simplyhaydn.

II.

Such pressure such pressure, I cannot take such pressure.

The high speed, the dangerous tone

As I sit in confusion.

Confusion of where this life of mine shall lie,

They know (of course they know) how was it not so obvious?

Our bitter war of lies and deceit, no my war!

The result of which is upset

Upset Disappointment,

Upset Guilt,

Upset Anger.

Well, I say, at least you now know!

IV. Infidelity

He’d long seen the girls at school do this with ease

And he simply wanted to do the same.

To take on a lover, take on another,

It seemed so exciting at the time.

A colourful game of love and deceit

The grand puppeteer with utter control.

Here was the chance staring him straight faced,

How could he not resist?

To put on the show with as much ease and excitement,

What could be wrong with that? As he kisses the lips,

With a wandering eye, not a care in the world

Of the secrets he holds. Just one of those girls,

You will see no heart upon his shirt-sleeves.

But pure temptation resting in his mind,

An ecstasy uneasy to avoid.

A mindless fix, sitting in a closet. Doors shut tight.

There is a boy with his hands above his head,

Wrists being held there in the clutch of one fist

The puppet with his master, told what to do.

A passion enraged with the lock of these lips

And the blanket of night covering them,

Headlights disturbing, a phone, a text. Gone.

Barely being late, meeting the Other

Sealing the night with a kiss and a fuck.

How cold and overcasted the morning after,

A foul smell, lying stripped on the floor

With a sweat-covered breathing cadaver

Clasped to him as if for its life.

Peeling himself away, he dresses, he leaves.

The unresponsive text, a missed call due

To his sense of disgust. Where’s the excitement gone?

Why not the schoolgirl smile?

His puppet strings snapping one by one

As guilt and disgust both flood his mind,

Control being lost, searching for that kick.

Trying to fix the void of deep intoxication,

That breaching soul. Through numerous Tricks he

Eases his pain, climbing to find his first love.

Infidelity teasing him on every

Foothold, and the eyes around him staring.

‘Hey wanna meet, you me, stables, eight?’

Traipsing continued through town and country,

His sprint to embrace, and stripping duet

Their deep charismatic kissing leading through

Black and faint highways, and penetrated souls.

Topping the bottom, where two become one

Crying to the dark skies with pain and delight,

And ceasing in hot and exhausting guilt.

The master controls his toys for so long

And playing them back to back can be no good;

Our secrets always unveil in the end.

Riding waves crashing down with such relief,

So difficult and dangerous. I cannot

Believe a schoolgirl’s ease, as the colours

Run out from the picture and the game,

And infidelity disappears all the same.

Homeland

Here we are then. School is out and you can watch us clamber down this mountain of ordnance into the twisting riverbed, surrounded by the towering shit-stained fountains,

Where sun dimly shines on us all as we stand in line with the town-resident-drunkards alongside this standing of the band listening to finely-tuned bugles and pine for the lost boys of years gone by.

Arterial flooding brooks, bloodline of our souls, infected, with a spirit smelling spew keeping us all dejected, cosmically miasmic voices influencing each mind to wither away and die,

But stretching away to suburban country outlands of home to rest in the summer haze, heads stuck in tomes feeding electric impulses for future referencing.

The great plagues of flocking Maybugs carry us toward the degenerated back-street habitats of undesirables and thugs, where lords of cocaine swap-shops reign in peace and harmony and single-venereal-mothers will still struggle to pay the lease.

Waltz through these hallways of wretchedness like the experimental mice of depriving conductors now twice walking walkways of power, immigration after immigration falling to this black hole of poverty ringing the alarms of nationalist socialist salutations and raising of unclaimed reclaimed red, white and blue. This is England! This is Medway.

