Bang Bang

Tom, Dick and Harry,
BFF, for real, for sure.
See them run in the backyard,
young and carefree
and oh so innocent.
Laughing, screaming,
shouting and oh so rarely crying.
Bang bang! You’re dead!
No, you’re dead! I shot first!
bang bang,
what fun they’re having, those little
cowboys and Indians,
those cops and robbers
‘Bang,’ I said.
Ok, I’m dead.

Tom, Dick and Harry,
growing up, growing pains
growing gains, many strains
but friends forever
nothing comes between them
Look at my new toy!
It’s so shiny!
Here, you can borrow it.
What’s mine is yours.
You’re the best!
They're the best.
Carefree and happy.
Kids, simply.

Tom, Dick and Harry
still together after all these years
Same schools, same friends
same everything.
Then, in comes Mary
sweet, innocent, and smelling of
morning dew.
Tom falls for her,
but so do Dick and Harry
I saw her first,
No, I saw her first.
You can’t have her.
She’s mine.
What are you gonna do about it?

Bang bang through the school.
He was so normal,
He was loved and intelligent
What compelled him to do such a thing?
We are deeply shocked
We are painfully saddened
I blame the music
I blame the TV
I blame the parents
I blame someone.
Anyone but me.

bang bang

why did you do it?

bang bang

are you happy now?

bang bang

were you ever?

bang bang

we should have seen it coming.

Yes,
but why didn’t we?

(Written in April 1999)

Last Night

Last night I sold my soul to the world
and as the cold eye was staring at my flaws
my thoughts were flushed out
and my future was etched in copper

last night the world saw the real me
the one I had hidden for all those years
A me no one but me knew it could be me,
A me I will never again be

Last night it all came unravelling
the scarlett of my shame
and the anger of my being
Nothing will ever be the same

And I danced and I cried
and I laughed and I drank
But I can't help but wonder:
who can understand?

Last week my world came crashing down
and as my head hit the boards
my dreams came tumbling out,
colliding with the judging stares.

Last week, reality came knocking and
all the nightmares were given birth
to a future I never wanted to be,
A future I want to again never be

But I did dance and how I did cry
But didn't I laugh? I did drink
And I can't help but wonder:
Can I understand any of it?

Tomorrow the world will know
and as you stare at my emptiness
your thoughts will run wild
and my future will be yours

Tomorrow I will be me,
for the first time,
for ever.
Tomorrow you will see me
and nothing,
no nothing,
will ever
be
the same.

Shine

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The Garden

Walking through this dying garden,

I can’t help but wonder how I ended up here.

Not so long ago, it was spring,

And then it was happiness,

I think.

I feel the mud on my bare feet,

Blades of grass between my toes

And bugs, many bugs,

So many of them,

Crawling everywhere.

The moon was just out,

But clouds took her hostage

And I cannot pay the ransom,

Good-bye moon, good-bye light,

I’ll pretend to enjoy my darkness bath

And I will laugh out loud to scare away

The spirits roaming in this here place.

If I wait long enough,

Maybe the sun will come out,

But maybe it won’t and then it will

All be the same, day in and day out,

Nigh after night,

The same howls and the same tears

Falling down my cheeks and feeding

The dying plants by my feet.

Soon, I will join them,

The dying and the in-pain,

The miserable and the lost.

But first, I need to keep walking

Through this muddy garden full of hell.

London's Commute

There was a cunt in the tube who bumped into me, so I punched him until my knuckles turned his nose into scarlet mashed potatoes. And when I got to work my boss told me -with one of those smiles that would make a child molester sitting behind a cheerlader blush- he told me: ‘Oh, so sorry, but you’re gonna have to do some overtime this weekend. So sorry. You know how it is, yeah?’ Yeah, I bloody well know how it bloody is and I right showed him by kneeing him in the groin so hard I heard a cracking sound, like peanut shells getting cracked in an old drunkard’s hands.

Then I break for lunch and I queue up for ten minutes because some fat cunt in front of me doesn’t know if he wants extra cheese or not and I’m pinching my thighs through my pockets, wishing I had a fucking Uzi so I could mow down these cunts and do the world a favour, because you’ve gotta give credit to the Israeli: they know how to make weapons to kill lots of people quickly and efficiently. So then it’s my turn and I ask for a tuna sandwich, but they’re all out of tuna so the overweight slag behind the counter, who’s obviously over-compensating for looking like a dog’s fanny by smiling her yellow-toothed grin at me, asks me if I’d like a BLT instead and I feel my brains leakin’ out of my nose because what the fucking fuck, you bleeping cunt? How is a BLT even remotely like tuna? So I grab a plastic fork and shove it into her neck and the satisfying warm red geyser truly makes my day, like no wank’s ever made it before.

