I am not in business,
I’m a man – ideally.
Ideologically stupid and useless.
Don’t expect so much from me.
Don’t expect a thing.
I’m not.
The hard sell.
Fucking assault on the senses.
Rape’s murderous kiss.
How can you not see this?
Trying desperately not to look
I’ve never been so intimate
with such distance.
Zombified,
waking the carriage up,
to want it:
Brand name here.
Cambridge,
Sawbridge,
Got-the-fucking-t-shirt-bridge.
Bending the truth…
Are you serious?
As if it’s ever straightforward.
Honey dew
passed round the train,
still no common tune
to sing to.
You make yourself a number
504,
how d’yer do?
Laura,
the wrong thing to be into.
Husbound.
I’m glad I didn’t think it through.
This is us.
Crumpled pages,
waste paper,
forever’s crude accrual.
I pushed myself in two.
Victoria,
where I got so angry,
now the traveller’s tavern;
keeps me cool.
Dick in mouth and arse-omine.
Vitamins
and everything else from the trick bag.
You are so fucking easy.
A children’s novel.
No words.
Buck-in-hand palace.
Birdcage walking.
Jim’s park.
Fiery head,
Cold, cold heart.
What in hell am I supposed to do?
Top bottom and Middle-sex.
Born in a block of flats.
Can’t escape the suffix.
The doctor probably gets pizza now
thinking it exotic food.
‘Hi’ I said,
‘I’m back.’
Sunglasses and shoes,
as long as they’ve got the name on,
The jokes on you.
I’m with –> advert.
Take what you want
just don’t so easily bruise.
How far in does it have to be before you realise?
Foreign bodies,
yous and mes.
I want to stop now and get off.
I’ve had too much
and not enough.
Twenty bags.
Ubermensch.
I know now what Freddy meant,
make all the horse gags you want,
he was fucking right.
Write, write, write.
But I can’t.
Please let me stop.
But I cannot.
And bleed,
letting the light in,
so the plants feed.
Terminals.
Terms all annulled.
Anal.
Hopefully dead on the line.
Fucking waster.
CCTV eye.
A cunt stop.
Why can’t I stop?
Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!
If I write nothing maybe it won’t get included.
Stack um up.
Red hot tears on tears on teardrops.
Forget the lot.
Sit back, relax and enjoy your journey
with a good strong fuck off lock.
My hands have been washed
and why not?
I manage to breathe subliminally
without you reminding me.
So fuck me some more,
I am your fucking pussy
L.T.D.
Just like you want me to be.
Lines in the sky.
Sometimes cons can be proof
trailing.
Arcs overhead and underground.
London town,
Run-down, run-down, run-down.
Even the rats are leaving now.
Maths paper horizon.
Anything,
just get me gone.
Its maelstrom reflection
slides down my cheek
spinning.
I’m glad,
otherwise,
I’m numb.
I’ll do it all the way home,
If that’s what it takes.
Such a long way,
the wrong way.
Fuck the fuck-off off now,
for fuck’s sake,
and celebrate.
Brakes, brakes, brakes.
Broke.
I’m always writing to you
and always will do.
You are not fake,
you are not fake,
you are not fake.
Wasn’t the ultimate question:
What instead?
But what instead of that?
Self-applicant.
Round in gradually increasing circles;
non-concentric.
You fucking cunt.
She only laughs at the serious bits
and skips through all the humour.
Try and try and try again,
then try again harder.
© Greg Fiddament
Illustration Nick Victor