Where the middle age to grab-a-granny women parade every Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday nightfall presenting copious amounts of fanny,

Where new-born babes light up on their twentieth amongst thick fog in the High Street wilderness,

Where Holocaust and deathlike prostitutes, whores, or ladies of the night rule over like a fleet of Sheba Queens,

Where yobs, neo-skinheads, Kosovan and Polish and Lithuanian and Eastern European refugees, queers, lesbians, jobseekers, and Art-wanker wannabe’s stand side by side lacking all fear,

Where fried-chicken shops are no longer pulling in punters by the ear, but pigeon and other vermin fowl all strangely disappear

The after school socialites hopping in-house parties, all slagging about to start yelping ‘Rape’ just for attention, our drug-infused memories and monkey-bar laughter, revelling in pretension all chasing Nigerian men out of attraction.

History pitifully overlooking ankle-claiming cobbled streets, the odorous lynx-esque scents filling the dismal air, perfect definitions of lads abysmally swaggering rain-soaked lanes like wolf-pack runaway Dads.

This is the homeland of boys watching how men become failures, how they all linger in gutters, with days rolling by them, no cares in this world, one by one trudging to houses of benefit and face to face with stand-behind-glass faces. Here is my homeland, here we are.

Imagination Internal

You boys, of preposterous and magnificent hetero awe

I sit within constant wonder, of drunken hazes and cock-loving claps of thunder,

Over these cobbled streets through blotchy turquoise-grey meets.

Laying upon wet, sweat stained beds of greenery

Staring in tandem to empty nothingness, or on classical fandom.

Every fine-confused hair questioning impulses, purgatoried thoughts and shy intersexual care.

Expression to these inspiring minds, is dead. It cannot suffice. Round circled, interpreting bullshit that only a solitary soul must understand.

I suffer my sinful and tempting frustration ending in blowful of exposure to a filthy fabric inscribed with some nonsensical proverb of Arabic.

No God can help this, but that Adonis in the bush taking a piss,

To fulfil us upon this intoxicated love letting us fall down on a poison-piercing sword, with his Oh’s and my mumbles the only word.

Circumstantial parties from dawn, leading to us both in bed the next morn,

Tossing and turning, tossing a bit more as you saw my awkward yearning.

And to be caught by that Bitch! of a girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, mother or some wretched witch.

Longing memory of your, supple pale darkened skin, my dampened hand lingering over smooth and bushy thighs.

That arse. Oh, that arse!

Clean shaven paired with sandpaper jawlines a rough touch, and nervous kiss.

And all came ending with endless come, and ice-cold showers from rooms we were once changing.

I dated the best boys of my generation, who were covered head to toe with hideous black and grey Nike or New Look hoodie and tracksuit.

Hair draining in thick glue substanced gels, and spoke with the degenerated tongues of chav. Attraction subsided with generation, generation, generation each feeding from drips of heavenly herbs, WKD’s and Snakebites.

Anatomical eyes envisioning sexual plunder, still in duet with that pre-deafening clap of thunder

Becomes the all-recurrent dream, stirring our post-pubic steam, towards phallic madness, or Haydn is mad againe. The Homo Tragedy.

Dragging through woodland track on just-passed mopeds with whiskey-glittering minds of lowlands,

The fisherman spook eyespies the fumbling above the brook

And your curls of chestnut hair glowing like precious pearls, under the sea of too-blue sky.

Laddish vein-defined hands, with nails trimmed by greedy fangs,

Guarding that trove of much beauty and treasured crotch.

I alone with dreams that cannot pass that craved Christo-Arabian cave, unless you, yourself unlock that copper-golden gateway to welcome me with love, and loving embrace.

Will and Oscar were wrong, this is the love that dare not speak its name. A love that cannot speak its name, will not speak its name. And yet it still does.

Air thick with cheap lager, baccy and marijuana, the aftertaste of some overbearing smell: Joop, Lynx or maybe Chanel.

Strobe split back-rooms, faces faces looms past as though floating high on gigantic shrooms,

And a solitary couch crawling around, infested, people unawares of us two angelic-chino-loving-wankers, arms crossed shooting into the sun.

Whispering into this mellowed ear the empty drugged promises, and fantastical fulfilment.

You men, of preposterous and magnificent hetero awe, I will sit and still wonder of these drunken bolts of lightning and cock-loving claps of thunder, even after we are all long gone.