This is ancient.

It once had a different format, but now it doesn’t.

I’m retreating, recessing, to the life that was once mine,

And I see the sky overhead and the earth below and hate.

I’m staring, shooting, them down,

Those that laugh in my face and do not care.

I cry a mournful melody in harmony with their faces changing, chagrined,

A soft song of sorrow that breaks them down and beats them.

I wrote this along time ago, for a friend that I loved at the time. Things have changed forever now, I think.

I am the shoulder that holds you aloft,

And the earth that is solid underfoot.

I am the keeper of children,

And the lover that keeps your warmth.

I am standing at your back,

Whilst holding fast before you.

I am always the sun,

Whilst I dry up the rain.

I am your friend and husband both,

And I am your heart’s every whim.

I am myself,

And that alone.

I wrote this a long time ago too. I don’t remember why.

I’m not a racist, I assure you.

If I drop a coin at high noon, and nobody saw it but I, would the nigger feel it as he slept his slow slumber through his adventure, possessed of drugs that would take a man’s ears and eyes, and fell a man so quickly that he no longer has the heart to love?

No, I gave that nigger life, that fucking spook of the night that runs like a giant fucking bird. He is deprived of a sense of privacy and ownership. He is a socialist creature who believes in a false equality.

Perhaps my coin, Brian’s coin, might instil in him a sense of greed that he might know civilised chatter. He would know lust for the shiny silver dollar. He would know lust and an overarching need for power over the lesser beings still that might be found to exist. He will learn to beat his woman, his children, and his dog; in time he will beat his God into submission.

The nigger will shape his tribe into a colony, under my own flag; and they will be a flagship of modern empire. My niggers will know sin, and will lose love.

So, nigger – what do you say? I’ll give you a biscuit for your wife.

I wrote this a long time ago.

It was night time.

I was with a friend.

We bought notepads and pens from a store, jumped a fence to trespass on public property. We were called faggots by arrogant, muscular security guards.

(Cunt-sore cock-whores collide on a kaleidoscopic course.)

Shit-shop shoes walk on shattered shores,

Where water sings into cracks like salty blood from sandy wounds,

And birds above, below the heavens, don’t know there is no god.

And all along this white strand, a white hand reaches over man,

Touching his tarnished mould.