Each man has the unalloyed right to be, at one time,
Or more, a scrambled, bedraggled, hedgeslept Jesus
This or that God knows that I took mine.
So back, so forth,
So much for that.
Born on the banks of the mad, maladjusted Straits;
A mess of medus, Marx, mumbles and moonshine
And purpled, rainworn slate,
I bawled, I suppose, to announce my arrival,
Screeching at and with life; crumpled of face, yelling tailtrod cat.
Awareness yet to fall.
Later, I assume
Still out of tune:
Salvation of sorts in four rusted strings, legs spayed, bass spitting ire;
Bloody fingered, bloody-eyed, bloody-brilliant
Sweatroaring to the choir.
A herniated, half-fried mash rabbleclack from nowhere to where
Half-bent in the head from household highs:
Winterland warriors forswear.
Closer, to heaven,
A cliché at eleven.
Jesus, I write, is the One True Light. The hymn is sung
Cathedral-echo, sanctity. Mankly festering
Unbeliever can crag-cawk also under silhouetted idols,
A dual solo with Watchbreaker Paul, all his heft, his frown
Of hate reappropriated here. A miracle, an irony.
Sharp shards of treblevoice a piercing crown.
None more real:
Marco, blessed Marco, 19, manfully striving,
Has his arms around my neck to fasten my chain.
He’s breathing fast and his eyes are flickering -
I wish I was. I’m older but he’s stronger, I now know,
In soul; questions everywhere, an atmospheromone brash
But I back out, it passes, he goes.
Debbie, 40, so she says, Kat-like, frizzled at the edges,
On MSN at 3am; unusual, I am, I love it backbody,
She computers late, rush-ready.
Merseyrailed and mohawked I alight to electro harrumph,
Disassociated, terrified, excited, grubby.
Suburban taxi brings amphetamine sleaze-triumph.
Lien, then, as we avoid a movie. Gin and sin, we giggle
Suddenly opposite the police station
There’s a field; it’s dark. We fumble and wriggle.
I can’t find it: I’m shaking and hammered. I roll off, roll a smoke
And toke myself away. There’s pride at sort-of,
More-or-less Becoming A Man. Meanwhiles, her knickers stink of puke.
So I pour
Just one more:
Jostling against an ossifying mundanity, I fill in the forms
And the idiots pass it through
And a month later, we’re still drunk, sodden, warm.
Thunderbird Blue, Lagerla, the Pure White Spirit of Russians,
Lager Girl, Cider Woman, Frosty Jack,
The notorious Four Litre Challenge.
Not here yet.
Awaiting the delinquent sacrament of midnight’s clack
Nervous, scrawled, fuddled; surprised and frozen.
But in another universe I plunge and kiss you back
There, I don’t need to fire my face at the coming breeze, brine, sweat,
Pupils disrupted, mind ripping away the ages as I walk away.
But, ay, sweet truth that everyone deserves in life such a yearning regret.
Each line has its own rhythm, as snickled sweet snot dribbles
Neckwards, backwards, inside, upwards,
Re-electrified, laser-eyed, shouting at a skunksome sky in scribbles
Of weasly arrogance; more than alive, driving
Shards of spectacularly fleeting nuclear insight
Out of the world, into another magnesium moment: inverse, farcial-brave.
To rank rust?
Each man knows the right, at one time, to be
Scrambled by God, by Jesus, to hedge and to mine.
To dragback a little more of this or that ill-logic amoral or free.
And now? Well, what now, and why now?
These tableaux of sweat and ridicule, fluid in imagination
And in deed. Knowledge is dead; a rank, deluded shallow.
Beyond accumulation, these lives are of as little meaning
As the fracture in time that dropped me here; no doubt
On other planets, if they exist, if this one exists, but fleeting
I link myself back to the faces in the wallpaper
Those forms and shapes and shadows in the drapes.
My child-eyes, terrified, identified, and my screams all were
Of from for the future: trapped, transparent, faces of wastrels and rats
Waiting for harridan lies to land. With deadly vicious beautiful gravity
Any god knows this; so stays silent of acts.
So it was, so it is
And so shall it be
And so much
For all that,