The Impresario Barry Smalls

Barry Smalls had smelly balls

They stank like rancid guff

He scrubbed and scrubbed with full strength bleach

Until his cock fell off

Undeterred he paused a mo

Then said pragmatically

I'll fry that up with onion rings

And have it for my tea

Treatment Agreement

Hey! Professional listener!

Watch as I puke up scabs and scraps!

Just nod or grimace when I stop.

Trained to recognise which to enact.

Wonky steps, crude dark descent:

the pressure forces fluid from my brain.

Drill my skull before it explodes;

Oh hapful procedure! Oh give me release!

Despite me, to spite me, to kiss me, to bite me:

A feast of my metallic gristly blood abounds!

Sundry nothings from another festering taproot.

I’m such a sad, broken, abandoned bandicoot.

Surrogate mothering is where it’s at!

Tell me I’m your only one!

The hands of the clock clap me back upstairs.

I’m lost in the universe far from where we began.

Thank you for being kind.

See you next week

for more trepanation

and flirting and grief.

Loss Did Not Make Me A Believer

Loss did not make me a believer:

I wanted so much to share this 'truth':

that there was, there is, another place

where You still are and We one day will be.

And that is the case, but for different reasons

than I ever expected. Nobody knew

or knows how to react, in the face

of the rippling, crippling crime of grief:

and, sure, it didn’t make me a believer

but it whipped away the certainty, the glue

I stuck to the concept to stick it away

somewhere it couldn’t really confront me;

because I am here, the march of the seasons

continues, and life still moves on through

whichever dull drudge or exciting embrace

comes along. And I have started to see

that whether someone is or is not a believer

is intensely unimportant. And, in due

respect to those who find motes of grace

around the confusion and devastation, I leave

my dogma behind. We walk the same river

and it flows around us, and silt accrues

and traps us if we stop. So some pray

for comfort. I am envious. They seem free.

Stop the Boats

This country must crack down on those damned bastard boats:

(Not the ones full of desperate refugees. Just the ones bringing coke)