this lying deceitful bastard

a dream catcher's
gun control
in secret skin
left to
drift
to the ethereal
but
here
now
is not enough

a
swinger's
styling
blank space
the middle class
nonadventure
idle chatter
a bitter
single cell ego
imaginary
places
asking
you
to
fuck your fist
and change
the course
of this conversation
here
now
is not enough

the good poets
have found god
and given up
the drink
glorified
hype men
of the western front
dirty calls
with
opposable thumbs
spontaneous
humans
skype
fucking
to break
a barrier
and cum
bouncers
bouncing with
exaggerated joy
in a heatwave
skull stomp
chanting for
more
don't you read
orwell
and happiness
is just a
smart
buyer
on the inside
so why not
kill your employer
with 4 leftist factions
and 20
obscure
cowards
trying to write poetry
standing
fucking
the hand
that serves you
with pursed lips
to a
6am wake up
party popper
flag flyer
coffee hit
and
here
now
is not enough

to survive
a reacharound
from the landlord
and mapped
colonial
cross border
jesus
the
refugee
tony
the motherfucker
homosexuals
have more fun
but
you still
send your good vibes
to africa
and palestine
knowing full well
that we are happy
on the inside
two lions
a fearful
executive
forgetful
dope dealer
relentlessly
consuming
the soul
and here
now
i hear
wealthy
american
musicians
chanting for us
to trust
but
it's hard
to
be happy
and break the world
when
you're drunk
not
starving
to death
and
here
now
is not enough

here
now
is not enough

the dead women of Juarez

I relate to the dead women of Juarez.
Every scar a colonial moment.
Privilege cut into our skin.
And every fuck just a fuck.
The history distant,
imagined and dull.
But her eggs aren't well done
and the inheritance won't come
'til she's at least twenty five.
Sulking on the golden teet.
Polite conversation before
the big black man
with a gentle face
and nice smile
slips it in her arse.
And meanwhile
another face,
is buried
beneath men,
violence
and dirt.
Her stomach cut,
tear-ducts fucked,
pissing blood and lime.
A sour taste.
Hidden beneath
the discarded fragments
of industry.
But there is only silence
in illuminated text.
And it is strange
to not have TV.
No room for dessert.
Throat cut,
eyes to god.
Laying in a ditch
while her mother sleeps,
unaware,
dreaming Mexican dreams.
And perhaps there is no difference
between the white woman
disturbing my meal
with inane chatter
and the dead girl
just south of the US border.
But I relate to the dead women of Juarez.
My bones aching with guilt
and my beer getting warm.

anarchists

oppose
a social order
of slavery
a violence within
the walls
buildings
and monitors
connecting us
to nothing
the exploitation
of sunsets
sex
and dreams
the death
of the flies
gathering around
dried blood
the 46 year old man
born muhammad
or joseph
or steve
a junkie
or mechanic
lying still
in the dust
shot or shot up
discarded
an unfathomable distance
from your tv
the eight hours
sitting at a desk
staring into pixels
chatting
rotting in
obesity
anxiety
and depression
anarchists
oppose black
bags
15 million
square kilometres
of plastic
in the pacific
a global military
expenditure
of 1.6 trillion
anarchists
oppose murder
money
lipstick
cell phones
televisions
vibrators
the collars
on children
chained to fences
or walked through malls
anarchists oppose
malls
inane conversation
spectacle
promiscuity
taxes
flags
handguns

monogamy
viagra
government
prozac
celebrity
aropax
SUVs
social networking
states
and porn
for this
anarchists face
repression
discrimination
detention
deportation
ridicule
attack
and gaol
anarchists are
shot
judged
condemned
sacrificed
sold
betrayed
stigmatized
and dishonoured

but anarchists
still
believe

in you

her face behind a blue cup

Love,
she says.
A distance removed.
Thinking about it,
still sore from all the fucking.
Love,
is intense.
Not what
she's looking for.
But what
she's running from.

I say,
there's nothing to be afraid of.
Comforting stories,
my litany of dirty fucks
posing as polyamory.

But she's leaving
to find herself
somewhere,
not here.
Of course.
No need for
attachments.
And love is intense.

I say,
I have no expectations,
knowing full well that
I'm expecting a reply.
Affirmation,
a return to source.
With every glance and motion,
her on top of me.
Anything is possible.

Her body still sore.
In silence.
The warmth so close
and eternal.
Closing our eyes
as we reinforce the walls.
For now.

Love, I say,
is not as intense
as fear.

with honesty for friends

Brahma plays with Buddha
beyond dogma
And we recite Blake's London
in kitchens cleaning
for minimum wage
And yet still free

Like those who play
with sex and drama
Everyone fucking everyone
fucking everyone

Jamie's paranoid direction
coming in and out
of inebriation and argument
Sleep deprived and stoned
But always smiling

Those who ride the
fading morning
longer than most
closer to fifty
but happy at last

Rob's walls covered in
foil and reality
Keeping everything distant
never falling

Those friends more broken
but in love
Others solitary in caves
of virginity, sadness
and loss

Jason a king of kings
Reminding us that we
can always do better

Crossing mountains and
burying our childhood
with every battle
orgasm and
scream of passion

Brian a bear of a man
breathing compassion
with subtle smile
walking slow
A laughter emanating
from source

Moments of truth
in climax
Painfully reminding us
that we are sorry
I am sorry

Every lover who
is golden, beautiful
Privileged but empathetic
gorgeous women
broken and held close

Our hands forming fists
chests tightened
Shouting at faceless
men, processes and violence

Alex committed more
than we could know
A wealth of protest
articulated in soundbites
ten minute drives and
European squats

And my spirit existential
finds Russia
Nineteen seventeen
Two thousand and ten

Katie hitting hard
sonic connection
and essence
Beyond politics
and intimacy

Clinging to each other
like pigeons in the rain
Just long enough to
feel the weight lifted
The space warm
and empty

And many more unnamed
in commune
and resistance
Honesty and
imagination
Gods in reflection
not without hearts torn
and shattered mind

My brothers and sisters
never born
Friends in every sense
In love
Our conversations
keeping me whole

Thank you

our radical history
separates the spine
turns the clock inside
and even outside
the walls fade

bullshit confessions

this confession does not help
the cocktail of stds
flabby gut
limp wrist
posturing and wank
not to mention the bullshit
cumming in 6 minutes
thinking the women like it
at least for 2 to 3 weeks
psycho-analysing
to add to the bullshit
a vegetarian for 3 months
didn't drink for a whole week
and read a few books on zen
but still the same cunt
breaking people
one
after the other one
after the other
and arrogant enough
to assume that
i am the only one
bored
weak
and cowardly
a moments release
replacing purpose
truth
beauty
love
purging this bullshit
replacing it with bullshit
until there is nothing left