Damian Garside

MAS

MAS no more poems of love only poems of pain, grief, rage controlled hatred maybe no more poems at all who has time for poetry when our world is split, divided, blockaded from truth and vital energy? pray that this humble non-descript pièce of scrawl is not the last poem if it be the poem penultimate let the last poem be a great restorative epic restore our faith and love and desire to embrace all of humankind

ASHES AND RUINS

ASHES AND RUINS ashes and ruins so much to plant now space to build but do not worry the desert will bloom again blood red flowers sprouting out of the savage sand (it is part of the plan)

TECHNICALLY SPEAKING

TECHNICALLY SPEAKING Let the suit speak the brain it hosts not up to the job so swaddled, entirely clothy has taken a sheet and set sail so let the suit speak the brain sail off into the distance where it might be allowed to think its own thoughts speak out of turn.

OWNED

OWNED here in this city where the great founders are buried lies a tomb with flowers a physician lies here a healer, curer of diseases, all human ills pity the disease he could not cure, a sickness that has spread like wildfire infected all in this region was the sickness that owned him that drove him led to his death and burial here out of the light, in this revered resting place

FALL

FALL when the mighty fall into abject stupidity what hope is there for everyday people? whose only sin is to vote idiocy into power again and again to the delight of us all

RAW

RAW this war is raw it is tartare it is war that needs to smash everything slosh blood everywhere forget tactical principle it has other points to prove it is war where the bloodshed needs to be bathed in be tasted how otherwise will its glory be revered by all?

TROLL IN MY LIVING ROOM

TROLL IN MY LIVING ROOM Came across a troll in my living room there on my laptop on every phone bashing a big drum like those cave trolls in an orc army not a beat to ever dance to unless you have flat, fat feet.

SILENT

SILENT I am in the library hunting for tales of darkness and light feasting on the silence some poems are silent this we must respect in a world of horror what can a poem possibly say? some things are terrible some just overblown too big to talk about in a thing called a poem I have worked my way through this book labyrinth found what I was targeting exactly what I was after wondering if the books of light in this library are protected by angels flashing in to defend humanity, promote safety and justice bomb dropped falling as I wonder whether a golden robe goes with the territory is the absolute sign of favour presence of the light

AND NOW WE KNOW

AND NOW WE KNOW and now we know a Heaven on Earth is not for sharing the beauty of its precincts matched by the horror of its walls and the power that is prayed for in its golden temples seem so cynical in the light of the multitudes who suffer in this life

TIME OF THE SPIDER WASP

TIME OF THE SPIDER WASP But what is the rush? At some point there has to be acceptance acceptance will carry the argument and so, accepting I then accepted the spider wasp’s invitation followed her to the front door and somehow we had found out way out of this crypt moved into the strange air I lingered as she hovered close to my face not wishing to rush enjoying the mystery wondering what kind of portal this must be leading to dimensions adjacent or whole new galaxies infinity is a concept which, crazily, we cannot but believe.