Then it’s back to work and Kathy from accounting keeps rambling on about some kinda form I gotta sign before some time in the near future and my ears bleed pus and I just scream like a Banshee and grab her head between my hands and, like some demented Asian hard cunt in a demented Asian flick, I squeeze her skull with all my might and I feel it cave in under my palms and I sceam a scream of satisfaction, because, frankly, my underpants feel a bit moister than they should feel -not that I’m complaining, mind you- and her eyes pop out and her tongue sticks out and her brains splatter my second-hand Saville Row suit and why the fuck not? I well fucking deserve it, don’t I?

Then I go for a pint all on my lonesome, as per usual, because fuck my mates and their mates and all the mates in the motherfucking world fucking their motherfucking mates. Anyway, I order a pint of lager and light a fag and some posh bent cunt tells me I can’t be smokin’ in here and I don’t even flinch, I smash my glass on his head and, somehow, a shard finds its way in his jugular and there’s some more warm arterial spray showering yours truly and oh, well. It beats a fucking Guiness, at the end of the day.

I’m such a fucking hard cunt. Yeah.

Yeah.

And my imagination is worth a fucking billion pounds, as I stare at my shoes that need shinin’ while some skinhead wankers ramble on in the tube, and I smile at my boss and show him my pearly whites and go: ‘Yes, of course Mr. Parker, sir!’ and skamper off to my desk to type some report. And who cares if I don’t have tuna, as long as I’m fed. I mean, it’s not their fault if they’re out of tuna. Bacon and lettuce will be just fine. Hold the tomatoes, though, please. Oh, you can’t? Well, haha: That’s ok. I’ll just take them out myself, no worries. My pleasure, really. And, oh, sorry Mary, I thought I’d signed that report yesterday, but if you say I haven’t, then obviously you must be right because, obviously, I am never right and so I’ll be happy to sign my name next to the signature I clearly signed yesterday. Haha. What’s the point of arguing anyway?

Don’t mind me. I’ll just go on home and feed my cat and watch the Inbetweeners and empty a bottle of cheap red, then I’ll probably have a wank thinking about Will’s mum and turn in. And I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.
As always.

Butterfly

Huh. So it’s all over. I’m tempted to add: ‘now, baby blue.’ But I won’t, because I know this reference will be wasted on most of you fucks out there, so I’ll just leave it at that.

Yeah.

Except: no.

I can’t. It’s all over. And that’s weird and normal at the same time. Normal, because I’ve been here many times, I mean I got my ‘dumpee member card’ and I’m one stamp away from a small diet soda, so I can’t help but feel kinda excited about it all.

But, also: weird because I thought this was gonna be it, she seemed to be the one, you know? We laughed and talked and listened to the same music and played the same computer games and we could totally nerd out while sipping good booze and we could also get real and deep, while sipping good booze. We’d watch films while sipping good booze, too. And sometimes we would just sip good booze, for the pleasure of it.

I used to call her ‘My little butterfly.’

Yeah, well… you know what? Butterflies are bugs and bugs are gross and should be anihilated like a bunch of Viet-Cong farmers doing their daily shopping in Ho Chi Minh Ville in 1967. Butterflies look beautiful and majestic from afar, but up close, they’re buggy six-legged freaks. Don’t get me wrong: a six-legged woman sounds pretty much like the perfect woman to me, but the bug part? I don’t think so. Dark and scaly and full of pus. And fucking six legs.

I shoulda stomped on her before she did the same to my heart. Don’t go all ‘awww’ on me, or I’ll fucking spit my drink in your face. I’m not feeling sorry for myself, I’m just stating a fact. The cunt was a fucking cunt and I fucking fell for her like a fucking cunt.

That ain’t poetry. It’s just honesty. So sue me. Yeah, do that. Walk up to me with your beautiful angel wings and flutter around and make me admire you and once I try to catch you, fuck off with a fucking moth. But please be aware that if I ever catch you again, I’ll shove a pin through your heart and stab you to my fucking wall, for all my friends to see: Ex-girlfriendus Cuntus, beautiful, deadly, and oh so pointless.

Spewing

So, hey: how about that? Here we are in one of them fancy joints they opened up near from where I’ve been livin’! Used to be, not that far back, if a guy wanted a drink, he could just stumble out of his home in his boxers and his bathrobe and stagger to the nearest liquor store and buy a fifth of whatever for under ten bucks.

