Yellow Mama Archives

Ian Mullins
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Fire Down Below


by Ian Mullins



Sometimes my cocks a plastic cigarette lighter
you can buy on the street
half a dozen for a pound;
I can flick the switch all night long
without ever striking a spark.

Other days it
s my old digital watch
with the red laser display
so sharp I could tell time through my shirt,
no more tiny stubborn hands
oiling the hours away.

But now I tell time
by how firm I am when I wake;
if it
s soft like a kitten warm in its sandbox
I know its 2 A.M.
and there still time to steal a little sleep
from the streetlight
hanging its sorry head outside my window;
but if its hard and cold
like a poker chip the first time you roll it
through your fingers
I know it
s 5:30 A.M.
and the boiler is priming to spout its heat


the same way Ill prime mine,
working hard to beat the 6 A.M. deadline
before I crawl out of bed
and jerk through the sexless daylight
where balls are nailed to walls

and if I open up my pants
to read the hour
laser-sharp in bright green veins
all I
ll find is an old windup watch
that doesn
t even remember
what it means to tell the time.





by Ian Mullins



Every first time
is the same; ants crawling
the length of my skin
as though sizing me up
for scalping, yellow needle
fat as a newborn baby child
waiting as a loaded gun
waits; already the barrel
smells of the bullet,
the trigger finger cocked,
liquid bullets soft as water

heavy as gold


can you lift it,
can you bear the weight,
can you scalp your own skin
once again?



Bottled Up


by Ian Mullins



I can talk to an empty bottle
lounging on a wall
in the cheap city sunlight
shiny as half a credit card

read everything it has to say,
label on the front
competition on the back
the way the long sun melts
its plastic to soft ice cream,
the tales told by the flies
who shit down its mouth
or buzz inside its stomach,
the tremble of its skin
when a truck goes by
or a little girl wall-walking
steps over its head

and for a moment it
s midnight
at 2P.M.;
there are shadows in bottle-world
warmer than the skin

on the back of your hand
as you lift another bottle to your lips,
drip the last drips
like drops of sunlight
from a melting sun
then say something human
that me and the bottle
cooling our fingers
now the sun has begun
s long slow dive

will never find a summer
we can never understand.







Kiss This


by Ian Mullins



You can kiss it
lick it
bite it
whip it
but don
t fuck it
whatever you do;

when it comes to cream
I like chocolate
I like strawberry
I like toffee and ginger
banana and mint;

vanilla me
and I
ll spit
in your face.




Whats the Beef?


by Ian Mullins



Dont go there
man; there are places
where secrets
hide their secrets
and dreamers
distill their dreams;
places where shadows
are made out of stone
and snowfalls are cut diamonds
sharpening the night
like a knife through paper.

Through those cuts
ll see things
that don
t want to be seen;
even knowing
they are alive
would kill them like a live bug
you find under your shoe;

but there
s no way that bee
can ever lug its candy

home, never know that

home is just a dream
scratched on the side of a snowflake
melting beneath
your very first breath,
hot dry hands
beneath your very first dress,

so don
t go there,
man: not unless you
re dreaming
of never coming back.




Dirty White Girl


by Ian Mullins




Fingers reek of manila,
but I close them on the umbrella
where Donna
s long fingers
tipped with black varnish
must have closed

when she walked out into the rain:

but halfway cross the street
I imagine she stopped,
lowered the black shield
and opened her clothes,
and while the green light filled up with water
the wetness poured down
over her dirty white breasts
and washed the day
s filth

deep into her skin.

No wonder she smiled
when she brought back my umbrella,
wet from the rain glistening the jewels
buried in her nails, damp ghosts

I press my stubby digits over
to jerk the same button, a diamond in the wood.
Watching the black shield
catch the white seed;
cold stars firing up the night sky.




Art by Hillary Lyon 2017

Dont Do It, It Aint Worth It


By Ian Mullins



Ball me into clay
and make me a skinny white boy
who lives in New Orleans
walks into bars bare-chested
hoops burning through his nipples
who fucks black men in the ass
and white girls in the mouth,

lives in a stolen room
in a condemned house
and writes as hard as he comes,
spraying black and white words

over the walls, the floor,
the ceiling
then scrapes it all off
packs it in a box
sends it to New York City

where some fat guy
living in a cubicle
not much bigger than the coffin
he already bought
smears the hot words
over his skin
until it burns his suit off
like brandy smoking a hot sauce


and soon hes nothing but bones
strutting New York streets
looking for a hooker to hose down,
a life that
s worth living.



Dropping the Ball


by Ian Mullins




coming out



no good to anyone


the last taboo
unwritten in ink
below names
even the people
they went to school with
only remember
as shadows on demolished walls


the bodies that made up
the numbers
the hands that dropped
the ball


the only face
in the class photograph
who couldn
t fake a smile
long enough
for history to say


welcome home . . .

now what was your name again?




Ian Mullins bails out from Liverpool England. The chapbook, Almost Human (Original Plus), was released from custody last year, as was Number 1 Red, a novel about pro-wrestling and property wars. The music-themed poetry collection, Laughter in the Shape of a Guitar (UB), is still twanging on the corner on your street.

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