The Screaming Ginjob Couch of Eros

Poetry

Perched fat eagle on the brown stool of destiny
I scratched a bountiful
Pleasance in floral and kindness-fuelled
Hythlodaean adoration, having worn this
Adulatory tie and button decrying “Save Norton
Folgate”. Surely yet as the glassware files some feeling
Of sheer uncontrolled will, triumph willing whorehound
Porks the reticence of beautiful strangers
Noting love.
Yet, uncertain, paraplegicked, wandering near
Tall towers, I may not approach those plague
Based delights in malaria tonic tempered with
Soothing gins to breathe merry at strangers
known familiar. Yea, sing high fiving
This restaurant of my youth
The powers of purses to birth and reincarnate
Perpetuating for the times of young
Students disserting Smith, Samuel, fine beverages
Yet thoughts to purvey ‘oh merry band of
Familial lovers, orphaned singing tales of
Melancholy smiling orphans these pubs to
Lascivate with seething desire’.
Shall I mention the spray of thy hair
Recall better the gin bought me by
Merry homosexuals contemplating soho jazz jism in
Fleeting Ginsburg love – try’st this, wool of love,
To coat smooth joys, those so rough in atoms
Tearing.
Take me Jack Daniels’ Ol’ No.7, Tennessee
Whiskey which’s got me drinkin’ in heaven, observing
Mass plasticised shirts stating our name, oh Jack,
Your erstwhile love now failing…cries of terror to send –
In mourning – watery spirits stray,
This Lusitania sinking, Jack!
Jill! I invoke thee to strive me through these
Perilous bucket-nights of fridays free-drinking
And flatwhent in coffee-cabs talking tales
Which if listened to mark elegies unheard
Though prolonged beyond adulate years,
Please masses of vol-drenched youths
Awake to find yourselves and thine sleeping in icicle
Glasses, persuaded by the thinnest segment of lime
For adoration of your supposed betters dead
In pools of chemical consumption.

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