out

and he just listens
grinning like only a beast can
stinkin of his own filth
his shit and
skin
his fleas and
ticks

i tell him
i say
your breath sickens, hound
like rotting flesh stuck under tongue

but then i keep talking
talk about a song
talk about the blues
that slow ache that whispers
"you're on to something,
now suffer for it"

i keep telling him about it all
smiling
he keeps listening
growling in the good parts

i've got this scab on my face. i don't know what it was before it was a scab. a mole, maybe. a beauty spot. depends which suburb you're in. whatever it was, something scratched it and turned it into a little knub of blood crowning a little knub of skin, right there on my cheek bone. i don't know how long it's been there or when i started doing this but i keep pulling it off. watching it bleed out and dry up again; locking its doors and barring its goddamn windows.

it's raining

those bats were crying so hard up in the trees that the sky joined in.

good mourning.

i'm not really much of anything right now. i have been having a lot of sex. a lot of something that alludes to sex. and i pretty much just occupy myself with sex-related activities in between all the sex i'm having. i make my text messages as dirty as possible. i dish out heavy double entendres.

there is a lot of sex, is what i'm saying.

i realised earlier that i've lost everything i built up in my head since 2004. i lost my empire. the characters and connections just died out and blew up. they're gone. i don't even work words anymore. there's nothing pretty to look at. i developed some sort of style, i had a vague rhythm and flow once upon a time and now it's gone. it's all gone.

i fucked it out, maybe.

i have this chance at a normal day-to-day, you know? i'm in love and i sleep and i go out and drink grande mocha latte fucking floats or whatever yuppie beverage you wanna slip in there. i wear short skirts; sacrifice my modesty for self-claimed sass and flick my hair liberally at traffic lights.

there's nothing there though. i'm not content with this. i'm wasting my muscle and my mind.

i think i want to write music.

where does this leave me then? in some siberia. some self-imposed halfway house where i get the thoughts but they don't make a damn.

and what a time for siberia. for empty letters and the barest of sentiments. what a time for this, when there is so much to describe. so much that is new and worthy of script. where words like 'balmy' and 'giddy' come up so often they almost seem contrived. it's not like they capture it anyway. it's not like in the loss of those words we ruin some moment in time, some piece of history. some part of me and my story. it's not like that but i will grieve none the less.

blogging is like dropping bread crumbs. for you and everyone else. for you and an entire world of users. it's like paving the way for those people keeping an eye out. the rangers and rogues among you. you're cluey and you're cunning and you're here.i could be in amsterdam. i could be the most heinous human on the planet but you're still here.

welcome to siberia, malcontents.

what can we trade for time? i could offer a secret but someone might read it. imagine me throwing confessions out in to the cybernetics. not a care in the world. that is far too big a thing to be doing at 3.40am on a sunday morning. that is the quest of a lifetime.

and yet i've been called to task by something. there is some instinct, some sense of duty playing games with my whirring head. i've got the outline but not the shading. no colour. all legs and no heart. but that's okay because sometimes the cadence of clicking keys can fill that space for a time. until you find yourself all heart again.


--

my little nana (that's great grandmother to you), dead at 99, used to trade coupons back in england during the war. she hit the black market like a fiend and got the best deals for her family without pulling the rug out from under anyone. she was as fierce and gentle as the irish get, and sometimes i can still hear her singing me to sleep like she did when i was five.

i bet she would have traded you a secret for your time. a secret and a smile.