Spilt Vodkas

Her fake tan is rubbing off onto my jeans
helped on its way by countless spilt vodkas
this is no lipstick on the collar
sadly it’s just friendship

she’s crying that she’ll never be loved

that her drinking will kill her

that she’s going crazy

no different to any other girl on a Friday night
 
she’s already loved

but I’ll never make her spill vodkas

and that’s the drama she craves

all I can do is put my shot glass next to hers

rejection on a daily basis
even unsaid
is enough to kill a man’s soul

I tell her I have to go

she seems distressed

but it’s not borne from any longing desire

which is why I HAVE to go

and scrub the St Tropez from my denim.

The Cat's Eyes

There’s a dead cat outside
slowly decaying in the scorching heat
a crow flies down and examines it
begins pecking at its lifeless eyes
I’m watching all this from my office
surrounded by needless stress
at the mercy of broken air conditioning
how I wish I were that cat.

Cornered by Ambition

My grip on ambition is slowly loosening

each passing day is relentless toil

all the trappings are out of reach

the procrastination of my youth shames me

my current destination appalls me.

No more irons in the fire

reticent from being burnt in the past

by my own laziness.

Blame the world

from behind my directionless life

heading towards a forgetful oblivion.

A strong man wants to be remembered

by making his mark

so he’ll be talked about in years to come

like all my heroes

but only one in a million is a hero

leaving many thousands of cowards.

Maybe I can write my way out of this

avoid this faceless future

leave my mark

get the respect I crave from those I despise

or just give up

and await retirement.

Recluse

I spent a period of my life as a recluse

consumed by a sadistic self hatred

I couldn’t see the point in going out

society didn’t want me blotting it’s landscape

my parents became very angry

a mask for sympathy or shame?

probably both.

their beloved son not reaping the rewards

that a twenty one year old should be.

every parent wants their child to be happy

free

and fucking 

I had every cliché going.

terrible poetry

although some might say that hasn’t changed.

lost all interest in sex

which kills a man’s purpose.

wished death upon myself every night

obviously, it never came.

I pestered doctors for help

they could offer me nothing

I had to rely on my own determination

something which had brought me little before

this time it was serious though

and it paid off

a man losing his freedom is a real tragedy

finding it again is beautiful

lines drawn are erased

new ones put down

women return

life blooms.

Local Rag

I flick through the local rag

there’s no news for me

but they’re not likely to feature strippers

so I shouldn’t complain.

I reach the dreaded jobs section

sales sales sales

admin admin admin

heartbreak heartbreak heartbreak

where are the jobs for me?

executive fine wine taster

professional lounger

fully qualified ogler

who dreams of anything else?

who wants to be ground down every day?

a good drive would probably help

I look at the sports pages

the men in there have drives

they may not be in the big leagues

but the sports kids always got the girls

I throw the paper down in disgust

this town will be the death of me.

Solidarity

Solidarity is a false security
no two men have the same mind
subscribe to your own madness
let it take you to the very brink
look beyond the chaos
at everyone else
in similar boats
but crowded
with no room to breathe
relax back into your alienation
pour a drink
raise it to your soul
laugh.

Black-Listed Magazine - Acceptance

Black-Listed Magazine have paid me the honour of featuring three of my poems in their latest update. It's a great magazine with plenty of rough hewn passion and disgust, so check it out!

My poems featured are ones on this very blog: Every Day in the Office, Hot Drive and Desperate Days.

Torture

Working in an office full of women is any man’s hell

the sense of humours are too different

you have to throw endless caution to the wind

and the worse thing is that you can’t stare

scrub that

the worst thing is that my desk faces the filing cabinet

all day I’m subjected to temptation

there’s bending over

relentless wiggling

this could truly be any man’s heaven

but there’s constantly female eyes watching me from behind

“That Benny’s a real pervert” they’d whisper

“He was looking down the back of your low slung trousers” they’d tell

I can afford the quickest of glimpses

from the very corner of my straining eye

but the frustration kills me

it’s worse than nothing at all

I need to move desks.

Gutter Eloquence Magazine - Acceptance

I bring good news that the mercurial Jack T Marlowe has accepted my poem 'Free Coffee' for issue 21 of his great online zine Gutter Eloquence. Check it out as you may well love it.

Chores

I tell her that I’ll take the rubbish out later

for now there’s football and wine

I go to get some cheese

she blocks my way

yells that later is too late

I’ll disturb the neighbours

like they never make noise

fucking all hours

what I wouldn’t do to go down there whilst he’s out

I begin to get a semi

realise I’m in the middle of an argument and lose it

damn

I tell her “Ok! Ok! I’ll take rubbish out”

she walks off victoriously

I go straight to the fridge

grab the cheese and head back to the TV

this is the life

wine, cheese and sport

if only that blonde from downstairs was here too

I hear footsteps go to the kitchen

the silence of exasperation is deafening

she storms in demanding to know why I lied

I tell her it can wait

I won’t wake the neighbours

she can’t judge me by her own noisy standards

look how many plates you crack or chip compared to me

that last statement dives like a whale

a long list of forgotten chores is read off to me

I tune out after a while as there’s an important free kick in the game

she’s staring at me expectantly

if I don’t give a decent answer now then I’m sleeping on the sofa

but what’s she been saying?

That damn sofa is too small for me

I look out the window for hope

I find it

the blonde from downstairs is putting out her rubbish

“Ok! Ok! I was wrong. I’ll put the rubbish out” I say

right answer

she walks off victoriously

I rush to the bins

chat to the blonde

she’s split up with that dick who fucks her

my semi returns.

Forbidden Lover

It’s 2 a.m and I’m on my way to see my forbidden lover she pounds the dirty backstreets of my mind does things that most girls would slap me for asking but her looks will never soothe my ego that’s why she remains a drunken rendezvous usually it would take me an hour to stumble this far but the sexual energy cuts through the drink I’m making good time does she cry herself to sleep when I leave or is that just my arrogance talking? perhaps it's her using me as an idiot with a hard cock because I’m certainly that we could be very happy together she makes me feel like a degenerate the only girl who’s managed that but this is a small town what would my friends say? I mean, she’s beautiful when she comes that screwed up face flushing imperfect breasts heaving completely lost to the passion no wonder I come so hard with her my insecurities may mean I’m lonely forever but who wants to compromise? she certainly doesn't she's got me - a real prince! these thoughts have done little to slow me down before I know it she’s answering the door wearing nothing but a t-shirt I press the palm of my hand against her pussy my middle finger lying perfectly in between her lips she gasps and arches her head back for now I'm hers.

Another 40 Years

I’m quietly reflecting with a Guinness

black, Dublin velvet in the corner of a pub booth

the rain is hammering down outside

shading the day with a miserable hue

work is a good half day away

I’m in Heaven

a group of old men hold court in the next booth

they’re talking of landlords past

Tommy Mochran was always dapper

but then they all were back then

I look at the bar to find the current landlord

this chainpub has no landlord

just a succession of business graduates

with no time to have beers waiting for the regulars

they’re too busy working out profit margins

these old men seem ridiculously happy

too old to work

too young to worry about death

they look forward to each day

they’re much like me when I was 18

this resemblance fills me with hope

maybe one day I’ll recapture that exuberance

the last decade’s worn it away

perhaps due to unrealistic expectation

did these old men have similar worries?

it’s easy to say they were from a more simple time

but I’m sure they wanted to put more than bread on the table

they wanted to nail that centrefold to it as well

I’ll find out the answer one day

but first I have to pay my dues

rushing out into the rain

to face life head on

for another 40 years.