The Geranium Hotel Poems

Are you feeling better? A sorrowful dinner table A blue china vase The hair that strokes the ridge of your shoulder Somewhere downstairs is a maid A cigarette butt at her heel Curls brushed from superstitions Innocent eyes wide at tales of fictional days Knives crossed over Forks Plates stacked indifferently Fresh air meeting the window open How can the walls be angry? Their blank faces show nothing of description Yet they bear down upon us like dark generals Blue stripes running down your shirt The cuff releases your hand Your mouth releases your tongue momentarily And it wets your lips Wooden cabinets with glass panes Palms and ferns potted Reaching for the cigarette smoke A muffled song marching up the stairs Heavy seasonal change affecting the fireplace Chinese teapot with English steam Privilege is a partridge sitting on a steeple Shot carelessly by a drunk with inherited gun Smashing windows with rocks To gain entry into history To force his name be written in the index And be

Fool triumph. Succeed at the ideals of loss. Canter upon a horse. My horse. Work in denim wings. A completes the Z. Silence becomes a time bomb. Fondle genitalia. Gutter Music Crescendo. Back track on the raw memory brain. Canter upon a horse. My horse. Orientate the novelty of responsibility. Dress the gesticulator in smug. Fondle genitalia. Kick the kicks. Climb stairs to branches of military. Lick the encyclopedia butterfly. Incarcerate the corpse of Gregory Corso. Stick pages of holy book to headlight. Use Semen. This street is a sunny graveyard. The gullible travels. Steal back reality from the T.V. station. Paint the planted plant. The Alpha completes the Omega. Dive into the pool of trouble. Straddle Midas and feel your arse become golden. Canter upon a horse. My horse. Fish the transvestite’s confession. Castrate the Apes who believe. There is reason on the lip of liberty. Draw circles on the squares of nature. Validate reality. Fondle genitalia. Dig a hole to the core of p

Scented necks and collars on Babylon’s main street With the Buskers by the church and the whores in the cafes School kids kissing under bridges Maurice and I were the weeds in the hanging garden History is for exhale, future for the inhale Tight jeans and thinning hair Holding hands in the cinema You drink bourbon I drink beer We are the weeds of Babylon Orchids, honey suckle, grape vines and ivy Ponds and rivers and fountains and falls This city is an Eden without higher judgment And we were the weeds in the hanging garden The band in the restaurant are playing our song The man on the radio is singing it wrong The presents under the tree are covered in mould Babylon real estate can be bought but never sold If you knew I was going to leave Then why didn’t you stop me? And yes its many years gone now But I want to know My liberation would have meant nothing If you had of stopped me If you had of kept me in Babylon Amongst the Slugs and the Snails We two weeds We two boys Amongst thos