by gasman2 » Sat Mar 01, 2008 2:21 am
i left my last poem on a thread about Dave's murder. i have broken my two year hiatus as the poet laureate of Phnom Penh's fractured expatriate community to write this one.
To live by my side
by the poet laureate of Phnom Penh
Take care of your abstract poems Christopher
expect my middle finger shoved up to your fanny little face,
in a secret place,
where Angels would descend.
Let me take you into the snide little past of a sniveling little boy
Who let me believe he was so panicky, he’d hide from school
having temazepam dreams of Shelly and white bleach,
He was a sun-kissed survivor in a satellite town.
The sad fact is his writers block was better than the release
His shame was better than the glory days, The Cure wasn’t one.
The drugs were the afterglow,
Less of a dream than fucking Glasgow.
Im disco dancing outside
Outside your window — don’t wake up your mother, cos it’s a house party
I wants some finger pie and to tell my mates about it.
One much more than the other, one ill remember one ill never forget.
Hes outside your Victorian house in a purple shirt
a charity shop suit, daffodils and his face in the turf.
fone your friends fone the friends brigade
Never look at me like that, she just might change her mind
change her mind, shes pregnant now,
she just might change her mind, like a fly caught in the spider’s web.
from 99 to 29 noone has suffered like me,
to jangly guitars and comedown wanks
tobaccos crawling up the edge of my skull
my generation so meaningless, the people and the times
suffered from a lack of wars;
When I die Ill reach that final push;
Ill fly my spitfire as a predator of flight
Ill see all and climb over the trenches into the Ardennes,
Give me the riches and the heady death,
The last person I’m interested is you, some trumped up posh little prick
with a rich daddy and an elven pair of tits.
Lips purple like a corpse - Your skin like bone china –
Covering a pretentious lamp, pretty little Goebbels,
Ive drunkenly walked the grounds of Buckingham Palace,
I smoked crack in the toilets of a genocide tribunal.
I shagged a pretty press girl in a North London club
Its done for me, through writing, Im free.
The fragile petal of a girl had a certain sexuality
A fucking fruit of a mango of a peach of a ride,
a blight on my pride, she lives in Marseilles now.
i left my last poem on a thread about Dave's murder. i have broken my two year hiatus as the poet laureate of Phnom Penh's fractured expatriate community to write this one.
To live by my side
by the poet laureate of Phnom Penh
Take care of your abstract poems Christopher
expect my middle finger shoved up to your fanny little face,
in a secret place,
where Angels would descend.
Let me take you into the snide little past of a sniveling little boy
Who let me believe he was so panicky, he’d hide from school
having temazepam dreams of Shelly and white bleach,
He was a sun-kissed survivor in a satellite town.
The sad fact is his writers block was better than the release
His shame was better than the glory days, The Cure wasn’t one.
The drugs were the afterglow,
Less of a dream than fucking Glasgow.
Im disco dancing outside
Outside your window — don’t wake up your mother, cos it’s a house party
I wants some finger pie and to tell my mates about it.
One much more than the other, one ill remember one ill never forget.
Hes outside your Victorian house in a purple shirt
a charity shop suit, daffodils and his face in the turf.
fone your friends fone the friends brigade
Never look at me like that, she just might change her mind
change her mind, shes pregnant now,
she just might change her mind, like a fly caught in the spider’s web.
from 99 to 29 noone has suffered like me,
to jangly guitars and comedown wanks
tobaccos crawling up the edge of my skull
my generation so meaningless, the people and the times
suffered from a lack of wars;
When I die Ill reach that final push;
Ill fly my spitfire as a predator of flight
Ill see all and climb over the trenches into the Ardennes,
Give me the riches and the heady death,
The last person I’m interested is you, some trumped up posh little prick
with a rich daddy and an elven pair of tits.
Lips purple like a corpse - Your skin like bone china –
Covering a pretentious lamp, pretty little Goebbels,
Ive drunkenly walked the grounds of Buckingham Palace,
I smoked crack in the toilets of a genocide tribunal.
I shagged a pretty press girl in a North London club
Its done for me, through writing, Im free.
The fragile petal of a girl had a certain sexuality
A fucking fruit of a mango of a peach of a ride,
a blight on my pride, she lives in Marseilles now.