FLOOR MANAGER
was asked
what is the
difference
between a poem
and a
soup can?
poem
and a soap box
poem and
a Rorschach blot
or should that
be blotch
seems like fractals abound
in all those tiny
peninsulas and
rough, rough edges
like constructing a flat
two dimensional map
or writing
a poem
on the floor
of my brain
FOR BLOOD
asking for trouble
telling me I’m
not allowed to, supposed
to think
like that
as if I’m dead in the apotheosis
of Solaris
Chris
Kelvin about to be absorbed
by massive
alien love
and so
I throw philosophy, or its
kitchen sink equivalent at you
hoping to
shift your
tectonic plate
Nietzsche warning about the abyss
but here you
go falling
into it
silly me, silly person
must be
a horrible species of
xenomorphic extraterrestrial alien
having
thick satirical acid for blood
TRILLIONS
give them
a pleasure
treasure island
beyond
their wildest dreams
self-
contained
far away
from the rest of us
where they can live out
their deepest aspirations
most intense fantasies
except
they do
not have any
witness their only joy
to be accumulation
primary accumulation
as they build skyscrapers
and mountains higher
than any
in the Himalayas
stacking trillions
of sea shells on the sea shore
WHERE?
where did it start
the first lie
where was the first lie
that all these subsequent
lies now
cling to?
what was the purpose behind
generating this web, this
hideous mosaic
of interconnected falsehoods
why is it so important
why does the future hinge
on lying
to the whole of humanity
with every word
you speak
every breath you breathe?
PRECINCT 13
massacre out there
somewhere
British bullets? Hell,
who cares
certainly not
the Mother of All Parliaments
shamefully abrogating
its democratic responsibilities
and duties
turning its
great narrative into
Assault on Precinct 13
BANK ON IT
went to
the bank
not realising
that I was funding
the arms for
your next
military adventure
how could
I have been
standing their
transacting
in all innocence
in the exact
position
you would
wish me to be
CASTLE
you see
a bank
I see
a castle
you
see an
entrance
I see
a moat
you have
a horse, a title,
a suit
of armour
no problem
here asking
the manager
for a loan
BLOOD
I whitewashed
my poem
silly me
I got all my facts wrong
good job
the mainstream
media was
on hand
to correct me
poet nobody
cleans up his act
at least now
I might make
some kind of
headline
worth the whitewash
restoring the page
to its pristine blankness
worth
all the effort picking
up the body parts
mopping
up the blood
ACTOR/DIRECTOR
we came to
your open-air amphitheatre
to watch your
play
but were baffled
by all the mirrors
and smoke (so
much smoke)
and the optical illusions
hideous
optical illusions
further, we must also
confess to being terminslly
confused when it
came to identifying
the genre
obviously historicsl, with
a strand of absurdism
and much theatre of cruelty
(not to speak of
the spuriously apocalyptic
religious revelation stuff)
we could not believe so
many of the characters, the
actors, the production crew
and the audience
met their end in the firsr scene
first act, the number
in steady escalation
until no one remaimed
the bodies piled high on
and around the stage
no encore
no one there
for the final curtain
and no less a great loss,
no sign anywhere of
the original script
PLOY
it was my ploy
to throw some
poetry at you
see if it hits
before you
close me
down
see if it
sticks
in your flesh
like a longbow
arrow fired
at the battle of
Agincourt
and seeing how
I struck you so
grievous
this glorious shot
might incite
some band of
brothers
to loose some volleys
upon your insidious
self
send you off to a place
where you
should feel nore
at home and
we shall
be so much safer
poems 2 die for