Damian Garside

THERE IS NO

there is no
poetry to survive
the six million

poetry dies
a death
each genocide

spicy left-leaning
socialist philosopher
from Frankfurt
made that
point with
finality and
killer succinctness

no landscape
ever worth writing about
once
the bombers have been

tanks
churned their way through

ploughing through fields
that never
can
be ploughed again

until
that horror, that pain
burned
into memory

is
thing lost to time
can no longer remain

ARACHNE

I implored
the goddess
for an advance
to cover my needs

willfully mishearing
she proffered advice regarding
my need for brevity,
to come to the point

write the scenes
in strict succession
creating characters
who could not
fail
to convince

and thus, my fingers
immediately responded
inspired divinely

exploded at once
across the keyboard
worlds
apart from my usual plod

pinging away, spinning tales
rich in revolutionary output
soon impinging
upon a critical mass

whereupon
I dreamt such

a perfectly sound and logical
left-brained dream

much scissor snip snap
and fabric flowing
output growing

and the clothes by no
means invisible but
fit for an Emperor

consummately tailored
yet desperately clinging

whilst
     the goddess acknowledging
my supremacy in
the very shape
    ot this transformation
ss I
rappel, abseil, become
finest
      weaver of treachery

suspended by
the divine strength of silk,
my silk

and you now dangling, reader,
hanging on for dear life.

CAVALIER

let them
bulld a chapel

weave corsages, prim
nosegays

see
where my finger points
out into the distance, just
on the horizon, vague yet
stark
beginnings of a scaffold

yet this is
just presentment, this you
can relegate Shakespearean style
to the vagaries of a bad dream

Lucasta’s posies have
little surface connection with
a lunge into hedonism,
living
by the sharpness of
rapier, dagger,
long sword

which words
sst themselves, deliver their
own bitter, toxic,
raucous fruit

out there forces
starting small, becoming titanic

great the heart that
survives this ice, amidst
all this
cacophony,
yields pandamonium

CYPRUS

something boiling in
the water
off
the coast
of Cyprus

a gorgeous monster
created from foam

lethal one kiss
of kisses

the beauty of which, wonder
of wonders that
love goddess,

simply
destroyed me

CURVATURE

wholly complicit
she

observes how the light
dapples her desk

take a
counter to her
and
she will not
stop ticking

good sign!

neat how
just a word
from her physics Professor
can break this reverie
bring her
back to reality (so-
called)

him within which
expounding at length
on the cast-iron
laws of
repulsion, attraction;

the sheer number
of white-hot articles published
hourly, daily,
emanating
out of this machine

testament to how
slowly the Universe
has slowed down
(no quick
big crunch less
than than
lovingly speaking)

still locked
and loaded, explosive,
keen on expanding

whilst the warmth
of that afore obliquely
hinted at
solar radiation

runs up her arms
pours down her neck

leaving her
ripe for anything

feeling never before so
cute and
astute, philosophically awake

ready to
deal with dark energies,
dark matter
across
whatever distance

strip
back that veil

trace (her
very first blueprint)

the soul of her curvature,
all curvature
as it makes its way

BY A MILE

the
power of
poetry
is something

to be reckoned with
not to be taken lightly

as the sage put it (holding
on for dear life
the abyss
looking into him
at
the edge
of all sanity)

what does not
kill me
making me
stronger

and by that logic
what a truly invincible word-
warrior I must have
become

to carry
so many scars

have borne
so many
wounds

for each
scar

the slashing cut
of so so
many
rejection slips

a thousand poems
a thousand failures

that miss
by a millimeter

sail past by a mile

LESS THAN FINE

wanted to write a
sexy poem
very
sexual

but the ink
prematurely ejaculated
shot out of my pen

wanted to a write a
very scary poem
ultimate scare

but the ink froze
my blood curdled
as it
hit my brain

wanted to write a
very sentimental poem
terribly sad

but the
page got fluffy
all
of a sudden
out of nowhere
went all
soft toy on me

didn’t want to
write an
elegy, my
elegy

a poem
on death
but you
twisted my arm
persuaded me I should

promising me
you would give me
the perfect
last line

all those last lines of my own
though by
no means hopeless
less
than fine

ACCORDING TO PLAN

far on the left
could equally
have been

far
on the right

or, indeed,
betwixt and between
crying in
the wilderness

centre of the Earth
out in the void
beyond
every known galaxy

thinking thoughts (for
what else can I do?)

dreaming up

five year
ten year

billion year plans

everything so fat
end to beginning
beginning
to end

not going
according to plan

APOLLO

rocket
to the Moon

rocket
saying Hi, dropping
into my
back yard

bringing my own
private star, billion
degree
Sun

same rocket
rocket
men
rode to the Moon

(bouncing, buggying around
scenic drive
one small
step for man)

same as the one that
took out my house, my
tiny lawn

like the eggs on the stove
I was cooking when
it came
to pay
a visit, pay
its respects

popping, exploding in
that red-hot thermonuclear pan

I was
well and truly Sun god fried