And Then He Knew He Was Old

He’d had a few,

a bit of brew,

a few less than before,

when he felt the urge to clean himself

(before, before)

meeting the lady in the yellow pinafore.

He washed his hands

and between his toes –

he pricked a little hole,

when his knees buckled

and his elbows quivered

(before, before)

he knew he was old.

On Writing a Novel

Stare down the barrel of a novel,

roll up the manuscript,

the paper crisp,

and you’ll see it, you’ll taste it:

the target, a fading shadow in the mist (a lick of candy-flossed dreams with a lisp);

the loneliness as cold as the steel that supports your numb arse  and your broken fucking dreams;

the self-doubt, tips of fragments of spitzer bullets at the bottom of your cereal bowl;

and the blanks – oh dear god the blanks –

more hurtful than writing ‘the end’.

A Game of Cricket in the Bombay Slums of My Head

Stepping out to watch the rain,
refrain
from screaming, an angry schoolboy
holding up a cricket bat
at an approaching storm,
slipping,
rolling
down the garbage hill –
let the heads roll,
let them roll on down this way –
I need the practice, anyway,
I’ve got four arms;
thunder it my way
down the cement pitch,
red stains on my clothes,
my skin is blue
you know my weakness;
bring it on
and don’t slip on your follow-through.
Under the floodlights,
our protective gear
paper-thin,
our wickets made of tin;
cans stacked
like midnight stupas
enlightened:
Tendulkar
is half-god.

The Bomb Maker from Kabul

Ruminative silence pulsates
over the disquieting drone,
on a wine crate
a vibrating smartphone.

The susurrus of branches
over the rooftop now;
a four-fingered hand,
wrinkled,
nails red and polished,
reaches out.

The greeting is brusque,
the voice gruff;
the breath, mothball musk,
steams up the grimy glass.

Outside the breeze picks up,
and the snow whispers
secret communications
against the window.

A red nail taps the red tab;
the phone disappears
into a parka pocket
draped over a chair;
on the backrest a name
engraved in bronze:
Sergeant S.C. Grear.

The bomb maker sighs,
remembers her first bomb.
Like her first kiss
in a back alley in Kabul.

Goggles, face mask, gloves;
she returns to work,
to what she loves.

Tonight she controls the
the storm in the West;
she’s an Afghan goddess.

words & photography by Ramon Ramirez

Pub Religion

His brow grows thoughtful at my question –
vexed, even,
if you take into consideration his high forehead,
now crumpled like the pages of a shithouse magazine.
Tasting the venom on his tongue –
forked, no doubt –
he mulls over a response by biting down on his bottom lip.
He downs his drink and belch-orders another whiskey and lime.

The bartender’s eyes flash brass-belled pleas,
Go home already, lads!
but there’s no way in the deepest pits of hell I’m heading home,
not before the man with the magazine frown responds.

A heavy-set barmaid senses trouble;
she’s wiping away –
authoritative strokes –
the impregnated smell of cigarette butts
and stale ale from empty tables.
The front door jerks open –
the wind, thin,
yet strong enough to breathe life into the dying embers,
smoking to light the fireplace with devilish fire tongues.

The silhouette of a man appears the entrance –
axe in hand –
shower curtains of rain behind a set of shoulders so broad,
he could be a walking brick shithouse
wearing stained magazine pages for clothes.

He shuts the door.
The windows rattle.

A raven,
nestled in the neck folds of the giant’s leather coat,
cocks its under the man’s long, matted locks;
the bird registers its new surroundings
with a flash of intelligence
in the black marble of its whip-smart eyes
before grooming its weather-greased feathers.

My drinking partner breaks the ice
by choking on a cube;
spewin’ and spillin’ the rest of his beverage
down the front of his shirt,
over the cherry wood counter.

His face is pale,
his lips the colour of dead maggots;
no need for him to reply to my query;
the answer I’m looking for walks toward us,
growing larger with each echo of his heavy boots,
hand crafted,
the finest crocodile leather money can buy,
shining like the silver of his whiskey flask
reflected in the raven’s eyes:

Bacchus is alive.

words by Ramon Ramirez

art by Craig Hopson

Goodbye, Soldier

Goodbye, Soldier

No trace of alacrity
in the young soldier’s once gregarious manner;
his once beaming smile
now a gruesome grin
or grimace
when he dismounts the steed;
his once booming voice
now a mumble and a stutter;
and beneath the war paint,
his skin a deathly pallor.
Rifle slung over his shoulder,
he loosens the girth,
takes of the saddle,
straps,
stirrups in a tangle.
From the trenches
the reek of death and decay,
burnt flesh and gunpowder,
gaping wounds
that pulsate,
suck
at the teats of the corrupt,
swallow,
wallow in sorrow
for yet another war
gone to fuck.

words and photography by Ramon Ramirez

Seduction Artist

Seduction Artist

She paints pictures
with her eyes
a million smiles
stretch over time’s canvas;
lips bleeding
the taste of dark chocolate
coated cherries
over tender tongues.

art by Craig Hopson

words by Ramon Ramirez

The Mercy Hour

The Mercy Hour

Taste tranquility at dusk.
Emotion-dust settles
and all is forgiven,
forgotten,
if only a fleeting thought,
the day’s memories
crumble-crumble
into gully-knifed street bellies,
disappear,
dissolve,
disintegrate,
reshape hopes-
those glued-together dreams
that push up
from within
gully-knifed street bellies’
pus crusts
only to be picked up at dawn
(or trampled into tarmac cracks)
by the soles of shoes.

Milkwood

Indian Devil
wearing white and pink armor
hermaphrodite dreams.

Decisions

Decisions

And so it goes,
the termite-infested closet doors busted,
hinges rusted,
a shiver and shake
when the truth breaks;
the skeletons come tumbling down,
a skull bounces off the coffee table,
cracks the glass top, stained brown;
a femur shatters last night’s vodka bottle,
and a rib bone, grey,
picks at the butts in the ashtray.

And there you stand
with your head in your hands,
nails chipped and broken,
and the musty smell of your towel
plugs your nostrils as it slips off;
and you ask yourself:
do I pick up the pieces and fix the closet,
or do I go outside and have a garage sale?

words by Ramon Ramirez