Lemons

I never eat them,
I just skit them across pavements
with the side of my feet.
I've got salt in the crook of my thumb

to lick and twist lips at and spute.
My thumb it has flour paste under the nail
like grout, I pick it out with my teeth
and spute it after the lemons.

On my head
I wear my heart-hat
like any of my other hats,
people are polite, "is that new?"

Themed radio takes too long to search and focus,
my legs begin to ache with flu
and the bed I will crawl to is empty and sour;
I bite the pithed lemon.

Limes

I've been on the other side of nihilism,
Found there was nothing there,
But I was in the middle of the earthquake, sweetie,
When I seen it on the telly;

Open-hearted's really nothing,
No more than asteroids or a sun,
Broken-hearted's really nothing
Outside of the mind;

God could be a Cup a Soup,
Nutritionally they're similar,
My fingers, though they're merely there,
Unzip your jeans quite freely;

I chop my limes up sweetly,
I've got sugar on my blade,
I hack at them in a frenzy
And I may not even eat them.

What isn't happening in here?

"Nothing, I suppose."
"You mean...?"
"Yes."
"You mean...?"
"Yes."
"Do you...?"
"Yes."
"...mean...?"
"Yes."
"...mean...?"
"Everything in its infinite purposelessness."
"Oh."

What is happening out there?

"Everything, I suppose."
"It looks like a child beating its mother."
"That would explain the noise."
"Its really going for it."
"How old is it."
"About this high."
"How old."
"40 months."
"What."
"40 months, about.
"About."
"W h a t."
"Leave that window alone."

No-One's Reborn In The Spring (A Gin Song)

Finding myself without poetry, prose or anything else of worth written in the past several months, I'm drawn back to something I wrote in July, when, to my credit, I knew it; it followed a joyously positive night, and a morning where I tried vainly to hang on to that particular exuberance;

I'm really dead
But my body forgot
And my mind is
Six feet under your boots
And waiting and
Impassive.

(Wishful thinking, cunt)


Yes, so it transpired during my dissociative fantasies, before the grand epiphany, the realisation that I really am connected to this skinny corpse, and I'm no happier about it now, having considered it, than I was back in the old days, however long ago it might have been, the last time I felt connected to my body. I hope it either passes or I find a new body. A new mind would suffice, I suppose.

Please do look out for my sober, or at least non-gin drunk de facto denial of this shite. Truth be told, it was written by the fourteen year old, smooth-skinned, slack-sphinctered boywhore down the street. I really ought to have credited him; fuck it; he's hardly in a position to sue.