Acid chair - You, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like

You, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like sprawled on that revolting old foam chair bed; itching. You looked at the scars on my face - still red, not faded as they are now - and talked through me... no shag for me then.

You said your man wanted me to get him some acid - I had none of that... and he was off to Chile - Lord of the Mansion, old money with new on top, one of Thatcher's children - dealing guns for Britain to Pinochet to kill poets no doubt; not that your man was bothered with that, the market would sort out the morality of the situation. Though I quite wished I'd had some acid - to send him on his way with a very bad trip.

Damp night, cold room, not enough entertainment to cover the smell of must and the grey dripping of uncomfortable time that seeped through the ceiling... and I wondered just how far your legs did go up above the bottom of your top - there must be, I wondered as I drifted in and out of sleep, some eventual point of convergence, physics (not to mention biology) surely demanded it.

A song to praise the death of many a poet - and the friend of Margaret, daughter of a grocer.

The Past - legs-up-to-there and posh-as-you-like

The Past was there - on the bench, back the way we had come....

It was sitting there - still somehow calling us as we sat and ate sandwiches and shared shit cheap diesel wine from the bottle.

So, as we walked back that way we spoke about how we might help the Past spend its time (so much time and not a nice place to spend it) - perhaps buy it a sandwich too (it certainly wasn't getting any of our wine).

So you, all legs-up-to-here and posh-as-you-like walked up to the Past and went to offer it a snack - but you recoiled - stepped back - revolted - that Past, on that bench, just around the corner from Smithfield had its cock out, wanking at the passers by.

Iron Hat

One night while I was walking all out and alone a man in an iron hat came along and told me, all in song, about his life - well so far, at least. 

It was a long tail, twisted and hairy, and tufted at the end and, as it swished from side to side, odd odes and never-heards came listening bound.

Some words were puddles, big ones, with ducks. Some words were horses, they thundered on the hard ground. And as he sang he tapped out a salsa beat with a bleach clean ulna bone, from a long departed monkey friend, upon the brim of his iron hat.

And i know you are wondering how the story goes, id tell you nothing more for tupence and not a penny less. For more id tell you twice as much - settle down upon this bench. Wait, feel the rain falling in your hair, shut eyes, still your mind. Here's nothing, think nothing of it, its a gift from me to you

Dance yourself dizzy

His own words silenced - cornered. 

Torn apart with fear he grabbed his nearest weapon. 

Brandishing his wife, he let her rip with her wit.

4 floors below, knee deep in lurid dancing, a brace of strutters bopped - stopped.

Caught in time, no rhythm just rhyme.

Paused to hear the cries from above.

The witty retorts, savage words cutting. 

There, on the dance floor, fingers in their ears they danced themselves dizzy and banned all thoughts of men and wives and voices.

"I have a horrid feeling that, like the concept of enlightenment, few people will ever truly know life outside my arse."