ICE
the rich people
playing, partying
on their sleek ship
findimg their icy
wonderworld
as advertised
pampered, noy
wanting for anuthing
in this
inhospitable place
every crag every floe
a blue-white diamonf
fevellinv in the thrill
of this place, their
Antarctica
the luxury, the excess
of this crisp, cold Summer
the explorer-enterpreneur
archetype so clinical
clear in this
palace of
reflection
so much
at home
NO MORE
no more poems, paintings
three act strucures,
somgs
nothing to transport, nothing
to inspire
the visions of
the precious decades
all
thrown out
simple economics really:
supply and demand
city after bankrupt city
cutting, killing
every
creative grant
and now
its all
gon
the books have gone
the libraries have gone
the theatres seem
to be
closing down
the groves
have been ploughed up
statues have been
toppled
their stone recycled
(where other than those
of current corporate
executives
or business tycoons
or the current political class
who make
so much money for them
and good! I say
best
thing out
for words and pictures
that do not commuicate
straight
(as per
cybernetic model) are a
waste of profit
waste
of tax
are as
self-
indulgent, narcisstic a luxury
as they come
above all, that demonic genre,
satire,
which refuses to know
its place
should receive
the kiss
of death
accept
short
shrift
accept
that we
people of
grandeur
pinnacle
summit
polish and
yes,
class
need not
apologize if
we do not
prioritize
in our best intetests
for what
could be
in the national interest
possibly
that does not
first favour us
we
elected to this power
by popular will
and divine
comnand
that the best
must rule
and the
rest
hang
EMILY
Oh, my
quiet savage
everything about
you so starched white
yet underneath
along the underbelly
seething
simmering
and me
ready to come to the party
having drunk
a gallon of French symbolism
bordeaux sweet but also
Paris Richelieu
every syllable so smooth
every progression
as seductive
as it might
possibly be
together
let us then
aim for a masterpiece
chuck in a bucket
all that forever contradicting
itself Whitman democracy
sail
down the Seine
go full
Rimbaud
Mallarmé
total
raging Baudelaire.
ON SHOW
rolled the dice
looked at
the sky
couldn’t figure out
if there was any synchrony
any meaningful signs
or were there
no connections, not
even mere
coincidences
the leagues of shapeless
forever mutating cloud
clearly insisting
it was all a hoax
nothing in the box
nothing behind the door
if there were
they should know
if there
were
they should know
not
to protest
too much
but there is nothing
there to hope for
nothing there to show
USED TO
we used to have a better
kind of godhead
better
kind of self-
appointed god
pontificating papally
on every TV
across all social media
shadow deities they
may have been
eventual disasters
in the making
but dalling short
of the epic
idiocy
of this new breed
these crash car snake
pol plugging used vehicle
salespersons
for whom
logic, truth,
moral
being
are
problems of the mind
that needs to be fixed
in order for us to live
with their collisions
within
collisions
contradictions within
contradictions
Mad Hatter re-definition of
everything by
simple act
of spray-psinting
FREEZE-DRIED
fudge soft
was my brain at my
first philosophy class
Plato’s dialectic wholesome,
why should not the State be
good and strong
and solid and true?
why should I not be
thinking axiomatically
working my
way slowly
towards great gnosis
at the cave’s entrance
why should this not all be,
even in a philosophy class,
some desert of
the real shadow show
programmed to
amuse
this unspecified
superior intelligence?
But these are questions for
later
not for poor white boy
at mountainside university
refugee from
all that Christian National
Education might teach
true
to apartheid
and so, face-beaming, I
did drink it, savour
swallow
every joyous scrap of
the fat one via
Professor Obi Wan’s
interpretation
the Jewish boy in the corner
(so slightly older
reading his way into
territory
full-on genealogical, beyond
good and evii
scowling at my
naivete,
having not
become my friend
Nietzsche not yet
my philosopher of choice
outside, of course, outside
the theatre down
the slopes
beyond the steps
something stirring
something
at a different pace,
with a different
dialectic
about to explode
about
to rock to the core
but this
down the line
from up in this high place
easy to calculate
work with
established truths,
historical certainties, clear
percentages
down there
as bra Chris wrote
its all
in graffiti, still
yet in code
soon
world going to
go full on punk, class-war
deconstructive
defeat in Vietnam
meaning
power
of powers
determined to determine
we think how they say,
are
so subtly, subtly
forced
to do as we are told
mind put on hold
fast-food fried down
to the last algorithm
brain
freeze-dried, feel
free to liquify
fudge soft
back then
but maybe
Plato was right
BUST
heard the good goog news
that they cut
the arts in
th-re-will-always
be an-England
big cities did it
because they are bankrupt now
and who wants
poems and plays about
terminal
austerity
why should the State
or anyone subsidise
anything so irrelevant
trivial, spurious
as performance pièces
exposing this very hypocrisy
when money
is desperately needed
for jets and bombs
preserving the hegemony,
no time for idle hands,
wicked pens and
wasting
all that is precious on
such self-indulgent luxury
nothing there worth
watching, listening to, reading
this is our absolute truth
to you
there is no longer space
or capacity
they are
no longer part of
our identity
do not fit in
our economy
we
are the final arbiters
we decide the colours, tastes,
feelings, shapes
this
the realisation of our
special, almost sacred mission
to tell our culture like it is
close down all else for all
poems 2 die for