The Geranium Hotel Poems

An aeroplane flies over head as I walk down Free street and I notice that there are geraniums growing in the gardens behind wooden railings There are a lot of pavers underfoot and no one passes me by Its not quite night and the lamps are not yet lit and I think of what has taken place From one to two to one again just me after baring my soul for not quite an hour its just me again and I walk down Free Street hands in pockets wondering why I am the only one on the pavers smelling the geraniums and waiting for the light of day to pass into the light of lamps

I fell into your fingers knuckle crease As soon as I noticed it Your hand was lying limp 8 inches below your belt Past the mole hill Covering the gap between your legs I looked and I saw That precious crease Caused by your knuckle And I fell into it I slid hand first Then the rest of me followed Both of us breathing in deeply There was so much perfumed oxygen That the two of us men Had no choice but to exhale loudly You were thinking things that I could never know I was lost in your palm Your limp hand The hand of the dead Of the sleeping I was there never appreciating the silence I was there loving how my senses were closed Within this crease You must have known where I was What I wanted For you moved your hand It was no longer limp It was alive and turned over So the creases were hidden Knuckles showing You gave your cotton mole hill a squeeze And we both exhaled loudly

Ah! there's possibility none for what's written is done now amongst this naked garden is the possibility of a secret hard-on and everyone remembers their first time clothless ambition smelling of thyme they start it in want of world wisdom and chic and end it tired, world weary and cheap deep is the hunger for sweet carnal knowledge the herb garden in darkness is the young lover's college it's the circle the ring a bent rod within a parasite with written host like a lawyer standing for a poet's ghost I have to ask one what can one do? if all sage scented dreams came finally true poetry would be without it's dimensions like a celebrity without her pretensions and in the garden of naked night prose the thrusting buttocks construct the sweet moans the favoured welcome for all beginners begins with the tale of two well fed sinners they who know what keeps them afloat (not learning to swim but buying a boat) above the water is where you are real below is the place yo...

As this city is the world I feel it is the poets duty to look at the streets as the historian looks back to when this city was a town Me, I feel certain things from ten, twenty years ago and I know, I feel when hair is white and eyes are broken I'll have no choice but to think of my life as a town before it was the city trashed, over populated, rushly built by wine galleries, love, guilt all stolen from this city that is the world

'Trust in Chocolate cake' and make up your own opinion on bukowski Listen to the heartbeat of a one night stand and fall in love with F. Bacon Urge yourself Bowel cancer Urge yourself the cure for A.I.D.S. this is not the way to celebrity ah I awaken and i am lying next to you I roll over and i read the headlines in my mind HOMOSEXUAL HOMOSEXUAL DREAMER POET TURNS TO ASH... THE KID NEVER STOOD A CHANCE... CAUGHT IN TOO MANY COBWEBS OF GENIUS AND INFINITY... then I giggle and imagine Ginsberg, a broomstick, an arse and cuban police Fuck yourself with the very thought of anagrams inside the conversation piece Urge yourself a whole new land Urge yourself a fantasy where you buy Brian Wilson's Farm off him and call it 'Rim Job farm' Ah shit I gotta go, there is a man at the door in a hat and I want to be a cowboy

As this city is the world I feel it is the poets duty to look at the streets as the historian looks back to when this city was a town Me, I feel, certain things From ten, twenty, years ago & I know, I feel when hair is white & eyes are broken I'll have no choice but to think of my life as a town before it was the city trashed, over populated, rushly built by wine, galleries, love, guilt all stolen from this city that is this world