YET ANOTHER
wrote a poem
crashed and burned
nice and crispy
in my coffin
no big deal
this grandest of exits
doesn’t make me
a rockstar
or anything
just another wannabe
following that script
so faithfully followed
right now
you might think it
an algorithm
that old self-destructive
yearning
for excess
yet another convert
to the great
Arthur
Rimbaud paradigm
YOUMANITY
youmanity
meemanity
this is written
in adoring
praise
of meemanity
youmanity
at its apex
when
distant, exclusive,
self-centred
and alone
DE FACTO
the arm and a leg
debt retrieval people
(who might
already
be hallmarked
for, or even be
in the midst of the process
of being
replaced
my machines)
have stamped me on my forehead
laser-branded my file
“terminal case”
and here I am
under cover
trying to slip through
every electric fence by
way of
some dark carnival
commodified down to
my body parts as
sole exchangeable assets
fear
being cannibalised by
seemingly civilized means
but when
the bandsaw hits my bone
de facto, I am
going to scream no matter
how you
spin the semantics
the blood on
your apron
calculator on
your desk unless
chipped into your head
BELONG
Sufi Mufti
Grand Wazoo
feels like abracadabra
like verbal algebra
tuneful vowels
rolling
off my tongue
Shia Shia
Sunni Wahabi
and you Omar Khayyam
and disciples of Rumi
out in the desert
looking for rose
of beauty
woman
whose every
move a poem
every word
divine bliss
something mystical about
these Persian angels
something that drives the soul
to write
its love on sand
and me
in Heaven as I spell
out the logic
of this grammar in
full
linguistic mouthful
after mouthful
searching as I speak
for place to
belong to
if you
would have me belong
ALIVE
summoned to worship
called to daily prayer
wondering what
my strategy would be
to get there
soon as possible
meanwhile
ruthless relativity
making a mockery
of my religiosity
sky heading
(or fat
bit of it at least)
at us
at insane velocity
collision course mapped
out centuries ago
always
in the stars
which themselves
saying goodbye, receding
from us
faster than light alright
called to worship
in this time
of calamity
luckily
got every
deity in human history
down on speed dial
and
a single
goddess here, reading
in consternation
about to seek me out
to tenderize my last moments
such
caregiving arms (if
she did
remember to
bring with her)
uncertain in
her own mind whether
she
find me still alive
ELONGATED
let me not
lower the tone
by cracking that
old. crude
buffoonish
cartoonish joke
you know the one
you don’t need to
retell it
get myself into
a hole by
repeating that awful punchline
linking hereby
Elon’s glorious Martian terraforming
to the ultimate two syllables
of the oddball
sixth planet
(you do
know it’s name
mos
Greek god of
the Universe)
hole
wormhole
must consult with the late
Professor Hawking
to get the 411
on the physics of this matter
things
on the verge of
the age of Aquarius (ruled by
this 90 degree off-beam
vertical-spinner)
could not
be
more anomalous
(and this
the ruler of
my
rising sign as , I am
sure the reader
must agree. could
not be more obvious)
supposed to usher in
the brotherhood of sisterhood of
woman and man
not this
brotherhood of billionaires
owning more money
than the
stars in the galaxy
(so to
outdo themselves
owning
the stars in every galaxy)
suddenly much musky
this transcendental wealth smell
but this
is all about Mars
planet of the gung ho, most
masculine red war God
not this
mad maverick whose
moon is Miranda
(most moderately maleficent of
all my former
lovers)
but once
terraformed, fully
terraformed
ripe for creating
fresh mythologies
Elton might
just figure
it a glorious sight to see
some discarded orange
blue white wafting in the
first dawn
Martian
breeze to inspire the
new settler inhabitants
(though doubt it will
survive
the first
midnight hurricanes)
SUNDAY POEM
just do not write
poems on Sunday
am largely out of body
have
no time for it
at least when
I have checked the calendar
am absolutely sure,
certain beyond
any reasonable doubt
this Sunday
is indeed a Sunday
(is what
I signed up for
both
in terms of
religious doctrine and
the NFL)
having
such reverence for this day
(its every scheduled sport and
form
of Sun worship)
that I
kill my imagination temporarily
bank my quill, stymie my pen
rip every
keyboard
out of its socket
nor would I wish to write
on day of judgement, rapture
or revelation
lest the very words themselves
realising their mortal sin
jump out of their skin
failing to
find love or any
positive appraisal
doomed to greyzone
anonymity
neither succeeding not
failing
almost
lost
almost saved
RIGHT TO THIS
you withhold
you restrict
cut me down
to my exact calories
keep bliss
from
my lips
a life
without sustenance
freedom, and flavours
the fruits of our
old orchards
refusing us
the solace
of cinnamon, odd binge
on
potato crisps
the better
to deprive
and deny
keep us
pinned in this strip
(that old
biblical picture
from
down deep South
in Africa
your textbook for this)
better
to starve and compress and,
yes, bomb
to bits
whilst you
choke on your plenty
build a
Kingdom of Heaven
purely
for the chosen
immortal exclusivists.
TECHNICAL
let this
be a breeze
a zephyr if you will
whistling around
your ears
better use
this term respecting
your
preference for
the physical
wish
to be technical
perfect weather for kite
and magic carpet alike
swing-
wing metaphor
exact
careful prosody
plotting your flight path
to the end of the page
(unless
such velocity
you escape
to deep space)
DANCING
we are dancing
straight into your sights
stepping out
tramping on each
other’s toes
flirting with your cross-hairs
we look to be
an interesting species
(you probably thought
and thus
reported
back to your Homeworld)
looked for the sympathy
to help us
compassion to
guide us
did
not find it
and was it not us,
after all, who came up
with that preposterous
yet strategically brilliant
“dark forest
theory”?
and here an advanced civilization
eager enough to listen
humble enough
to learn
and so
took our dance
and turned it
tango
apocalyptico
dastardly dirty
ensured that, though we
were new
kids on the block
age in
millions not
in billions
could ensure, to use a phrase,
of ours that
also caught on
we could be gone
they could have us disappeared
no more
potential threat
everything we are, were, could
ever be
gone
in thirty seconds
poems 2 die for