My mother tells me that we will
Never be friends.
Today I believe it.
Love poisons our blood
And familiarity kills
conversation.
I look at her emotionlessly
So to block her influence.
She is an expert at exploiting
The slightest ****** waver,
Or any emotional advantage she
Could have over you.
She will make you wrong
Through verbal martyrdom.

I won't let her speak to me
Like she does the weak who
Are too polite or too submissive
To fight her.
Her style of English is cutting,
Self-righteous, honest, rude, unscientific, emotional, aggressive and often violent.
Never elegant.
She thinks the world is a battleground.
She is often incompetent and on top of that headstrong - to compensate for her ignorance.
She is sometimes funny, and sometimes kind.
She tells me we will never be friends.
Today I believe it.
I will not confide. I will not smile.
I will not joke, I will not listen.
I will help but I won't speak.
I will keep the talk small.
We will never be friends.

I'm just a point of view,
don't take it personal.
I'll point you towards the view
and we'll find a moment...

Now it's just me and you;
hold on to something new.

I'm not the kind of guy
who enjoys hurting you;
but I know you like it when
I make you feel small.

When you stand up
you're tall;
I'll help you enjoy
the fall.

I'm all for the highs and lows;
they'll keep your figure.
I'll stay through the lows
and make them quicker.

Don't think you've cheated life;
watch how the night's alive.

Why sell yourself to me?
I'll buy you for free.

Woke up wide eyed and broken into
like the conservatory door of nanny's bungalow.

He looked like an elephant seal,
Shrivelled **** like a decapitated eel.

I thought myself a
Killer *** bucket
As I smashed glass
into a sleeping skull
and eye socket.

Blood balled from the
Cyclopsed Weinstein;
I wailed at the crotch like a
CK fantasy.

An hour later,
Sounds from the crater,
Red bubbles from black
***** looked post-natal.

Dead man:
Kissed by sweet inequity.

****** by a ****:
That's my type of equity.

We were awake before the sun

chosen by a maelstrom

cold sweat soaked skin

I hear the ringing

of darkness

singing

forces

bringing

me
closer
to
it.

I see the boy I used to be
not in a dream but on the street.

He walks alone without a beat
or rhythm in his feet.

He kicks a stone.
His mobile phone is glued to his cheek.

He seems the very model of
a troubled teenage tearaway.

Nothings lead to nothings, lead
to nothing honest he can say.

He knows what others think he is
and he’s terrified.

He thinks enough to know that he was
born lost.

He doesn’t toil his wits,
unwind a coil of ignorance
or dabble in some dissonance.

He speaks with recycled bits
of other people’s words.

He likes to quote celebrities
who like to speak in major keys,
who comfort him like family
and apathy.

He knows their faces
better than his own.

He remains featureless
but will cast the first stone.

Use less the thoughts
which others give.
Use less the shiv
you stab yourself with.
Use less anothers *****
mirror.
Use less that man:
the lady killer.

Use more the third-person
pronoun.
Use more Arethra
'n' motown.
Use more the problem solving
thoughts.
Use more a racket
On tennis courts.

Spine clamped,
blurred sight,
and choked.

Brow furrowed
like an indignant dog,
or a suicidal brigadier ****
commanding failure.

Paralyzed in those
Past and future
tsunamis of shame.