Sweat whiskey through shallow pores
in the strange July heat
the sun melts the clouds
and they say the rain will go away
but I'm just looking for a place to stay

I think you know I'll be ok


The women outside restaurants will shout their grief
but look them in the eyes and they look away
the rats in the vending machine won't chase
the 2 inch wasps anyway


I think you know I'll be ok

the trains at the station won't go both ways
the girls in the short skirts dare you to try your luck
I'd like to try but I've never had much
at least not enough to lead me astray

I think you know I'll be ok


Whiskey flows down unwashed jaws
the chou-hai vending machines ignore your flaws
the direlects in the park in their cardboard box forts
don't give a fuck if the sky is grey
to them it's always just another day


but I think you know I'll be ok

If a pistol appears in a story, eventually it's got to be fired - Anton Chekhov

I hope, some day, all she'll be is second thoughts

A grey mountain dying on the pomegranate sky
With beauty all around, but not within your narrowed eye
Brandy-colored bruises where your stony thighs were cupped
The Bitch, a bitch, and finally, some bitch that messed you up
And, it's hardly a surprise that she's the one you wrangled up
Cos you never angled up

I hope, some day, all you'll be is weightless spores

I'll taste you here and there, but you'll never test my knees
Though, I'll always toil over how you blindly cut the keys
When you hadn't the schematics, and I didn't show you how
Do you realize that you've made it so no one can enter, now?
So, who is there to blame for the way that I've been swindled?
And, I've been kindled

I hope, some day, all I'll be is everything

Not a florid lip print on an ever-empty can
Not the faded smell of paper money in your hand
Not the harried hubcap, still, spinning, like a top
You never had the time to see me dwindle down and stop
And, it's not worth going back the way you came with ruffled brow
It's not worth a thing, now

I hope you're happy, I hope you're happy with your glass half empty
Even though you got your share

It's been far too long
since I whistled in the wind
and heard it come back
midnight chancers and cold war dances
take me back to when I used to take what I could hold and choke it back

when we were young we could do anything;
but for a half an ounce and an old typewriter impossible to realign.
Nostalgic for a time I never enjoyed, just endured
and wanted for more

But I think what I want
is to forget for now
the warm stares and cold embrace of home
and it's hollowed out husk of what I was
that I cannot remenber
but everyone knew and some loved.

I'll be straight: just fuck my mind away.

Deny your culture of consumption;
this is a culture of destruction

I like this one:

And once again
the wine is gone
when you wake up to find
you're here with me again
you make your excuses
and leave before six
smoking another of my cigarettes

and once again you're gone
and I don't know what to do
not that I'm not used to it
I guess I just expect more from you

and once agin I'll wake up
wondering how I ended up
at your house
lying next to you
and get my clothes
and shoot off home
and call in a couple of days
or maybe not

and again you lie there wondering
if it was something that you said
and questioning my motives
for taking you to bed


but it's a force of habit
a cycle we can't break
ingrained reactions
a couple of drunken whores
stuck in our ways

let's stay together
sometime
for a change


and I can easily relate to it. Do you still like it?

Genius may have its limitations, but stupidity is not thus handicapped.

In reply to:

---

Do you still like it?

---

Well, yeah, I do.

I can't objectively view it as a piece of art but I can say that that is an honest snapshot of the situation I was in and my emotional reaction to it, as most of my poetry is.

This is one that, reading it now, I am very happy with because it is not over-embellished or melodramatic; it just is.


From memory (I'm too drunk and liable to get over-emotional to review it all right now) On Montreal and The history of them all (barring the last verse) are my absolute favourites.


And if you fancy doing anything with any of these then help yourself; all they do otherwise is sit here.


My rule thus far with the two songs I have written that have been released is that no-one owes me anything till my share of the song-writing profits equals 1 000 000nz dollars!

Deny your culture of consumption;
This is a culture of destruction

In reply to:

---

the two songs I have written that have been released

---

So what was your stage name? And did you write the music?

Genius may have its limitations, but stupidity is not thus handicapped.

In reply to:

---

So what was your stage name? And did you write the music?

---

No stage names, the name is Adrian D. Kirby.

And, no, I did not write the music. On one of the songs I was the sole lyric writer and on another it was collabatory.

If you would like to hear the songs then email me at my ESH address and I will hook you up

Deny your culture of consumption;
This is a culture of destruction

Over to soon to be truly impressed
or happy regarding bullets dodged
side-stepping cliches at a mile-a-minute;
I drink to forget but I remember everything

You know, I'd sell my soul tonight
if the price you gave was right
You know, I'd turn it around tonight
if the price you gave was right

And as I tried to remember
the first time
I try to recall the last;
is it any surprise that I can't?

You know, I'd sell my soul tonight
if the price you gave was right
You know, I'd turn it around tonight
if the price you gave was right

At this time of the year
you watch the leaves change
and try not to laugh
at the laughing stock you have become:
too old to justify your lifestyle
and too young to forget what
you worked so long to find out

You know, I'd sell my soul tonight
if the price you gave was right
You know, I'd turn it around tonight
if the price you gave was right

Deny your culture of consumption;
This is a culture of destruction

Liquid snake of memories
invades my sinking skull
A sadness swiftly vines my chest,
and still, I cannot wake
to witness every pixel of my life come disengaged,
as you softly breathe my hair goodbye
and promptly lose my name

As you think to touch me one more time,
then, balking at that shining bank;
your hand, a flexing mare,
a beast so burdened by delayed restraint

Dreaming, now,
I funnel familiar through holes in time,
discover blinding white on shelves
I cannot reach in waking life
Relive every warmer bed, whispers of lurid fabric;
the zip of calloused hands over a ghostly, virgin husk

Every hushed, sweet song that broke like thunder,
parting ribs and sunny hairs,
clearing dust from epitaphs,
revealing holy, hollow stairs,
on acrid notes of fear that helped you hear ethereal sonnets,
too timid to be manifest, too bare to be dishonest

Feeling, now,
the arctic artifice that burned in secret,
the hopeless, swelling melody
that's only dumb in dreaming

"Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy

You tell me your bother then go to him;
that's fine with me
I'll drink whisky


I call you again then fall asleep;

that's fine with me:
I work early


But you know me

I'm not fantastic

I'm not Jesus;

I can solve problems a 1000 miles away,

I'm Lenny C.


I'm not Louis D.


But you're with him, you're not with me;

it doesn't bother me

but when you cry yourself to sleep

you're hurting me, you're hurting me


I just wish that you could see yourself
like we see you


You're wonderful, you're fantastic, amazing...


so it doesn't matter how I feel

as long as you


are happy


I love it when you smile;


so please, for me...



feel happy



feel happy?

Deny your culture of consumption;
This is a culture of destruction