FANCY

FANCY

we have (all of us)
our very own fancy
for apocalypse

projecting on the world
our own thirst and fear
of ending (Oh what a strange
species we
are indeed!)

yes, what thrill is the final
scene
     if you perform it alone
stage empty, auditorium deserted,

is there not supposed to
be resonance, sweet slash
bittersweet connection

and then there are
those most philosophical
of warriors, most warlike
of philosophers

there music too, will shake
you like no other
between such highs and lows

to which, if that we not enough,
we must add the crime
of psychoanalysis

one in particular
Leo-sign showman

reading from a single patient
the brutal future history of
nation
       and a species
it did decide it had done with

no schadenfreude here
     just special kind of
go

when the revelation that
we are not gods
we aspire to be
gets us plunging into
final destruction

tumbling
of power
         from its throne

and power with its exit clause,
its played-through endgames

knows
      (knows all too well
all too well)

always space for
last laugh

           throw of those
diabolically secret dice

at the death         at the death

yes, that gotterdammerung word
nutshells that best

FRIEDRICH

FRIEDRICH

I was getting nowhere
praying for my soul

falling by the wayside
moving further away

which exact
moment you seized
to muscle in
on me
hold a knife
to my throat
(sharpest possible
blade I do
now believe)
and, lightning lurking
in those eyes,
gave me
      books of
our darkest, sweetest god
to negotiate

mugging me
      in the Church

so
about to fall

situation pretty much
the same
      as when
      the dark god
mugged you.

COUNT

COUNT

count
every atom

every drop
of blood

every grain of sand

count every blade of grass
how they blow
in the wind like
a feast of sabres
a forest
       of tiny spears

read
   these words
the desert itself
wrote for you
          (what an ear
the people of
the desert
       have for
the voice
     of God

absolute pitch
when it comes
to the poetry of the soul

read what is written
    read what
has been hidden

read the Sun, the stars
the Moon
       waxing waning
now
a perfect crescent

read
   and count

find a rhythm, your rhythm
calculate all distances
devise
     the algorithms
for perfect measure

ditto
and Amen

ditto and Amen

this tale continues
despite our failings, despite
                  our hatreds
out tragic divisions

the words of  the Sufis
written in the stars

connecting every blade
of grass
    drop of blood
grain of sand

ditto and Amen

every atom
count, read, measure

BOMBED

BOMBED

we tried to shout out
to the angels
but somehow our calls
failed to get through

we spoke to the mobile service providers
but they were too
caught up in billing problems
and arrangements

defaulting customers who
despite issues of legality
they need to hunt down

make
an example of, wreak
revenge upon

meanwhile the angels
hear nothing but

sounds of children
getting bombed

so much for them
to ponder
without our political
and intellectual
explanations
wondering
what the Hell exactly
is going on

WE TOO

WE TOO

we love to
play the language
game
     we two do
come at greasing
the signifier
not
from different
poles  entirely

my games with sound
and sense
more about
      foregroundimg other,
difference, perhaps
a touch
     of deviance

yours
      (if I might
proffer
this distinction) about
what is established, believed,
holy ordinary,
  sacred same

how we can get
          the narrative to
go full
python
    swallow the facts
(crush in its coils any
                truth inconvenient)

and of course, after my little
pointless spiel
       boredom, dismissal
the worst I get

the guilt that comes
              with bad poetry

not, as in your case, if I
dare suggest

         every kind of sick and
unconscionable paid-for
complicity

that
     shades us into dystopia
thence living Hell

BARBARUS


BARBARUS

I watched the debate
(if you could call it that)

moderated
(if you call it that)

by program host
Piers Morgan

watched in awe
the cool demeanour
of Professor Finkelstein

wish I were
that impervious to
ad hominem attacks

could behave like Norman
not Conan the Barbarian.

TRACK

TRACK

am always asked
“am I
on the right track?”

you are asking this

of one

whose recurrent
anxiety dream is
being without
a ticket
    on the wrong train

didn’t realize that this
was a message about
your dream
       as much as it was
about my
inhibiting anxieties

when it comes to this business
clear from the start
                      catch
the wrong train
relax go
         with the ride

flow is the direction
the only
          direction

and when
       the train
         shuffles into the station
at this
    strange destination

place where
           you need to be
and can

rip
  up the track

ASSURED

ASSURED

if it walks like a duck
quacks like a duck
must be a duck
unless
     you refuse to believe
no way
it can’t be

but what if
the duck
is in a tank
firing shells
at hospital, a shelter,
a university?

what if the duck
is scoping you
and your family
working out
how the whole little
delectable loving
band of you

can be
his perfect shot?

what
    about you though

no sense of duck, no
no sense of
goose
     no sense of gander

no sense of where
duck becomes
a turkey
       shoot
and, by definition perhaps,
equally
   vice-
         versa

or
where to
run to (if there
is anywhere)

who to
speak to
(everybody
   ducking the question)

ducking the question
but not a hope
in Hell
    of ducking

the fat
rocket

the big, big
2000 lb bomb

you standing there
in holy innocence
proclaiming
       (not above the sound
of heavy
ordinance whistling)

it cannot be genocide
for

humanity
   would be here to save me
if indeed it were

humanity
      will save me

I am
    assured