Category: Uncategorized

summer storms, sober times, the cool change in me has swept through. All the days of drinking stretched out like a relentless desert and all the people who deserted me. It hurt me. I flirted with danger, I went home with strangers. Toxic intoxication. Alcoholic fathers and absent mothers. Drinking the days away, pawning the devil’s pinky ring. But this Christmas I unwrap the present moment and all of me is there.

I won’t get frightened by the Madonna under the bed, the stiletto in the back, flashback to a childhood memory, the ballerina I busted on my sister’s jewellery box.

The toothpick crowds of new York in the pinstripe hours are slim pickings for a poet. I’m either at the bottom of the Hudson river in concrete boots or reflected in a mirrored ceiling after love has it’s way with me.

I’m a Madonna magazine writer who writes for God, and boy toy socks in the Madonna shop is just the realisation that she’s been playing with me. Madonna prays before every show but it feels like the glow of hypocrisy, Dorothy.

a schooner in the corner hotel, sooner or later my luck will change. Upstairs in a windows seat, the heat rises from the street. Well it was always about the poetry and never the sobriety. I see green men walking across the street. It’s lunch hour in the rush hour and I fall in lust with barmaids and jazz singers. I don’t believe in love, I’m a hopeless romantic on board the titanic, but I believe in electric guitar riffs and sniffs in the bathroom.

there’s a black man walking with his two black Labradors, he’s not blind but blindness can be a blessing. White kids on their bicycles on the way to highschool, they’re still young and youth can be a blessing, messy as it is. The neighbourhood, last night’s tail of a blazing comet, I walk the trail of the honest, workers with their loyal dog in the back of a truck, trams on a two track recorder. The rooming house poet doesn’t rock the boat.

Madonna is a complicated woman but she’s a shapeshifter. She calls a good man an oxymoron which surprises me since she believes in jesus and reads James Baldwin.

she leaves me badmouthing the city with my beatbox, she leaves me begging for my big break, that’s exactly what Madonna does. Maybe I’ll get some finger lickng chicken from the colonel and some more beers. Upon Madonna’s death a voice will be heard saying, well she made a lot of tacky choices in her life, but she gave us all a sticky kind of love.

I’ll do it all by myself because I’m an underground artist, without the help of little miss popularity, aka Madonna. I forget all about algorithms on the internet, I come from the days of ribbons on my typewriter.

A magpie sells me some summer shade, I sit with him for some minutes and the children play. Everytime I write I create world’s. I’m as much of a failure as walt Whitman.

music and art effects us all down to our charkras. My bed is a kind of life raft, but not before I soak in a hot bath and smoke a joint, my androgynous body, my erogenous zones, my knowledge of good and evil. There’s a girl outside my window, all catholic conscience and Italian leather shoes, all brown hair and colour eyes. She’s as sensible as the sunrise.

sitting in the sun, life is a shining gun aimed at the young, I feel like an orphan picked up by a family of free-wheeling dolphins. If you never read my writing, you’re not being invited into my soul. Five years on hormones and some relationships didn’t survive. You’re born into your family and every rose has its thorn, but my chosen family is non binary. Dorothy returned home but the journey had changed her