Yes, I Went There…

Posted in poetry with tags , , on December 17, 2017 by malartart


Went back


The door was


Yet my mind was





Pantomimic Pregnancy

Posted in poetry with tags , , on December 14, 2017 by malartart

If this is not a joke, then I can’t take you seriously

You’re dressed like Harlequin and dance deliriously

On the right track— not looking back

Last trick didn’t work— try a different tack







Wondering how this will play out for

The Jester, brand new to this old game


With my precious swaddled meat

Now an echo in The Mummy’s Tomb

New real estate in the Mother’s womb

Relish the deep moments gone

Garnish them with dead roses

So much smaller than quiet


My beautiful bundle of silence

Scapegoat in a Barbed Wire Scarf

Posted in poetry with tags , , on December 7, 2017 by malartart


Length of a relationship/ /Conveys something measurable

Flute tips the                                scale tune (is resonant)

“how much?”                               is a transaction, statistics & residues

                       “straight round the back…”

   Scrapin’ together smoke and collecting it in an inescapable joke

                  Apply the cream liberally

                                Complete the application

                         Send in the form

 Don’t lick the envelope (all around, all around)

          “And I’ll be with you in just a sec…”

sec                              sec                           sec

sex                                  is                           complex


Faerie Do, Faerie Don’t

Posted in poetry with tags , , on December 7, 2017 by malartart

My madness will run riot and have its day

Dance through the fields, climb the trees

Ask you to say his name backwards

And then forward again

One Two Three times if needs be

Because if life is a fairy tale and my conscience is the moral

Then all past is tense and tomorrow is melancholic

You are the Evil Queen with whose castle I hope to live in

Even though you’re the gin on the lips of this lapsed alcoholic

And I haven’t the heart to tell you that my liver is ready to leave

It’s packed up, shut down, irreversibly unsound, damaged beyond belief

I sip, you slip & slide, your hips make me proud, I’m drowning in a heavenly mudslide

Chocolate, vodka, and one big craving to be out of breathe with you

Then softly softly you hum a crazy little tune

And your good side silhouettes against the moon

It smiles with intensity at my libidinous insanity

Suddenly shaking turns to shudders and DTs to determination

And all shapes straighten out, broken lines realign

Mountains are mole hills

Magic is overrated

Mystery is mundane

Myths are lies

All victories are pyrrhic

And all the faeries have died

For you are as human as it gets

And I am





oh god, so sober

And all I can do is apologise

I Bring You To This Place

Posted in poetry with tags , , on December 4, 2017 by malartart

I crossed the room and never went back

That’s half the story of what this is about

Now settle down, listen with intent

No time for anger, no time to vent

Silent and still you complain I’m late

As I bring you to this place

We cross the room together

We cross another job off the list

Feet over carpet like wings through sky

Clouds dusty, so cough it straight up

Other side of the room will be enough

As I bring you to this place

Fire without smoke

Coal without fire

Tongues without lies

Smoke without ire

Words no longer wag

But hands speak volumes

I hold the dagger aloft

As I’ve brought you to this place

I hold resentments hard

And below the ribcage is soft

As I send you to the other place

Music Moves Me

Posted in poetry with tags , , on November 28, 2017 by malartart

Police tell them no shelter in sight

But only music can move me

City locks up any kind of light

But only music can move me

Gardens are private, nature is free

But only music can move me

Notes resonate as pheromones attract

But only music can move me

Dog claws on poor pussy fur

But only music can move me

Cogs have forgotten how to whirr

Clockworks don’t run like clockwork anymore

Clockmakers paradoxically know not the time

The pit-diggers have run out of lime

Traffic wardens have 90 days to pay their fines

Composers put down batons because they’ve got wise

Singers sing songs that finish with the words ‘Goodbye’

And yet: music still moves me, moves me, moves me

Moves things along

Bread & Circus

Posted in poetry with tags , , on November 26, 2017 by malartart

An aerial bends to their will

Atomised we chew on

The TV Guide to defend our


Holy solo

Hollow roll

Empty Twinkie

No jam

No cream

No soul

‘Literally’ literally used wrong

                  I literally can’t go on

Over praying

Over paying

Over stating from prey to PR

And their HR like the smoking Pistols

Are all out to lunch for the rest of the day

With incomings on hold and if I can be so

Bold the outcomings are the pills in my

Mail box I can’t reach because I’m strapped

Up force fed CNN where they preach for fox-hunting

As Fox tell us the enemy is another Gunga Din

hey Hey HEY!! solidarity are you with me?

McMovies seen through dead

Soulless eyes, I’m putting on weight

I can’t carry unless I have a Two by Four

Choose between Dolce & Gabba Gabba


                                 Pas d’estime de soi

Which is gonna be b’yatch—self-loathing or cynicism or despair

Or are you goin’ for a Two for One pricing and make a killing?

Sell them back to yourself on the black market behind your own back at midnight

You’ll get away with it let the fingers do all the work knuckle down then palm them off

With red rouge on hands and green nails down the board of directors and tell them they need an injection of clean air oxygen that’s been taken care of by nature au naturale and the animals ready to be extinct for man is moving in and he’s got the house’s deeds

I know not of who I am I know not who you think you are I know not where I’m going or where I’ve been but I’ve been looking at brochures talking to ghost-past tourists to whether a vacation in the deep of the Aohkigahari Forest would clean out my mind or a hop skip and a jump at the Golden Gate Bridge would lift the one spirit I have left stolen from a lost and found in the King George pub on Talbot Road somewhere in the late eighties

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