chocolate milkshake

in recovery from drink
eager for chocolate milkeshake.
playing at bukowski.
masturbating a little.
out of shame.
out of lust,
for the flame
of my candle.

there are no wars
on this street
many houses
without a soul
many houses
with curtains pulled

someone is having a bath perhaps
but when it rains i bet they run indoors…
i don’t run indoors, i don’t mind the rain
or baths…in fact, i love them…

all the nations
with your insatiable
sex drive

the world over
dragging it
down to the

in the darkness
the mouths
fill like blocked
plug holes…

to drunk to
write good.

to young
to care.

to dumb
to lecture.

my heart
still hard as nails

  • a pin cushion

my pen
still waiting for
a bastard luck
to find us,
and refill the ink
with poetry.

there is no excuse.
you should know something.
there are men who know
very little who have lived
very long and they should
be ashamed of themselves
for walking through life
with horse blinders on
may as well have been stoned
out their mind for the past

they know nothing.
not even who Alasdair Gray is.
or how electricity works.
or the process of rain fall…

memory but
a bloody trail
of uneventful
nothing piled
upon uneventful

i wish they would all stop
working, consider their
short falls. like holding
from wanting too much…

at the street
filled with Want
with the Objects of Want
a simple Want
a reason desire
a simple Greed
for stability
in the gnarling face of chaotic
History mind and matter
and the passages of everyday life.

the Song screams
the cars roar
the birds choke
the Seagulls laugh
at the top of our heads
like dirty plates

as Ancient men cross
their legs and say nothing and breathe.
as Churches open their doors like long
arms and hug us to death.
as Charity shops are run by old
forgotten women with hearts the size
of continents.

Some men starve
in isolation
for years without
anyone noticing
their death.

and that is tragic,
like Vladimir and Estragon,
the bus that never came,
the God who should no sign,
the great anonymity of life
of waiting on deaths army tank
to come and blow you away

and the great football game
of politics, the defenders are
broken, the strikers as self-glorifying
assholes, but they make perfect
straight lines into the net. gross net.

and sometimes i wish
life was all open doors
and come-in-if-you-like
sit down, pull a chair,
have a beer, have ten,
make yourself a sandwhich
fix a broken object,
write some Imagination,
and move along…

O Want Want Want!
Streets of Mortgages and Bank Loans!
Streets of blinking coloured boxes of image!
back alleys filled with human waste

their is nothing subtle and poetic
about death. or human rubbish.
or cancer. or vomit. or waking
up with brown muscus caked
to your tongue…

there is only
the roof of the sky
never falling in upon us
keeping up Faith
that it will go on like a factory
process…never to end

you shake a crystal ball
sky rumbles thunder.

smoke lingers and floats
and curls like the ghost of
a belly dancer…

the world
is a burst plug
all crossed wired
and just about fusing
and dangerous
for electrocution…
go grab that plug
stick your tongue into it!
haha! FRY and
bring the Streets into complete
darkness, watch the lights go out,
the last surge of energy of want

the great wart of want
you plesant and petty
want is your toll,
blood money…

a chocolate milkshake
chilled, thick and sweet…
that is all…but they only had Vanilla…
I took it anyway…

Another spectacular one, Colin.

If I was gay, I’d let you bum me :wink:


Want is a double-edged opportunism.

It is the cruelty of pleasure.

It forces babies to grow old.


This is the sort of thing you could quote in a letter to an agent/publisher.

Praise for my on new collection of Poetry and Stories:

‘If I was gay, I’d let him bum me.’ - The New York Times.

‘One of the Century’s most evocative writers’ - The Herald.

‘Smiley Faces all round…’ - Sunday Telegraph

‘This man will burn in Hell: that alone is reason enough to buy this book’ - Christian Right.

‘Disjointed, discordant, artless: Showing the real working of mind compared to the dull composition of body.’ - Observer

‘Psychopathic, Bunny-Boiler…!’ - Scot/Campus

‘Of all the living writers known to me, only one is undoubtedly touched by genius: Colin McGuire’ - Gabriel Garcia Marquez.