featured in the poetry forum November 26, 2016  :: 0 comments

I tried it once
And it wasn’t good

It just made me sweat
And think way too much

That old scratch
I can’t itch

That pretty wife
That I miss

I mean
If all these meat markets
Are cheap flip flops and shorts
Then what’s the point of the sun?


It’s all just –
Me, me, me
Ain’t it babe?

Praise the lord

This whisky
This beer

This tiny locked room
That stinks of dead flesh

You can dip it in chili
And soak it in garlic
But it’s still just a bad photograph

This hollow temple that we bow down inside
This family of blood that we scratch on the walls
This history of bones that we soothsay for signs

No man
I tried it once
And it wasn’t good

That sun oiled snake skin
Tastes like
Rooster, pig, rat

editors note:

When the cure is worse than the disease… – mh clay


November 9, 2012  :: 0 comments

Another day
another city

filled with
more people
more buildings
more cars
more madness

all glimpsed through the windows
of this spy’s grey hungover eyes

It could be
Moscow or Rome

It doesn’t matter at all

Everywhere is the same
when the Mind is lost
in this crowded mind –

yet dead
to all of these forms –

shaped by the light
of plastic perceptions
and stained by the smog
of an impulsive desire
to understand all of these things
which can never be understood

either today
or on any other day

in this phantom city
which neither exists nor does not exist

as it passes through me and I pass through it

editors note:

It’s one thing after another for a bee in the hive; a moment of self-awareness, swallowed up in the buzz. Om. – mh clay

Dirt & Dust

August 4, 2012  :: 0 comments

How beautiful this world is,
when you stop fighting fate
and embrace the dirt and dust.

The only imperfections in it,
are these thoughts – this consciousness.

editors note:

When from ashes comes this blink of life, live so our dust makes the dirt sing. Don’t give it another thought. – mh clay

If I Go before You Do

March 7, 2012  :: 0 comments

It is getting late,
time is pressing,
of that alone I am sure.
is an empty thing –
a lake into which
Narcissus likes to gaze.

What do you do these days?
Is it the same as me?
Rewind, reduce, erase?

Sometimes, I think
I would like
to talk to you about many things.
But when I consider them more carefully,
they become but one:
time, time and time alone –
the need to grasp at that
which can not be held,
the desire to understand
that which can not be understood.

It’s absurd isn’t it?
All these questions, answers, inquiries, replies?
The wish for meaning
is nothing but a hole in the ground.

My expectations. Dash. Zero.
My hopes. Dash. None at all.
If I go
before you do,
plant radishes for me.
I will plant cabbages for you.

editors note:

Aha! A vegetable version of “nothing ventured.” If nothing is all we get, then I’ll take radishes any day. Nirvana! – mh clay

Nec Spe Nec Metu

September 16, 2011  :: 0 comments

A pariah,
a parasite,
a fugitive
with no fixed address,
money or provisions,
these blue grey eyes
topped by
a spiked blonde crop,
belong to a stranger
to everyone but trouble,
the charming villain of the piece.

In bright
midday sunlight
warming the back of my hand,
smoke twists round
my fingers’ black edges
twitching on an ashtray’s rim.

Golden shards
bounce off its cut glass
and illuminate
the right side of my face
but leave
the left side in shadows;
my arched brow’s furrows,
sinking into my sallow cheeks.

may be young
but I’m drunk as hell
and sick and tired
of listening to
happy hour philosophers
and staring at the same picture
hanging on the too-white wall.

Yeah, I see you,
you bloody fool:

sitting at the back of a bar alone,
half obscured
by the darkness that surrounds you,
eyes pointed up at a painting
lit up by beams
shining through a small window.

What the hell
are you looking at?

The shopping crowd,
jostling in the street outside
and the plastic gangsters,
part-time crooks,
wide-eyed old men,
and morning after wrecks
putting the world to rights inside.

My laughter smears
with the squares of light
across the sticky floor.

Shut up.

There is no truth, beauty or grace here.
Nothing that will outlast our tawdry days.
All your posturing is absurd.

Do you think anybody cares?

Smash the bottle. Pick up the chair.

I don’t.

Get the hell out of here
before I tear away the separation,
slash the space between us
and cut off your balls and fry them in oil.

You want a vision of paradise?

There ain’t none in this damned place.

Too proud to be humble, too strong to be tender,
it’s going down man,

Holograms are We

April 29, 2011  :: 0 comments

Laughter bellows
from my shadow
as empty panes pass through my prism
but pull in faces from far and wide
with these holograms of freedom
to stimulate the dream
that feeds the city’s dynamo.

from this inattentive current
flowing through the flux of avenues,
my eyes roll up and gaze upon
the mirror ball of dead diamond suns
around which
the black hole of our reason spins.

All these illusions;
flashing between one and zero,
are nothing but a trick of the eye
refracted by time’s rays of light
into a world which will cease to turn
when all this pointless information
slips past the event horizon
and the drone of this overcrowded sphere
is replaced by the silent symphony above.

An Inch of Jade

April 29, 2011  :: 0 comments

The blades
of the old fan groan
as they try in vain
to curtail
the curtained squat’s
seeping along
the damp filthy floor,
that the barmaid’s cleaning
with a mop that’s even dirtier.

I smile
and turn up the glow
of paper burning
between fingers;
tapping its ash
into the whir of the breeze,
which sends the flakes scuttling
across the bar’s sticky counter,
as this moment’s phantom strands
twirl around yellowed nails
and disappear into the air.

“A wise man will not value
a foot-long piece of jade,” they say,
“but he will an inch of time.”

I nod and watch it
stretch between the seconds,
before it melts in to the malt
filling my dry mouth.

The whisky’s roasted honey
balanced by a hint of oak
opens my chest as it slips down
and clears my mind
of all but the now,
in which I sit alone
sampling simple pleasures,
as the grey dusk turns to black
outside the stained and dusty window
brightening with the russet dawn too soon.

Autumn Leaves

December 25, 2010  :: 0 comments

I roll spite
and light it
with your confession
and my hungover fumes.

My mind’s smoke;
seethed by pictures
of your explicit sin,
pounds and hammers
at my sickened heart
and pours out in glares
from wide bloodshot eyes.

Your dried flower words
will not let me sleep.

in these dawn streets
waking beneath my feet,
the loneliness
of your lust and mine
blows yesterday’s
paper promises of
our plans away
and replaces Spring’s fresh hope
and Summer’s warm embrace
with the wait for Winter’s solitary chill.

Yes, desire has stripped
all love from this trunk of bones
and left it alone to sway and watch
Autumn’s tears falling with the leaves.

Hasta La Primavera

September 23, 2010  :: 0 comments

Ugly are the winter buildings covered in underwear.

Beneath, rats squeal and scurry
by the roaches which line the sewer walls
above shit filled water splashing over dams
of rotted refuse, plastic planes and broken glass.

Here, at the end of the world
is a gallery of spring painted in bright lines of blue.
Their swirls of new life snake around the rusted pipes
and ascend from the mountain tops of trash.
They draw strength from the discarded and grow in the glow of darkness.

Here, buried in bacteria is la primavera.

One day it will seize and free the city
and lead the people to the sun of summer.
Its shoots will broaden the vision of the streets
and shower gifts upon the forgotten.
Its blossom will flower in the squalid cracks
and replace our tired aesthetics with the glorious concepts of the new.

Hasta la primavera, para siempre.