Foreskin

God, do you want it?

Should I remove it for you?

Why must I pull it back to clean beneath every morn?

God, take my foreskin and give me offspring.

One son who will spawn great nations without a single foreskin.

He who has a foreskin deserves to die with the rest of his Sodomic civilisation.

Death to Sodom and its homosexual foreskins!

Death to the tight-lipped women of Sodom!

Death to the aborted sperm lying in city streets and dripping from shitty arseholes!

God instructed me to send my bare-knobbed heroes to slaughter your race.

You must die for we must inhabit your land.

In the name of our god, Yahweh, who's real when your god is not,

I order you to flee in pathetic foreskinned terror

Only so we can meet you on the other side and genocide the rocks from your sacks.

No more begetting we'll be letting.

Pretty soon you'll be begotten

by history

by Yahweh

and by all the other untrue gods of this land that our god promised us in return for a small, soft flap of man.

And He Spoke

And today it all ends cos today is the beginning of tomorrow

he said. With the most serious look on his face.

Oh so serious.

Dead serious.

He didn't just say it. He believed it.

Which made this day just a little more special than usual.

This was the Lord's Day.

The hollow day of hunger and silence and solitude and emptiness and television.

Don't watch TV on the Lord's Day? There's no ads on the Lord's Day.

The point is that you watch and watch and watch without getting up in the ads.

This is the day we hollow out your brain with familiar propaganda,

successfully rating year after year.

And because I believe,

he argued. Everything else is contrary and therefore dangerous

and you all are in great danger from the wolf and the woman

whose number is 666. She comes and she brings with her bureaucracy.

And she brings global violence deep within her Scorpio Woman's heart.

And when we are left in these neighbourhoods with no light and no sound and no electricity

no movement but by foot

we learn to what – rebuild our mansion? or fall into the abyss of time and arise in Christ Our Saviour

Amen.

The final word drifted from his lips like a whisper and yet covered the room in its heavy cool silence.

Tomorrow it will not be daylight. This collective myth will kill you.

This nighttime is forever, daytime a myth. Look around you, you see only darkness.

You see no light because there is no light.

The footpath melted beneath his feet.

His words clung to the air and clattered around inside the skulls of the people walking in the streets.

Their bags were too heavy to concentrate.

But as their sweaty foreheads waited for the lights to change

their lives stayed the same.

Nobody noticed as the future became the past and the past became the legends and the legends became the religions and the future was so terrifying.

It's Tomorrow today and I don't know who I am anymore.

Last night I was Him and now, of course, I'm Me. By midday I have found out who I am, yet by then I have plans and obligations

or guilt takes over and I know there's something I should be doing until my brain collapses and the Illicit Mexican Relaxation Herb twinkles in my lungs and sends special oxygen to my heart who makes some special blood to send around my body and thus the effects of the Herb are successful in suppressing the outward symptoms of the problem my body presents me with.

What night of what lifetime did you choose the task of sitting at a laptop with a sore back stoned and pointless a hotel receptionist in a blue dressing gown writing poetry on a $3000 laptop brought with the money your eternally emptyhanded mother left you after her spirit went up to Heaven to great fanfair from all the angels and God Himself as she flew, winged, through the Pearly Gates into the Wonderful Land of Oz?

Oh this existence taunts us all my friends and yet the face that breathes incomprehensible instructions into our ears is not a machine, it is Us and Them. And they're both double-crossing us.

Through the use of words, the dragon-headed guru instructed once again,

And don't ever let me find you with your gun in your hand.

Your gun is a sacred item, sawn off in worship of Me.

Yes, the language is capital letter in every reference to Me.

And one day I will tell you that all is well and the worry was unnecessary,

I wanted to speed up your progression, I was getting bored waiting for you.

I too suffer from mental illness such as impatience.

Even I, who always warrant a capital letter, has desires and fears.

Like any sad dictator I deny you what was denied to me.

I rape your women and crucify their sons.

Nothing will stop me.

And then the voice went away and I shuddered as if all I wanted was to know the truth. But I have known the disappointments of little truths,

I cannot know the devastation of the Whole Truth and Nothing But the Truth.

So fingers glide and the words trickle our like a dribble down my chin and onto my chest.

So quickly it fades and I am left with a sore back and a brand new file on my laptop. That $3000 laptop that I bought with cash and now there is negative two thousand deficit in my account and this means I am stuck in this country and there is no way I can leave until I finally do a bit of work and they laugh in my face and say “I knew we'd fuckin get you in the end faggot. You think you can get away with not working in this fuckin community? It's not about money, buddy, there's plenty of that going around. What I care about is the selling of your soul. Souls are all but banned if you insist on flaunting yours like some sort of exhibitionist penis act...”

And again the words faded off into silence and the sore back came back and his fingers continued to type.

And they say Nature Calls as he wandered to the toilet not first forgetting to save the file in case his computer crashed or got stolen.

Love, and the Expression Thereof

There are now copies available of my first book, LOVE, AND THE EXPRESSION THEREOF. If you would like to purchase a copy please leave a post. Each book is handmade with love and is unique. The book is an experiential narrative that took me four years to write. Buy a pure copy now before it is picked up by a publisher and becomes a best-seller.

