Author Archives: Damian Garside

SEAT

SEAT

false flag;
true
    Cross

it keeps us, all
this uncertainty,

glued
   to our seats

on the sofa,
     in the pew

trying to go Nostradamus
eke out a precognition
based on some
over
    the top rhetoric, faulty
few sound bites

but those gleaming angels
of rapture, authors
of apocalypse

keep us good and clean

             above all faithful

and riveted

the poetry of the spirit
being

        the absolute
                          of fire

when we hear their song sung
what now
                but

sublimities in
            surrendering

CUT AND DRIED

CUT AND DRIED

thing about chess
is it’s

cut
and dried

you take my bishop
I bomb
    your hospital

there may be pawns down there
lying on gurneys
lurking
    in tunnels

one run
    through to
the perimeter
               and beyond

we could be facing
a brace of Queens

vying to sacrifice for
the triumph of their King

victpry
    defeat

        so strategic this battle
to an altogether special
                                  level
of native
       human genius

nothing in this benighted
                                   world

so cut and dried

CLASSIC

CLASSIC

want to see
the water
cascading
   down you

in my
scruffy little
shower find
you
    gone full
Botticelli

Venus
  newly born

and our love,
which you proclaim Platonic
shadow-shown
        on the wall of

my mouldy bathroom

though would rather that it
were enacted
           comically, tragically

in the cosy comfort
of our cave

GAVE

GAVE

I gave
blood

gave
money

gave
humanity

gave poetry
inspired by
a drink
made from
agave

gave gave gave
but you took
you pocketed
swallowed everything

finished the lot
shot
   through my resources

like a machine that eats
you up totally

run
   by artificial intelligence
they usher you
into your
world of debt

sweet electronic swindlers
connecting you instantly

to your
dream of wealth and capital

each replacing a host of humans
once the
     social face
of every bank.

COTTON CANDY

COTTON CANDY

you must
fight and die
for cotton candy

fight and die
for a thin processed
meat sausage
jammed
   into role

you must
fight and die
to appease, suppress
our archetypal
shadow

for aeons old
collective guilt
            you no longer feel

must give your life
throw it away for nothing really
for your right
       to keep God for yourself
address him
   in your language by the very
name you gave him

translated from a foreign,
ancient text
you do not own
           and can no
                      longer read

but above all, hero,
                         it’s
for
    cotton candy
                         
                 

MARS

MARS

Ah, Mars
you red-eyed god
of grain
    and guns

here on the farm I smell
your secret cordite,
perpetual war
    concord, discord
forever
   in battle

circle of being, conflict
of life

    the trees, the corn
all
   akin to spears

as they stand in phalynx
tall and proud

except

      that is not it
at all

this is the shape of thinking,
seeing that you bring

reducing to raw red, rampant
green, crude
primary
       colours and basic shades

as if it were all one
monochrome chess
                           games

with its millions of moves
and permutations

light and dark on
       opposite sides of the board

split from each other
                drawn up in opposition
files and ranks

a most
    feudal arrangement

WING

WING

Oh my little
chaos butterfly

soft as a poem
you flap
your wings

but no storm
no hurricane
                 agitated to fury
other
side of
the globe
by the breath
of this
wind

just
megaton upon
megaton

falling to
          Earth

spawned
    of this gossamer

first strike that will leave
in its wake

no speck
      of life

not a tiny
     living thing.