Re: Becca, Re: Pucussions

/Rebecca had too many books but hadn’t read enough/

/Knowledge by osmosis or enlightenment for being in the right place/

/At that all important ‘some time’ her friends encouraged conversation, but her tongue lashed out/

/She’s still never hungry in the morning, but always eats breakfast /

/Unreasonable as she could be she was sincere even with the fear of being possibly wrong/

/She couldn’t sing and wasn’t in it for the laughs/

/They took her future lives with a wave of a magic wand/

/She spoke at empty art centres and church halls about what was, instead of what could’ve been/

/So, Re: Becca, what can I say?/

/She was holistically challenged, but a daily slice was more than enough/

Don’t be Linda’s Lover/ Truce On the Route

     Not a scrawled note

                      But a song for you, A song for you

    A song I’d sing for you

                     To you

Don’t get bent out of shape

      Try be calm like a pebble on a grave

I have some masking tape, Two cans of soda

And something sharp, To cut breathing holes in the mask you’ve

                        Decided to wear, Today

      I’ll pay the guy at the desk

                 And we’ll be out of here

Bring your brown hemp home, Fold it up and put it in the back

                 I promise, My ode to you

   Wishing on that lucky star, I’ll write a sonnet about

            How we met

 As long as you don’t scream so much, Hey, Rewind the scenario

If you’d seen me before I followed you

                               Would you have fallen for me?

And now I’ll never be alone, Now that you’re tied up from your head to your toes

Next door

            Small band

Big sound

        The outside world will only hear

Silence

         So let’s sit here together in

 Silence

my- -my –my -mercy- mercy- me (taste the black denim)

     my-my-my

what have we here?

     there be crows a’flyin’

to scare off yonder mare

           a murder of them came a killin’

            only yester year

black enough to be mistaken

                               for forgiveness

      or Churchill’s once chewed ear

            tell it when he listens

                          feel them through the beat

        a- castigate the sin

                     but the sinner

   mercy- mercy- me

non-clean(est)

wait over there at the door

      because I’m having a moment

now, don’t you–

     y’know, you and her

I’m no longer here with you

you-who

I don’t know what to do

“I’m sending you a message, from it

             I don’t know what you’ll gain”

but don’t–

don’t tell me to calm down

   “no need to cry over the

ink spilt

          that drips down from the ceiling and haunts

                                                  the scene like pearls of wisdom”

         wait, I’m having a moment

and– I’m only holding on ‘cause I’m handcuffed in the shower–

                                     all out soap and water

–so, wait–

(a) Bird in (a) space 19(23)

I am the last of the voyeurs

             Ironically, I see that now

The birds and the bees and the beer           in me

      are like an awakening dead language

The encyclopaedia overshadows         the Latin teacher            in me

                     Because the phone rings from up top the stack

                            The cupboard onto where once I balanced the books

And those files hang, not in order, but for the chaos of the classroom

And the sublime and the sincere who dare enter and stay

A Career at This Point in Time Would be Criminal (not 1 but 2)

(In Defense of the Grand Deux)

Curiously blue

         She’s maybe my career

               But every inch of her is measurable

My life is on the lam

        And I’m hamster wheelin’ in a system

                                    Based on failures

My god, what a job

           But she’s my career

                              Criminal or not

 And I’ll rally round

             Pick up her scripts and tell her

A good education’s the only way

Shameless Self- Promotion

            Mark has a cock that’s loaded

A loaded gun half cocked

        Ill to the street

Sick in the bones

He thinks he’s a gangster

                      But its pure shameless self-promotion

The only way he could get out of his hospital bed

                 Was by rolling over

On the ‘Fat Dawg’

           Marking with a tag

                              And boning up on where he’d be next