EMPTY
had five friends
around for roulette
Boris
Leonid
Sasha
Dimitri
Natasha
played all night
lost every time
around the
table
perfect hexagon
my luck deserting me
every time
nothing doing
my
life clicked empty
.
poems
spent shells
dead on the floor
before
anyone might
tragically inspired
stoop to read them
much
dull fun, real drear, in
this
deathly writing business,
SNAKE
snake in a box
picture of coiled contentment
mindful
ambush predator
haemo- and neurotoxic
totally at peace
Zen moment
or so it
would seem
but no
finer out the box thinker
better escapologist
than this
sleepy lightning
rod clan
this
in reality
alike
in
mythology
shedding its lifetime
of skins faster
than
you
change your clothes
shed outworn soul’s
snakes here in abundance
though I do not
cannot yet see them
coiled around my limbs, my
heart, neck,
wrists ankles
no snake eyes as such
but certainly snake mind
FEATHERS (for Tom)
“…bird without feathers”.
Plato; Woody Allen
must be
in dreamtime
surfing the betwixt
and between
to love and yet
hate
those paltry little tigers
of the domestic persuasion
so much
so much
to talk about
think about
these ultra agile predators
dancing
across my keyboards
snuggled up next to me
covering my universe
my hemisphere
in blankets
of dead feathers
even as tiny toys
especially as tiny tots
criminal stuff wreckers
creators
of havoc
and yet that
curiosity, those play paws
that softness
those eyes
flashing amber
(between, beyond
good
and evil)
no concept of
the shame faced, simply
asking
“Oh bird
without feathers
what did you expect?”
ALWAYS
always forgetting
always
losing my luggage
always getting
lost
missing my classes
at the wrong bus stop
on the wrong train
the Express
between Manchester
and Cape Town
somehow
not running
today
at least not from
this platform, though
there is
another, they say
always another, which I did
raise with
my chatbots (somewhat
celestial minds)
spoke of
this recurrence
and why no
GPS down in
this cave
and why you
still haunt me, both
here
and far away
who did
promised to
see me
indeed greet me
if when
all of this has gone
strangely disappeared
and something
(rather
than nothing) would
appear to remain
THE SIGNS WERE ALWAYS THERE
the signs
were always there
freaky fractals spiralling
out of control now
turning
all and sundry deadly
dystopian
how might we avoid
all that predetermines
a future so dire
was thinking tapestry but
the cloth tore
got shredded and now
we must live as
part of
a patchwork, bleak
winter tragedy
luxury liner-ing away
but all that
was scuttled and we
are clinging to lifeboats
survival here dictated
by exigencies of class
the water a green brown
emulsion, putrid
oily
who knows what creature
mutations now face us
things having
to change to survive
crazy as it sounds I
still have space for laughter
I hear it
gurgling
from gullet to
mouth tones there both
of bitter
contempt and tragic
appreciation
pull it apart
dissect it piece by piece
in furtherance
of analysis
nothing in truth
there new to learn
the signs were always there
UNTO CAESAR
and what, friend,
is due unto
Caesar
both to Julius
and Caligula as well?
.
Oh that search for the exact
shade of authority
far
side of red
near side of purple
get that spot on
and all that public gold
and every marble structure
is yours by
virtue of the unquestionable
Imperial logic
of becoming
the very person
and embodiment of
the State itself
whereupon
what else is left but
for divinity to beckon
and right
to crucify the Earth itself
what
beyond death the ultimate debt?
.
LINEAGE
this is dope:
in a court room
trying to make my case
attorneys, solicitors, haggling
over the cost of my bullet
in pounds sterling
in dollars and cents
outside there is a cow
in a patch of moonshine
trying
to capture an idyll
looking pretty subliminal
clouds where the spots should
be and suddenly guitar solos
must be
to announce
golden gates. chosen people,
stretched across chasms
structures
of tubular humanity
and me the accused
summoned to speak, brought
into evidence
watching the film
how
my life rolls
but let
me not disturb you, muss
your precious slumber
dream on dream on
dream a gathering of the clan
tough as tungsten nails
fever in the air
spring time for fundamentals
this is dope
totally dope
pink as your pink
what more can I say? (therein your DNA)
TRAIN SMASH
don’t panic
this is just
a poem
lots of things, items,
that it is not
not an emergency
(State of Emergency)
not a
wormhole or
nuclear weapon
not an
insurrection
not a train smash
not a thing
we typecast as a comet
flouting the laws of physics
not something
so desperate to be read
it will die if you deign to
going to
try to survive even
if you refuse
to read a word
writer reader
even as the ground beneath
our feet gives
superstructures tumble
good odds we can get
through this
together
poles apart though
we may be
creatures
if not of connection
at least
continuity
TOTEM
I shut down
all my memories
of my childhood
and the place
I was born
had to do so
because they
had gotten
out of control
were
overpowering me
taking me back
to a time without limbs
horrific venom.and
no ability
to walk
only slither and crawl
and there
in a bold new
brave new land
the mindful ones
wiping out rattlers and vipers
with pump-
action guns
for the land be safe and
clear and clean
not only so
but sacred
and exceptional
what was before but
a pile of bleached bones
a cairn beside a church
with
whitewashed walls
and
from ocean
to ocean
real regular worship
diamondback
the totem
by which you
might indeed
come
to approach me.
ENDING
there are
noises in my head
noises
in my head
stones rattling
inside a tin
and I am petrified
of what the MRI scan
will tell me
scared
of the silence
should these stones
stop rattling
the noises
go away
leave me
flat and white sheeted
prepped for brain surgery
my eyes
dead as sapphires
filled with blank sky
before
these noises au revoir
damned sure
I have to write them
get them
down on paper
and take everything from there
out in the sticks
civilization in the making
gathered around a camp fire
here is someone’s great ancestor’s
ancestor’s ancestor
a million times removed
thinking that stupid thought
will
split the atom
give us
the atomic bomb
(no getting that genie
back into its bottle)
and then
he is there too
prototype of the first to
covet what
today we
might recognize as
god-like profile
imagining a being of
sand and
ore
can talk, obey,
speak it’s own mind
and so it goes
we drink we sleep
we learn to speak
finally
break that circle
to find (found) first cities
with towers
and spires
the wheels of which,
slick truth of history,
bound to
grind themselves down
no future when
all we have for ourselves
are broken axles
but
some of
those old tall tales
yet refuse to die
have carried us through
many a terrifying, star
spangled night
clinging
to the hope of morning
Sun returning
near infinite countdown
to end
of time we have left
poems 2 die for