The English.
Kirk – Mid fourties, George’s wife.
George – Mid fourties, Kirk’s husband.
Ted – Late thirties, Kirk’s brother.
Bob – Late seventies, Maude’s brother.
Maude – Early eighties, Kirk and Ted’s mother.
Trisha – Teenager, Kirk and George’s daughter.
Aunty Polly – Mid thirties, George’s sister.
Gordon – Mid thirties, Polly’s drip boyfriend.
(Summer barbeque – everyone is outside either talking around the table, sun-bathing or smoking – all drinking) Continue reading
Filed under Plays.
God God
cannot will not
hear you crying or care for your children
kneeling to let them wither for
Him Her
Smile down on crackling lips blowing
marchers and mind-fucks your petty fathers
who couldn’t get hard fucked into oblivion
for imminent
logic and chemicals madness blooms
never believe bullshit and forgiveness
the truth made history
whispers and moans gargling relish
may He be cast of
rest in damnation
peace at last
Filed under Poetry.
I sorely regret
to be the one to tell you
But the world is coming to an end.
The sky is falling
Terrorists are sprawling
And the gays refuse to unbend.
But let’s not despair
In this time of bleak mire
For good will come to us all.
Seize the day!
(As they sometimes say)
And let us exult in a brawl!
Kiss a stranger
Tell the lady you love
That your heart beats for her living breath.
Punch a baby
And kick an old lady
And, hey, why not try anal sex?
Start a fire
Of chaos and darkness
And go tell your boss to get fucked.
Jump off a building
And dance on the ceiling!
Time’s out and so is your luck.
Go take up smoking!
And have you done crack?
Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.
Diddle your sister
And why don’t you fist her?
Two passions have here collided.
Shit on the streets
And piss in the church
For God does not care for your soul
Open your eyes
You might realize
That it’s bliss to lose self-control.
Filed under Poetry.
Shall I compare thee to a bored cliché?
Shall your eyes be as deep as the wild sea?
And your bosoms as soft as china clay?
And your skin so luminous and milky?
Shall I tattoo my spidery love scrawls,
Onto the leaflets of your broken heart?
And flash my downcast eyes until I fall,
Into the pit of your harrowing art?
Shall we have endless, bountiful blue skies?
And blankets of a starry, daydreamed night?
And metaphorical angels that fly,
Into the red sun, anguished in their flight?
Oh why won’t we all just simply admit –
That Will was a tool who sung through his dick?
Filed under Poetry.
