Poems for Crows Part 2: Conditioning / Dry Swimming
Conditioning
What can I say?
Everything.
Say what I did?
Nothing.
When she slid down it was too late,
Magpies flew over rusty gates
till
two in the bush.
Powder vacuumed,
Shaking discontinued
Since sudden
Death.
Sucking wasn’t what she was made for
Before
her rattled brain.
Conditioning.
Its not just for clothes
knows in the noes can challenge
Previous
Patriarchs which need the weak
Like
Dough.
I don’t want to fall,
I don’t want to cry,
Tall humans broken and no one asks why.
Jesus
Listen. They were never smitten by your message.
Their environment was dirty from
Conditioning.
Dry Swimming
I feel empty for
just
a
second,
Looking at my pile of dusty records.
You sent me down to rivers blue,
but I’m still swimming
AWAY
I suppose.
The more I remember the more it rose
up
up
up
Is the way you should read this you cunt.
Drinking is a fantastic habit you should try it in the morning with the birds.
Twa Corbies
and the rotting fucking night that overheard you fucking that Jordie
cunt.
Marriage is the happiest of institutions.
Do you think I was harsh?
No
Do you think I was rash?
A little.
YO! That’s what the marsh
boy
said
to me. Don’t you see we’re all
dead.
Impulsiveness is intuition on steroids
sometimes
but other rhymes will get you into less trouble.
I think you’re all slow of the mark,
That tanned boy top of the charts,
This is fucking England my balls are dry,
I fucked a police officer on a flag
Racists
Are great in bed.
Why didn’t you buy me a Stella?
I only suck dick for speed and Stella you know that
Rupert.
God? Yer I met him once,
good bloke no beard though,
Where?
Plod round to Paul’s he has the DMT
slow burn mind you.
What’s he like?
Quiet
like the marshlands and the children’s boats.
Loud
Coats for adults in a theatre alight.
Just take the shit you’ll see.
Memories are a great place to hide if you don’t talk to the
living
ones they always bring the party down and forgive temporarily
Dead
marks are the ones cut into the soulbrain said new life.
Prostitutes? Shipped from Brazil mate,
She was a seamstress before
now she’s on coke she’s a whore.
What?
It’s fucking funny mate
Not my fault she can’t hold her drugs MATE
I WILL FUCKING SLIT YOUR THROAT AND STICK YOU IN THE FUCKING RIVER.
No tears
Babe
I’m not myself on gear.
They must know Penelope the country needs
my
direction
Trust me my serenity is for publicity
not my
erection.
Election? Plug me into the screen,
rub my nipples with butter and cream,
Isn’t future politics
fun.
Dorothy?
Yes dear,
Are we all fucked?
Hear best
or better tomorrow.
Things are always grand then we can leave once nurse says
it’s not a bank holiday
weak
again.
