Author Archives: Damian Garside

WHICH IT DOES

WHICH IT DOES

thought I would
become the kind
of poet

who owns
a coffee shop
sits quietly
drinking milky
cappucino after
milky cappucino

observing the customers
penning interminable odes
tiny haiku

seeming, to the casual observer,
part of the furniture,
at one with the decor
thing
of the arts
with aristocratic veneer

not viciously satirical
exponent of anarchism
defender of Gaza
taking on
all comers as
if the world depends
on it
which it does

I have developed a cottage
industry
revolutionary practice
out of this mistaken identity

REGARDING MS SMITH

REGARDING MS SMITH

you sailed up to me
read me a chapter
to alter
my thoughts
about narrative
change the narrative

I smiled
genuinely appreciative
of your considerable acumen in
respect of your art

whilst
     as poet, rooted in
my practice
a practice so ancient
you might
deem it instinctive

and so
    I let rip, felt the syllables
possess  me
catch he, take her
spirit her away

across some horizon to
who can say what location

how she travelled: rode, danced
walked, ran
    I don’t frankly care

BOOMBOX

BOOMBOX

we sat peacefully
you beat us up

we laughed
at you

you beat us up

we took pictures
you beat us up

the world said
        no more
more

you beat us up

you told the world
we did the beating
you beat
us up

we took
a beating

we showed the world
our scars, our wound,
our bruises
you beat us up

the world said
that’s enough

we walked into your
high sanctuary

playing
a boombox

boombox boombox
boombox boombox

had
   a party

celebrating
your disappearance

AND THE FORESTS

AND THE FORESTS
“and the forests will
echo with laughter”
       Led Zeppelin

I don’t have a bag to
keep the goodness in

or, thank God,
a bag to let waste products out!

but I do
have the idea
that
if there were
a thing called
spiritual
  anarchism
it might
be cool

chatbot spewed out
twenty pages
on the subject

read
some

wrote some

womdering if
there might be a
golden
   ripple effect
to be had here

last
   of these dystopian days
we will ever see

the forests
eager to agree

AS IF

AS IF

as if
my little voice
can help you

give you succor
support or comfort
or any
help at all

my little
angry voice

vicious in
it contempt
for all that
stands against
a true rebirth
for
all humanity

a savage, barbarian voice
making a nonsense
of all its learning

deep in
empathy

everything it has learnt
from our cerebral
pagan ancestry

dictated
by all that has
arrived courtesy of the crazy god,
the prototype of
all resurrected gods

god of music, madness, intensity,
ecstasy
democracy and
the vine

JUST

JUST

poem is a
     thing

one does not just
should not just
               staple
together

wind, rain
solar            flare
whatever the weather

whether enjambment
can just run
away with it
rhyme
   superimpose itself
or superposition you
wave and
    molecule in
relation to its pattern

breath blow
       like electricity flowing
out
of a jug

magnetic pole, spin
see it be pulled and pushed
hither and thither

mussed up like
coiffure suddenly exposed
to what
    storm can do

making it worse, much worse,
and thereby
   intriguing reading

touching your chimes as
it wafts through your pagoda

appearing
   out of nowhere, inviting
itself for
main course

settling down
            prepared for sacrifice
ready
to give its all

pretty much
holding forth
holding the fort

conforming
to the topography
of your tiny plate
at your gigantic table