In the aftermath of your party I drink ash and butts again

Lipstick kisses me
from head jobbed glass rims,
sediment gleefully swallowed
salt smilingly licked.

Never mind the lemon faced bitches
that came before.
I would have shot them down
but their ego's did it for me
They left earlier
with fine featured stick boys
and forgot if they had a cunt.

As I step over coma corpses
and rifle thru handbags
in the grey light I realise...
This style can't be bit
only heaved urgent glorious,
hands and knees
over white porcelain world
screamed hot to a shithole.

Nothing else can be done.

So I take every drop
that wasn't given
and every cut lip
ash-tounge that comes,
knowing the sun is on my side.

A poem is thicker than blood

(For R A K Mason)

Grandma used to like to fuck all the poets,
those who weren't too black
and large of gut
(even then I don't know, Hone?)
I mean, I like that really
because the more I write these words
the more the women DO come.

I don't know his first name-
remember a English teacher
mentioning him once.
Mum has read a biography
said-he threw his books
into the ocean,
stopped writing the shit at 25.

Still like Rimbaud now
but- more at twenty.
Sometimes, I want to slap his young face
-look into his old prune eyes
as he dies in whores.
let the barstards win.
Gave us one good vert wail,
left with no more wisdom
to depart
like my own runaway Dad.

There is a lost girl out here
with all these Father
phantoms to choose.
A young Mother makes the obvious,
Someone who was old, wise-
would give us all a man really can
- an honest heart, all the flaws.
She changed our names to Bukowski...
could be worse.

So I googled you man,
found a poem-
you talked of spitting scorn,
lost identity,
deathless fame
and inheriting immortality.
And there was a quote...
"poetry could and should be
a thing of the people
but at the same time profound"

So this DNA test
is neither here nor there.

You died mad without seeds
but, you have done enough
for me to call you Grandad
and you have more children
than you can understand.

Central park

Someone told me
"Pain is fuel,
But you don't need that to write,
son"

A perfect day is medication
the nation of the pharmacy
groans under my featherweight
and no catacomb's claws
or gravity of concrete
can touch me
forever
or for these hours
or whichever lasts longer.

I float with the gush of subway grills
and everything belongs to me
because I am poor.

I can't give a care about a catcher on 5th ave.
there is no cancer.
I uninvent Prozac.

100 pigs on motorbikes
can slide thru our park
like salted slugs
and home to their hiding places
and I can't give a care about slugs on Park ave.

I sit on ancient lava
I walk on newly seeded lawns
I drink shots of vodka
with a beautiful woman
and I am not cold.

In the aftermath of your party I drink ash and butts

Pupils pin small as empathy
tits falling out
crawling under yellow trains.
All these things she says
make me a woman
make me a man.
Two small people
just loving is rare
you struggle
against
each other
like
washing
machines.