ka-ching

the old cash register say's

the sound of coins

rattle in their tray

weathered notes

old and fray

lay waiting to

be used and abused

ka-ching

money rattler

shaker and move

become rich and

slide right into the groove,

fingerless palms

temptations

where dreams become greed,

an addiction like nicotine

hard to control

weak at the knees

friends you'll have;

no name ( Read more... )

2am Tuesday fornication

good-bye 'stormy Monday' blues

can ya hear her?

sassy Hoilday

her songs

filtering through this

winter mist

of open windows;

let the neighbours

hear us moan,

groan, jive-jizz

saturated in satanic bliss

ssssss

kinky baby-

steamy thighs

the chill

of Brando's Waterfront,

wasn't he a boxer?

I'm your boxer, baby

sweet sensations

damn, I luv Holiday's ( Read more... )

the trees are bare

wet leaves

line the streets

naked trees

the birds ignore

brown vein leaves

washed up

debres across

a colden shore

reminates of life

dried skin that flakes

bare trees

shivereen

unlike the proud one

outside my window

an evergreen.

this ain't no poem

about a rapper

doin' a poem

ho' niggar slapper

Dre

Dray

Dred

limo fulla o' bitches

eatin' pussy

to earn their keep

in his bed

not with him

but with his missus

and her mrs

niggar in contempt

see my clothes witch

all made from hemp

sewn by a real bitch

named Dietrich

who hates Hitler

but looks hot

in nazi attire

doin' da whippin'

demandin' the lickin'

at ( Read more... )

its always dark

dash of grey

streak of red

a single violin

screams

fingers blood-let

upon catgut strings

deafen ears

eyes water upon

naked flesh

fuck suck rim

walls slowly

crumple inward

trapped in my mind

laughter

steel in flesh

bones snap

the violinist ceases

I awake next to her corpse

beautiful humble siren

I awake alone bathed in sweat

her sweat

I awake.

beautiful Sydney sun

be kind

give me thought

inspiration

passion

on my un perfect being

un perfect mind

thou pen is full

ready to touch the virgin paper

that spread comfortable upon my desk

ready to be inked

oh sweet Tuesday

the best day of the week.

the coffee's warm

this early morn

not a sound

a whimper

from the homeless hound

nor a distant siren

even in the night

I see shadows

from the dimmed street light

a smoked yellow hew

that lingers above the tar

yet

my gothic angel

alseep

lost in her dreams

in the arms of her mistress

my quilt

scented with their sex

this morning night

so quiet.

the shadow of the weeper

brings cold chills,

foul upon my mouth

body numb,

I lean against air

diluted eyes

transfixed

on scythe on stone,

he speaks

voice tender,

full of wisdom

he soothes me

I awake

for now.

scars of the dead tree

bent upwards its branches

reach towards the unknown

ashen bark

gaunt knots

hollow trunk

scent of death

in the night

an outstretched arm

from the grave

desperate for redemention.

ignore the ramblings

of a layabout

a lonsome soul

darken by hardship

sacrifices

and control

he whom volenteered for war

cameback

insulted by the crowds

telling him he was a hero

these people that weren't even there

only his family;

wife and three children cared,

but the months of nightmares

it took its toll

the booze, the beatings

his wife endured; crazed hew and ( Read more... )