But nowadays, it’s all fancy bullshit. The liquor stores have been bought up by the faggoty coffee chains and the wooden Injuns frontin’ the cigar places have been replaced by real-life Mexican sportin’ signs, trying to convince you that your phone operator’s fucking you, so you should sign up with them because, when they fuck you, they have the decency to lube you up first. That’s progress for you.

Fuckin’ hell. I mean, really: Fuckin’ hell pigsty-cuntin’ shit-hole of a goddamn what-the-fuck!

Now I gotta actually get in my car and drive to get to where I wanna get boozed up. Yeah, ain’t that super smart? Oh, don’t get wrong: I did try to go to that fancy-ass supermarket bullshit they opened up. The booze section was all the way in the back, as if it was some kinda kiddie-porn stash. And the looks I got just ‘cause I hadn’t shaved or showered or put pants on, really: what the fuck?! Chill out lady: I ain’t gonna rape you, I just wanna buy this here bottle of fire water and get on home and drink myself into a week-long slumber and I sure hope to Christ I won’t run into you in my dreams. But no: I’m the freak.

Yeah.

They’re wearing speedos and keep ‘running while standing still’ at the cash register, waiting to pay for their juiced-up water bullshit, pretending not to look at the tabloids and wondering how satisfying their bowel movements are gonna be and who’s gonna fuck them this comin’ weekend and if no-one wants to fuck them, then what’s the point of it all? Maybe it’s ‘cause they’re too fat, so they should run some more. Waking up at 6am is too late, if they woke up at 5, they’d have a whole extra hour. So they figure: ‘Fuck that, I’ll drink more Gatorade and do away with sleep altogether and run all night long and then I’ll be skinny and hot and someone I wanna fuck will wanna fuck me back and then it’ll be great, we’ll fuck and run together and then we’ll die, skinny and happy.’

Yeah, I’m the freak ‘cause I enjoy a burger with fries and a cold one on a hot day. Or on a cold day. Or a tepid one. Okay: fuck it: I’ll admit it: I always like a cold one. But still: I’m the freak ‘cause I don’t run every day. Sure, I don’t get laid a whole lot, but who needs it? Once I’m drunk enough, I sleep. When I don’t sleep, I take a great big steamy runny dump or I go buy more booze. Sometimes both. I have no time for sex, or porn or anything like that. My job is hating the people I see. And it’s a full time job, lemme tell you.

Fuck, I got side-tracked, here. I was saying… so we’re at a fancy bar, not a place where cockroaches crawl across the counter, not a place where a 60-year-old toothless whore turns tricks in the men’s room. A real classy joint. A place that tries to be authentic. They put fresh nut shells on the floor every morning. They got Mexicans shelling the fuck out of peanuts all night long just for that. That’s class, baby. If you ask for another round, they actually give you a new glass and they call you ‘sir.’

‘Sir.’

Ain’t that a kick in the fucking balls? Used to be, barkeeps called me by name and I had a tab runnin’. These days, if you wanna pay cash they look at you as if you’d just sucked their one-week-old puppies' assholes with a plastic straw. If you ain’t got a platinum card or a black card or a fucking diamond-encrusted card, then you’re shit.

Now, the places I used to go to? They’re malls. Or fast food or coffee joints, fucking outlets or goddamn mother-cunt yoga places.

Used to be, women got pregnant, then they got big and they resented it, but they squeezed out the brat and went right back to smoking and drinking. If they’d ever stopped in the first place. Now, big moms pat their bellies as if they’re God-like just because a dick squirted into them. They’re proud and touchy and doing yoga and buying bullshit things for their bullshit fetus which will become a bullshit human doing bullshit things in a bullshit world.

Yeah. It’s all bullshit. You don’t agree with me? You don’t? Lemme guess… You’re a college grad, yeah? Yeah, I thought so. You’re… engaged, you got one of them electrical car whatchamacallits, you vote democrat and because one of your co-worker’s black you think you’re not a racist, right? You probably even know a gay couple, so you think you’re so fucking cool. And I bet you go to Jamba Juice once a week and think that carbs and trans-fat and Arabs are Satan’s gift to humanity, right?

Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving. Don’t worry, I’m leaving. And you’re footing my ten-dollar beer, just because you’re an asshole. Yeah, yeah, be offended. But you know what? In a few years, God-willing, I’ll be dead and buried or rotting on the side of a road somewhere or other. Yeah. But, hell: you’ll still be here and you’ll still be a pussy. And I pity you, I do. With whatever’s left of my soul, I pity you and your generation.

Fine, I’m leaving, don’t touch me! Lemme get back to my car and drive home. And if you’re lucky I’ll run over someone you know.  And if you’re not, you’ll be who you are now until the day you die.