Whiskey water stars


There is a secret up there
With all those stars
She is an arms reach away
As close as they are
I feel her hair between my fingers
I pull my sleeping bag tighter
And wish that I had more whiskey to keep me warm

Or just her.


Confessions 1.3


Forgive me Father for I have sinned

I had to sit around home today

Waiting for a plumber to come and un-block my kitchen sink

He finally came just before 2pm

I think the state of my apartment shocked him

I’m not a slob

But I’m not particularly tidy either

Also my Brother had just escaped from his cage

And was dry humping my taxidermied antelope 

Confessions 1.0

Forgive me Father for I have sinned

This morning on the way to work I cut off a man in traffic

I held up my hand to apologise but I doubt that he saw

Because his wheelchair had spun wildly out of control

And he only had one arm, and at the end of that he had a metal hook

Which he was then using to cling to the railing of the bridge

So I guess from there his day could only get better


I think that Donald Trump’s wig
would make a good Presidential candidate.

It goes whichever way the wind blows.
There is a certain kind of honesty in that.

I am not sure if Hillary Clinton’s wig would be any good.

That fucker doesn’t care what the wind is up to.

Jeb Bush’s wig is just fine.

But his family have a penchant for bombing brown people.

Mea culpa, mea drunk.

There were five of us smoking cigarettes outside in the late May sun.
I’d only been working at the pub for three weeks but the punters were friendly and I was never short of company on my day off.
We were five white bellies on the park benches that dotted the beer garden.
Five white bellies plumped by too much beer and armchair sports.
I sipped at my pint and watched the planes above us, orbiting Heathrow airport.
The other guys told dirty jokes, I laughed, laughing even harder at the jokes that I didn’t like or understand.
Out of nowhere a car pulled up to a screeching halt, almost mounting the curb and clattering into us.
Behind the wheel was a woman, blonde, red lips, dark glasses….glorious.
There was a vacuum in the air above the table as we all sucked in those white bellies.
She leant heavily on the car’s horn and raised her middle finger at us.
Then she was gone.
She sped away leaving smoke hanging in the air and rubber melting on the road.
“What the fuck was her problem?” One of us asked.
“Rude bitch.” Said another.
We echoed macho abuse and all had a good chuckle.
“That was my wife.” Said the man sitting opposite me.
Nobody spoke. The smiles were all gone.
I distracted myself by reading the health warnings on my cigarette packet.
“Geez sorry mate.”
“I meant nothin by it you know.”
“Apologies pal.”
I too mumbled my mea culpa’s.
“S’alright lads.” He said, giving us all the finger.
“I think she meant to say ‘be home by one’.”

Not being around when all this goes on.

They were going yesterday and they are gone today.

I only have memories were I used to have three beating hearts.

Bukowski taught me that there is nothing worse than too late,

But I believe that the only thing worse than too late is too long.

Too long since hello.

Too long since I miss you.

Too long since I love you.

Time to wash the sheets, vacuum the floor, take out the garbage.

It’ll be like they weren’t even here.

Even the dog is upset, he hasn’t chewed my shoes since they left.

Things are terribly wrong.