Bobby Bish

Bobby Bish

Bobby Bish

Bobby Bish

I dreamed about you, Bobby Bish

I fantasised of you, Bobby Bish

You were my lover, Bobby Bish

You were my man-whore, Bobby Bish

So many angsty adolescent masturbations, Bobby Bish

So many duct-popping dry tears of frustration, Bobby Bish

So many grey school shorts erections, Bobby Bish

You showed your bum to our third-form lunch-time hang-out group, Bobby Bish

Was it for me, Bobby Bish

It instigated so many masturbations, Bobby Bish

You have no idea, Bobby Bish

How I longed for you, Bobby Bish

Your floppy hair, Bobby Bish

Your soft, smiling face, Bobby Bish

Your bum, Bobby Bish, you showed us again, lunch-time, in classroom, slapping in punctuation

Oh, how I stared, Bobby Bish

How I reached out to touch in my mind, Bobby Bish

I wanted all of you, Bobby Bish

My pubescent 13-year-old body, Bobby Bish

Would I know how to touch you?

Would we shower together, Bobby Bish

Entangle our hair, Bobby Bish

Form two you singled me out for playful teasing, Bobby Bish

I did not mind one bit, Bobby Bish

Next year shared form class, and Bobby Bish & I friends, suddenly

Smoking first cigarette with you, Bobby Bish, beneath Wanganui city bridge

Were we ever alone, Bobby Bish

Whence fourth came your insinuations, Bobby Bish

“Chris and I go out & fuck women together. And when there's no women, we fuck each other.”

Oh yes, Bobby Bish, if only it were true

Still makes me hard, Bobby Bish

Still makes me wonder, Bobby Bish

If 13 was not our median friendship age

What then, Bobby Bish?

In Wanganui, aged 22, twice, I say, ashamed, I saw you,

Bobby Bish, from a distance

Bobby Bish, your girlfriend?

I ran away, Bobby Bish, terrified

Bobby Bish, it never went away

Ten years, Bobby Bish

Bobby Bish, shaved his gish, beautiful blonde soft

Bobby Bish, my adolescent bliss

When will it shift, Bobby Bish

When will you pay out on promise to show me your dick,

Bobby Bish?

Fear and Loathing in Te Atatu Peninsula

My name is Christopher Allan Kirk but I like to be known as Chris Kirk. One day I hope to be the most famous Chris Kirk in New Zealand.  I am 23 years old and in less than a year I will be dead. Of course I don't know that yet. And in a way, I'm dead already.

Look at me, cowering in the corner of my living room, between the dining table and the bookshelf, both of which are furniture I have had my entire life, typing on a laptop – gibberish – feverish gibberish from a drug-fuelled mind that contains not a single drug. I haven't even had any caffeine today. Not that much sugar, though I have eaten chocolate and I am allergic to lactose, which is evident in milk which is evident in chocolate. Perhaps that's what's causing this feverish typing, though I am typing slower than I normally type when I am in my right state of mind. My life is so full of empty vacuous space that I am writing in detail about the fact that I am sitting writing about nothing but the fact that I am writing in detail about the fact that I am sitting writing about nothing but the fact that I am writing – oh my god I almost got sucked into a vortex of endless repetition that could have lasted the remainder of my life in this body. I am lucky that my consciousness observed my behaviour and sucked me out while I still had the braincells and the awareness to view myself viewing myself viewing myself viewing myself viewing myself viewing myself – oh god stop it's sucking at me again and all I can do is stand outside of it again and again.  All I can do is observe my behaviour and stop any behaviour that resembles the insanity around me. I am not a drug addict. I do not waste my life with fruitless employment. I do not suck the government dry to fund my lazy lifestyle. I may have been born a homosexual but I do not have sex with any males of the same gender as myself. I have not been cured and I rarely feel the need to penetrate a vagina and yet here I want a baby and yet I have a baby right through this bookshelf and the wall behind it.

My life is a large ball of nothing that keeps rolling down the hill and despite the laws of gravity, which cannot be broken, I am not picking up speed as I roll down this hill. I turn to my left and right and see other balls gaining speed. Some are picking up money and speeding up, others are gaining power and speeding up, others are gaining family members and speeding up, others are producing works of art and sharing them with the world and speeding up others are taking drugs others are expanding their consciousnesses others are reading books about taking control of your life and using The Secret to win money and convince people to love you. The secret is that there is no secret at all. You know it all you are just waiting for someone else to mention it first so you are certain you are not insane but guess what you are not insane you are just acting insane and desperately trying to appear insane to all the other insane people who think that they are secretly sane but don't want to tell anyone. But then they meet someone special and they can trust this special person and this special person understands them and they feel like this special person will not judge them if they tell this special person that they are sane, and the special person says oh my god, I'm sane too and they kiss and hug and make love night after night and then they get bored and go do something else and when they realise that this other person knows something about them they don't want anyone else to know that is how someone you love becomes someone you hate.