Jim is Dead Sexy
Utterly decimated by a single puff of morning breath,
I’m deaf, dumb, and blind anyway.
(Well, if you’re turned on by somebody …)
Beneath the intellectual veneer,
maybe a croissant -
In perfect alignment
for a statuette
from the arrogant do-gooders
you’ve had all this time?
As I replied,
it’s yours anyway.
God made the stars
of lust and sleaze.
A little carcinogenic,
sky is above earth.
Does it really matter if they’re true or not?
Jim’ll Fix It
An incipient alcoholic
in one of the very last pews,
I had a penis growing out of my throat.
Like some cheap, fringed suede jacket,
broke a commandment.
The assembled guests were delighted.
If you’ve walked that particular gauntlet,
over the under-ripe berries,
sure, you laugh at the first body …
But you should have seen it then!
Into a white deathmobile
with my mum to visit the shops,
in a block of such density
I inhale less.
Like prunus in full blast
you reach up towards the sky.
I offer you my hand.
Wasn’t being physical enough?
Don’t Mess Around with Jim
Pieces of Parchesi
leaking from their car stereo,
the sound of smacking, squelching lips.
A full-scale invasion
of Manhattan vs. New England clam chowder.
In late Victorian times,
sleeveless, strapless, and backless,
she was cooking meringues
with a pink Dulux manicure.
Amidst the neurotic order
the house was an absolute mess.
Whether you’re blind
with sweet, sublime rhetoric
(which makes even plain people its slave)
or harder than ice cream,
I’d love to vote for you with my chequebook.
Becoming more and more like human skin,
oblivion sounds like heaven.
Brown Jim Morrison
Beneath a wooden pompadour
he posed for his portrait
in clothes made of lead.
His wide, snaggle-toothed grin,
waving rifles in the air
under those same fucking cherry trees.
(But while practising his putting
he could still raise a cigarette from the dead;
If I had a hammer
and a light dusting of acne,
would you still love me manana?)
And if you look carefully at the movie
(asking for something from nothing)
a shaman speaks up:
—— Like the imperceptible autumn drizzle
on a red-faced, dirty tramp
under the train,
every day is just about killing me.
[James Dufficy lives in London and works as a medical editor. His poems have appeared in Ambit, the London Magazine, and Rialto. He is Honorary Secretary of the Whistler Society.]
Copyright © 2014 by James Dufficy, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.